You will love this place my guy, I can't believe you have never been!

I stuffed random toiletries into a suitcase in preparation for our holiday to Ibiza at the weekend.

The Little Boom looked at me with all the snark of a soon to be seven-year-old.

We have been, Daddy. We go every year to Ibeefa?

He smirked and I could see he relished taking the Dad-Man down a peg or two.

No doubt he was furiously imagining the day we would fight to the death to be the leader of the family and I could see from the gleam in his eye he could already envisage standing over my bloodied corpse, wrenching my head off and lifting it high before tilting it to his lips and drinking my skull juice.

Damn, being a Father is brutal. I still had a few years left in me though.

Yes, youngster. You have been to Ibiza but not to this particular resort. This one is something special. They call it Caribou, on account of its soft white golden sands.

I closed my eyes and could almost feel the sand between my toes.

Caribou? Caribou?! Isn't that a type of Elk or something?

The Good Lady punctured my imaginings as if they were a particularly cheap pair of inflatable pants that Venezuelans wear when they can't afford to buy chairs.

Hmmph, maybe you are a type of bloody Elk.

I grumped in her direction.

Ooo, charming!

The Good Lady tutted and went back to DuoLingo on her phone where she was learning the Spanish that people don't speak in Spain.

Anyway, young man. You will love it there. The sea is so calm that you will be able to properly learn to swim. How cool is that?

I made pawing motions like a man in a bear suit auditioning for a sexy party wrestling match with Logan Paul.

Aw, Do I have to swim? I don't like it.

The Little Boom snunshed his face as if he were being chased by a pomegranate.

Do you have to swim? By the black bones of a Bassoon, boy. Of course you have to swim. Oh yes indeed!

I exclaimed with the fervour of a Mormon on a doorstep sensing early dementia in the person answering the door.

Isn't a Bassoon a type of giant flute or something?

The Good Lady's voice floated over to us, harmonious and yet annoying as fuck.

Maybe you are a type of giant flute, lady.

I mumbled grumpily in her direction.

I fixed her with a grim eye. The kind of grim eye that a Mother Snail tells her baby snails about at bedtime to scare them into behaving and doing their chores.

Anyway, young man. Ignore this giant flute of an Elk that calls itself your mother... Where were we, ah yes. You will learn to swim, trust me. The water is so salty that it practically holds you up. Like a pair of crusty arms!

I lifted my arms up high like a priest encouraging his flock to sing louder so they wouldn't hear the boys in the church basement.

Ew, no. I don't think I like swimming in the sea?

The Little Boom fussed in a way that reminded me he was a long way from facing me bare-chested in the circle and that we still had time for the nice things.

Don't you worry young man. By the time we are done, you will be swimming like Octavier Jones, the famous half-man, half-octopus!

I grinned and gave him a hug which he grudgingly fell into.

Octavier what? Do you just make stuff up? Bassoons and Caribou? You are mad!

The Good Lady squawked this last bit as if just realising for the first time in more years than is right that she was living with a nutjob.

I flapped her negativity away with an imperious hand and high-fived the Little Boom.

Make stuff up indeed. It was all real. I mean, isn't a bassoon a type of water cow? Hmm. I could google it but the deep state probably didn't want me to know.

Oh well.