The hubby and I had a hot date for fish and chips at the beach during the weekend and as we were paddling along the edges of the bracing North Sea in the dusk, we came up with a brilliant idea for a faux holiday. It’s well known that we don’t get to go away as a family because of Little Nutter, but we can holiday at home as long as he’s in his bedroom every night.

There - spread along the shore - were a series of bright and cheery beach huts. Suddenly idyllic images of deck chairs, ice creams and knotted handkerchiefs (ok, so maybe not) wafted into view. It’s almost a real holiday. I grew up by the beach and I do miss it a huge amount, as we’re a bit landlocked where we are. And spending time at a beach is a holiday, even if we do go home every night. Sheer brilliance. I’m totally sold on the idea.

A phone call or three later and we’ve rented a hut for a week in late summer and we’re on the gargantuan waiting list for an annual lease of one of these gems. Yes, they may just be trumped up garden sheds, but right now, I can’t imagine anything better.