Holiday was like a sitcom

I returned to the office yesterday after more than two weeks in Toronto, Canada, and the best way to sum up my trip is to say I've never been more glad to see High Wycombe in my life.

It was like a scene from one of those awful telly sitcoms as everything possible went wrong.

First, the airline managed to lose our luggage meaning Mrs Editor's Chair and I only had the clothes we were standing up in as we left the airport.

Brother-in-law Ted, who picked us up, vowed to drive us to a shop for some emergency clothing.

But as we drove along the highway, my three year-old son, who had been suffering from a cold, suddenly had a coughing fit.

And before you could say projectile vomit, there were gallons of throw up gushing across the back seat of Ted's beautifully-kept motor.

That would not have been so bad had Mrs Editor's Chair's new leather jacket the only decent item of clothing she had left not been strewn across the seat.

The coat ended up drenched in regurgitated airplane food.

Our luggage was finally returned to us after two days and after I'd bought all this weird kind of Canadian tartan underwear from the only supermarket we could find open by the time we'd cleaned up the sick.

But worse was to follow.

My mother-in-law, who we'd gone to visit, was suddenly struck by pneumonia and was largely confined to her house.

And the folding bed we were using aggravated my long-standing back complaint leaving me hobbling around in agony most mornings.

Then, inexplicably, I developed some sort of mouth ulcer and found I couldn't chew.

Mrs Editor's Chair, meanwhile, was hit by a painful ear blockage. Or at least that's what she said.

Perhaps it was her excuse for not having to listen to my moaning.

So we never got to Niagara Falls, or did many of the things we'd planned.

But at least nothing more could go wrong, I mused, as we set out for the airport on Monday.

Wrong. The taxi drivers of Toronto chose that exact moment to launch a protest which saw them blocking off the entrances to Pearson International Airport.

The news bulletins as we drove to Pearson led on the fact that there were huge tailbacks on the highway and that air travellers were going to miss their flights.

Brother-in-law Ted, who had cleaned up his car with vinegar after the first drama, was again our chauffeur as crisis whirled around us.

Mrs Editor's Chair demanded we turned back and cancelled the flight rather than risk being stuck in traffic for several hours.

But I was so desperate to escape from Toronto that I pleaded with Ted to find a way in.

Somehow, he managed to weave his way around the back and find a car park vaguely near the terminal. Then he helped us lug our suitcases, full of extra tartan boxer shorts, for what seemed like miles.

Finally, we reached an almost deserted airport building and checked in.

The official congratulated us for making it, but then told us our luggage had to be repacked because it was too heavy. And, even after we did this, we still got whacked with a large surcharge.

Astonishingly, the flight went without a hitch.

But when we got back to England, the taxi I'd ordered got lost.

Then my car, parked at a nearby hotel, refused to start and we had to seek help in jump starting it.

So that was my holiday. Bet you're sorry you asked how it was.