MOTHERHOOD definitely does something funny to your brain.

When I was little our family holiday was always a week, spent in a caravan, somewhere along England’s south coast (apart from the one year we ventured to Wales, stayed in a chalet and it rained the entire time.)

They were lovely holidays – fun-filled and drama free – but I grew to hate the caravans. The fact the beds were so small that if you rolled over you rolled out. That unless it was baking hot (in which case you couldn’t get cool) then you were always a bit chilly – and everything just seemed, well, a bit damp.

By the time I was a teenager I swore when I was a grown-up I would never stay in a caravan again.

And I didn’t. The last caravan holiday I had was when I was 19. Holidays since then have pretty much always been foreign affairs, sun-kissed destinations with room service and fresh towels.

And then I had a baby. And everything was different.

Sonny Jim’s first holiday is going to be in Devon. In a caravan. As you read this we are likely to be sat in bank holiday tail backs, with our toddler.

Not on a plane with a soothing glass of wine in hand and guaranteed sunshine at the end of the journey. And the maddest thing? It was my idea.

My parents have been going to the same spot in Devon every year since I was ten. And early this year I found myself thinking back to building sandcastles with my little brothers and sister. To fish and chip suppers. To ice cream running down our fingers and chins. To holiday camp entertainment. The bingo and bad discos.

And suddenly I wanted that for Sonny Jim. That innocent fun. Time with his grandparents on the beach. Splashing in the sea with his aunties and uncles.

Even if it does mean staying in a caravan again…