FOR the past few years we’ve tried to fit in a pre-festive season jaunt to somewhere cold and Christmassy.

When we sat down to plan this year’s trip we discovered ourselves slightly hampered by the availability of flights and the number of days holiday my sister had left so decided that the quickest and most convenient way to fit in the holiday would be to drive to France via the Channel Tunnel.

As practical as ever my sister used the excuse of my birthday to produce a set of walkie-talkies for the journey.

“They’ll be perfect for us to keep in touch while we’re driving,” she explained as we tested them out.

“You can radio over when you’ve had enough of The Mother and want to swap her into our car.”

“It sounds as if you’re just going to slow down on the M25 and shove me through the window,” said the indignant mother.

“That depends on how close to the schedule we are sticking,” replied my sister who had the entire journey to Folkestone planned out in minute detail.

After an uneventful trip - and no car transfer for The Mother, who apparently preferred my choice of Christmas music - we arrived in the French city of Amiens at the start of our four days of festive fun.

Day one passed uneventfully in a pleasant blur of mulled wine and French cheese until at dinner on Day Two The Mother dropped the Christmas bauble that she’d forgotten to pack her tablets.

“They’re not important ones,” she added.

“I think if the doctor has prescribed them for you, they must be fairly important,” I said.

“What I mean is that they don’t keep my heart beating or anything,” she clarified.

“I think you should ring the surgery and see if they can email a prescription to a pharmacy over here,” I said fairly sensibly despite the second hot toddy which had been forced on us by our new friend as the Canadian maple syrup store, who insisted on bellowing ‘What the f*** !” every time he spotted us walking past.

“The nurse said the tablets are important and I shouldn’t really go any longer without taking them,” said The Mother emerging from her bedroom the next morning.

“She’s going to text me the details of my dose and says I should actually be able to buy them from a pharmacy over here,” she added.

“First stop as we arrived in town - after the mulled wine stand which was conveniently on the way - was the pharmacy where The Mother adopted her very best Hyacinth Bucket attitude.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” She asked the worried looking pharmacist

“A small amount,” came the reply from the pharmacist looking increasingly concerned as we approached the counter en-masse.

“I need to acquire some additional medication by prescription from my medical practitioner,” announced The Mother as my sister and I looked at each other open mouthed.

“I allegedly speak English and I didn’t understand a word of that,” said my sister shaking her head and taking over much to the relief of the pharmacist.

“That will be two, ninety one please,” said the chemist handing over the package.

“Three hundred Euros?” echoed The Mother with her wide open eyes the only sign that she was shocked at the price.

“Non, two Euros and ninety one,” repeated the pharmacist.

“That’s a relief,” said The Mother as we left the shop. “Three hundred pounds for a couple of tablets. I was a bit worried that you’d have left me to take my chances without them!”