I open the box in some excitement.

I have been sent some exclusive crisps by a Public Relations company. As a key influencer within the online internet sphere, I am regularly offered free products to try, namely and in total – since this Private Secret Diary started in 2004 – a DVD of ‘Third Rock from the Sun’ which only plays on machines in North America, and a magnetic penis ring.

I should state at this point that I do not always take up the offers with which I am presented.

The crisps are in plain white wrappers. They are mystery exclusive crisps!!! I experience a certain thrill at this; one of the key benefits of being a major A-list blogger is that you do sometimes get to see new things before civilians. (nb I am using the term ‘civilians’ like actors do, as a shorthand way of describing people who are not A-list bloggers/actors, it is just a term and not at all intended to be offensive or dismissive, it merely saves time that’s all). I set them aside for my lunch.

At lunchtime, I eat some crisps. They are delicious. This is a bit annoying, as if I am going to influence the online internet sphere it is not much fun if it is in a positive sense. The following day, I eat the second packet. These ones are not delicious, but they are all right; it is not as if they are the PR-supplied exclusive crisp equivalent of something that only plays on machines in North America/keeps slipping off.

It puts me in a dilemma. I have told the public relations company that they are welcome to send me free crisps, but that they should not expect me to say anything about them, and if I do say anything then it will be brutally honest. But saying ‘the crisps are nice’ is the worst of both worlds, as it is brutally honest but looks as if I am just saying it in return for free exclusive crisps, which is unfair on my journalistic standards. I try to envisage what George Orwell/Christopher Hitchens ect ect would have done in the same circumstances, but no inspiration strikes.

A couple of days later, I decide to write about the crisps after all. As an A-list blogger I may be blasé about my biennial insights into major new product development launches, but I should not forget that others may be keen to share in this.

I sit down at the computer to compose my thoughts. As I ponder, the Postman arrives with a parcel. Inside are some more crisps, this time in normal wrappers, along with a letter thanking me and saying that the crisps will be on general release to non A-list bloggers now.

They have released my exclusive crisps to the hoi-polloi and chavs!!! It is infuriating. This is the danger of flirting with public relations companies. You take the Devil’s hand with the best of intentions and the next minute the DJ is spinning ‘YMCA’.

We go on a winter break.

Some time ago, I told the LTLP that I was fed up with not having a holiday. I had found a website that listed all sorts of posh and funky cottages and villas that were nevertheless toddler-friendly. I proceeded to send her away to the computer, and an hour later she returned, having made a booking.

We arrive at Butlins, Skegness.

It appears to be very much the same as the last time we came here, apart from the fact that it is raining harder and it is December. I edge the car towards the bedraggled man in charge of inmates.

“At least the car is all fixed now,” I comment. “It needed a battery to work! Who knew?”

There is no response from the LTLP. She is busy looking at the Toddler to see if he is going to be sick again.

We are directed to our chalet. It is as cold as the storage area of a minor subsidiary of Findus Foods that’s situated on the dark side of one of the few moons of Jupiter which is presided over by Republican congresswomen. I run around switching on heaters and trying to find extra warm layers. I have been a bit disorganised with regards to this trip – at least the LTLP has bought some warm boots.

“Hurrreeeeabbaaarrrrffffffffff,” explodes the Toddler, into the LTLP’s warm boots.

This cheers me up a little. Perhaps the weekend will not be so bad. The front door opens once more behind me.

“Which room shall I put my bags in?” asks my Mother-in-Law.

My spirits sink once more.

We settle down to plan the itinerary for the break. There are all sorts of activities available, including Santa Claus and a Pantomime. I hunch down with a glass of wine, watching the rain alternate with sleet.

“There is a spa here,” the LTLP reminds me. “Why don’t you head off down there now?”

Again, my mood lifts.

I am given a grocery list and sent over to the Spar. Later on, I see an angry-looking woman slip over on some ice. This is terrific entertainment, and something that Butlins should investigate as an extra paid attraction.

The weekend passes quickly, despite my mood. I find that I enjoy hurtling down the water slides, and going on the bumper cars. When we get back, the LTLP discovers that you can catch vomiting disease through your feet.