Well, back again under grey skies, although everyone tells me there's been glorious weather while I've been away. But then they always do don't they?

The cats completely cold shouldered me when I arrived home; giving me the old 'and who might you be?' blank looks. Only a bagful of Whiskas pouches the next day brought them partially round.

Oddly enough my grandson did too, only in his case it wasn't Whiskas that did the trick, but a Cypriot version of Maltesers.

My pre-holiday check list had been a strange one. 'Sunglasses, suntan oil, three swimsuits, vacuum cleaner' Vacuum cleaner! Well, I mentioned that in the last column and although I uttered a small prayer that the Internet wouldn't come up with its promise of 48 hours delivery it let me down and the thing was waiting for me when I got home on the Friday.

My daughter's optimistic assurances that it was as light as a feather and I'd hardly notice it amongst my luggage was a teeny bit off the mark. It weighed 15 kilos and was as bulky as a bungalow.

I worried all the way to the airport that the airline would refuse to take it and I'd somehow be left frantically trying to find somewhere to store the thing for two weeks. In the event the security desk man only asked what it was and then said 'not another one, that's the third this morning', which left me wondering if I should start up a business exporting vacuum cleaners to far flung corners of the globe.

I'd arrived at 6.20am, having been told to get there earlier than the mandatory two hour checking-in time. Then we were told there was a two hour delay anyway, which meant at least four and a half hours to kill.

The couple in front of me were moaning about that and the fact that they could only take one carry-on bag between them. 'They should have told us when we booked', they said. The check in girl politely explained that since they booked things had changed somewhat but they still grumbled.

I never cease to wonder why people take such huge bags as hand luggage. I mean, what have they got in there? They're going to be sitting bolt upright squashed into a seat which would normally be considered cruel to place a hamster in. Their bag, if they can prise it out of the overhead locker, won't fit on the silly sloping table and if they stand up to reach it they're almost certainly going to be run over by one of the metal trolleys whizzing up and down the aisle flogging duty frees and the like.

And furthermore, they're going to give at least one person concussion when they finally reach their destination and try to wrench it free to get off the aircraft. And I speak as one who's been on the receiving end of a solidly packed portmanteau which appeared to contain the entire contents of someone's chest of drawers and a small chemist's shop.

But I digress. I wandered round the airport for two extra hours, and like everyone else having eaten food I didn't want, bought magazines I would never usually buy (most of which seemed to have totally useless 'gifts' strapped to their front covers) and been forced to visit the duty free shop at least twice.

I sought out the smoking areas, always a difficult thing because there are never any signs and the staff are so obviously sick of having to direct people that they positively snarl at you. Why don't they just call it pariahs' corner and be done with it?

Eventually, I savoured my last cigarette for at least four and a half hours (little did I know) and we trooped onto the plane, the captain apologised for the delay which he said had absolutely nothing to do with the plane, setting the nervous amongst us to examining the wings even more carefully, and we were off.

Or were we?

We taxied towards the runway and reached the point where the engines usually roar and the plane starts its fast bit. But it didn't. There was, said the tannoy, another delay. Then we moved, but not forward. We were on our way back to the terminal.

The captain was a jolly chap and obviously had long experience of dealing with planes full of people getting hotter and hotter and crosser and crosser because he came out of his cockpit to explain why we hadn't taken off.

The plane, he said, was too heavy. Oh God, I thought, the vacuum cleaner's going to have to go. But no. It was the weather and we would have to fly lower and if we flew lower we would use less fuel so some of it needed to be used up. I think I've got that right. Then, when we had circled the less than scenic part of Bristol airport for a long time he again appeared and told us there was a problem with finding a slot over London. By now some of us were wondering who was flying the plane if he kept coming out to talk to us.

Finally, all was well, we took off and arrived some three and a half hours late. There's still a slight suspicion in my mind that our delay might have had something to do with Cruise missiles winging overhead in the vicinity of where we were going, but I can't prove it.

Upon arrival I managed to grab the vacuum cleaner off the luggage belt, only mowing down one old lady and was faced with a dilemma of whether to declare it to customs. I'd never make a smuggler, because even with one single extra packet of cigarettes in my case I look as guilty as someone attempting to bring in a ton of hash, but in the event it didn't matter because all the customs men were standing around the green channel anyway and one of them called me over.

I explained what it was, which obviously confirmed his suspicions that the British are a very peculiar race, and he waved me through. My daughter was standing right outside, and greeted me (or was it the cleaner?) with open arms.

I won't bore you with details of a gloriously hot holiday except to bring up one thing. Bacon.

Why bacon? Well, firstly it hadn't occurred to me that bacon is big in Cyprus. But it is. Secondly, it hadn't occurred to me that there was anybody left in the world who can produce decent bacon, but there is.

I don't know what has gone wrong with bacon production here, but apart from one or two exceptions, most packet bacon and an awful lot of loose bacon is foul. It's watery, terribly oversalted and when you cook it nasty white stuff oozes out. I frankly find most bacon inedible. In contrast Cypriot bacon is full of flavour, doesn't ooze water or white bits and is cheap too. If they can do it, why can't we?

The bacon was a lovely surprise. So was the fact that this is a delightful country, most people speak English and everything is written in both Greek Cypriot and English, from road signs to supermarket descriptions and prices. Oh yes, I hear you purists say, isn't half the fun of going abroad being somewhere they don't speak English? Not when you are in desperate need of a loo it isn't.

The two weeks were over too quickly, but I'll be back. And not with a vacuum cleaner either. Ominously though my daughter was talking animatedly about satellite dishes as I left.

Sorry, no way, not in a month of Sundays. Not even if you pay my fare.

Well, I'd have to think about that!