The problem with Boris going on Bake Off

Our plans for the Seychelles twice thwarted, we finally decide on Gozo, Malta. Afraid that the Insulate Britain brigade might have us miss our plane, we book a night at the Premier Inn next to Heathrow. We find it clad in scaffolding and the car park rammed. A row of cars stuffed with suitcases outside a hotel must be easy pickings for thieves, but we are too tired (lazy?) to lug the cases with us. Things look up inside: friendly receptionist, spotless room, nice cuppa in a comfy bed. We have a decent night’s sleep followed by breakfast at 5.30. Cheap hotels usually skimp on all-in breakfasts. But someone at the top of Premier Inn has decided quality counts, so the yoghurt is Yeo Valley, the muesli Kellogg’s, the ketchup Heinz, the jam Tiptree, the coffee Costa. I’m impressed that the machine which makes fresh toast will also warm a croissant without burning it or making it soggy. There’s lots of choice and no penalty for greed.

Torn between leaving in good time and not incurring penalties from the valet parking company for arriving early, we set off with half an hour for a ten-minute journey. Just as well. Finding the parking rendezvous at Terminal 5 is the usual nightmare: written instructions hopeless, guy on the phone incomprehensible, satnav losing the plot, tempers fraying all round. On our third circuit we are finally rescued by an employee of a rival parking company. We try to tip him, but he waves refusal. He says stressed customers, lost in the Heathrow maze and fearful of missing their flights, are the norm. ‘But some people are happy,’ he says. ‘Have a good holiday.’ What a saint.

Gozo is a tiny island with great views, neatly tilled terraces, pale sandstone villages of narrow alleyways, café-filled squares, domed churches and, by our standards anyway, little traffic.