How Not To Please Yourself, Or Why You Should Always Take Premonitions Very Seriously Indeed

Honestly - men.

I'm running around packing and writing a series of instructional notes for Josh - in which I threaten him with various painful forms of death should he burn the house down while we're away - when Max decides to tell me he doesn't want to go to Dad's.

"For once, couldn't we just have a holiday that didn't involve visiting your relatives?" he says.

"I wish," I say, trying not to think about what he'd get up to with Ellen if I went without him. "But we can't ever afford a proper one and, anyway, it takes up all my annual leave to fit in the parental figures."

"God," says Max.

Which sums up how I feel about it, too - though I don't say that. What would be the point? I'll have to try to prevent Dad being so annoying instead, which could be easier said than done.

"Have you left yet?" he says, when he phones for the third time this morning.

"No," I say. "As you obviously knew already, seeing as you rang the landline. Now, stop fretting. We'll get there when we get there. You said we could turn up when we liked."

"Did I?" says Dad, who can't remember anything for longer than one second. "But what time will you want to eat?"

"We'll go and buy some food once we arrive."

By far the safest option, given the near-poisoning incident the last time Dad cooked me a meal.

Max is rolling his eyes and clearly losing his patience, so I decide I'd better get off the phone if we're to reach Dorset before midnight.

"What's your Dad on about now?" he says, as he puts the last of the bags into the boot, while I kiss Josh and get into the car. "I thought he said we could please ourselves while we're there?"

"He did," I say. "And that it didn't matter what time we got there. He said he didn't mind at all. So we can take it easy - and arrive feeling relaxed and calm."

"Huh," says Max, who must have had a premonition.

We haven't been on the road for more than half an hour when my mobile starts to ring.

"Have you still not left?" says Dad. "It's already lunchtime."

"I know," I say. "We're on our way. You can hear the engine if you listen."

"Well, tell that husband of yours to drive carefully," says Dad - who is a really fine one to talk.

Almost as soon as I hang up, the car judders and Max says, "Oh, shit." Then he pulls off the road, and stops.

"Lost all power," he says.

By the time we've worked out that a lead has come loose; fixed it; discussed whether it's a portent of doom or not, and finally started driving again, we've already lost well over an hour, and Dad has rung for another update.

By the time we're half-way to Dorset, he's rung twice more; and when we stop for a coffee and a fag, he rings again.

"Where the hell are you?" he says. "Is Max driving at 20 miles an hour or something?"

"No," I say. "We're just taking it nice and easy, like you told us to. We'll get there eventually, so do stop worrying so much."

"Well, I've got your bloody dinner on," says Dad. "And it'll be ruined if you take much longer."

Ruined is a movable feast in this context, seeing as it's arguable whether you can ruin something that is bound to be inedible anyway. Feast probably isn't the most appropriate word, either - but I take a deep breath, and try to rise above the provocation. It's exactly like being back at work.

"But, Dad," I say. "You told me we could please ourselves - and turn up when we liked."

"You can," says Dad. "Just hurry up."

It's a miracle we get there in one piece, given how stressed Max gets by Dad's continuing calls; the seemingly-endless traffic jams, and by Josh - who phones to say he has already managed to lock himself out of the house.

I'm feeling a bit panicky too, by now, and am wondering whether this so-called holiday wasn't one of my stupider ideas. And I really want another cigarette - before the nagging starts.

There'll be more than enough of that over the coming week - no doubt accompanied by a list of all our relatives who've died from smoking, often by extremely indirect means. (Dad even counts Great Aunt Flo, who died en route to the newsagent to buy cigarettes; as well Great Grandpa Bill, who died of cirrhosis of the liver, but who apparently smoked the occasional cigarette while he was drinking everything in sight.)

So, as soon as we turn into Dad's road, I say to Max:

"Quick - pull over under this tree and let's have a fag, before we drive right up to the house and Dad spots us from the window."

"Good idea," says Max. "Let's have two. And a drink. We're obviously going to need one of those."

"Don't be rude," I say, though I do know what he means. "That's my beloved father you're talking about."

"Talk of the devil," says Max, as the car door is suddenly pulled open.

"What the hell are you doing?" says Dad. "Your dinner's on the bloody table. It's been there for the last twenty minutes."

A Seat At The Best Table.

Things don't get any better this morning. Max stubs his toe while trying to get past Josh in the queue for the bathroom, and almost faints. I think he may have broken it, but there's no time to do anything about it as we're almost late for the vow ceremony as it is. Josh is sulking because he has to wear a suit, and Connie has refused to wear anything formal, and is dressed as if for a night out in her university's LCR.*

The ceremony passes off okay - unsurprisingly, as it's only five years since the original, so David and Susie are hardly out of practice. It's actually quite moving, and I find myself wondering whether something similar would work for Max and I. He's looking rather attractive today - and he really does have a firmer chin than most of the men present. I probably would marry him again. If he asked.

As usual, nothing good lasts, though. The "wedding breakfast" is a farce. When we find our names on the seating plan outside the function room, we discover we might as well have been seated in Siberia. We are quite obviously on the Payback table. On my right is the headmaster of David's old school - the one who expelled David on the grounds that he "saw every school rule as a deliberate infringement of his personal liberty." On Max's left is the man who sacked David from his first job. The numbers are made up by various ex-wives and husbands of those more successful individuals who are seated next to the top table, along with their new trophy partners.

And how could I forget to mention the photographer? God knows where David and Susie found him, but they've dumped him on our table too. He holds forth  - throughout the entire meal - about his last job taking pictures of a greyhound racing stadium. This is about as interesting as you would imagine. On the odd occasion that he pauses for breath, he pokes at each course as if he has never seen food before, and doesn't trust it. Then he pounces and suddenly hurls a vast quantity of it into his mouth, which he kindly leaves open while he chews. He eats everything - including a whole load of mussels which have remained closed, but which he determinedly prises open. I can't be bothered to advise him not to, as I think he'd probably stab his fork into my hand and accuse me of trying to shaft him.

By the time the band arrive for the evening's entertainment, the photographer is nowhere to be seen. As Max and I approach to say our goodbyes, David is shouting into his mobile phone.

"What d'you mean you think you've got food poisoning? You ate the same as everyone else!" He pauses and then says, "Well, if I don't have a record of this evening, you'll be hearing from my solicitor."

"Problems?" I ask, trying to resist giving way to schadenfreude.

"Muppet photographer says he's got food poisoning. Reckons he can't stop throwing up. So now I've got to find someone else to take pictures of the dancing. I'm not flying in a ten-piece band from Cuba to end up with no bloody record of it." David's eyes are scanning the room as he speaks. Then he spots Max's digital camera.

"Max, my old mate -"

"Sorry, David - can't." Max hides his pleasure well. "We've just come to say goodbye. Got to head back now."

'Oh, that's right. Our Molly can't have a day off from saving the world from capitalists."

I smile sweetly, and say,

"Don't worry. I'm sure one of your entrepreneurial mates can rig you up a pinhole camera."

David laughs, so I forgive him. As usual. He is my oldest friend, after all - though I bet I'd have been much further up the bloody table hierarchy if I'd married Johnny. In fact, Johnny probably wouldn't be seen dead in the company of someone as poor as David. But Johnny's not here, and anyway, I'm really looking forward to getting home, snuggling up to Max on the couch, and listening to him snore. I'm not cut out for a glittering social life. My best underwear is from Primark, after all.

*LCR - Lower Common Room.