If we had been sensible, we would have booked our summer holiday in January and started dieting in preparation there and then.

Instead, here we are, mid-March, still without a holiday plan, still looking like Christmas puddings and now desperately searching for self-catering breaks that fit in with school holidays and our budgets.

My husband fancies a stay in a cottage in the wilds of Wales but it seems all the most desirable places are already fully-booked for July and August.

We'll be lucky if we get a scruffy terrace in Cardiff at this rate.

I've not told him this but I'm not sure that Wales is going to do it for me. Admittedly, I've only been to Swansea. And I've heard that the mountains are magnificent and the beaches sublime.

But it somehow doesn't have the same attraction as Provence or Tuscany. I like leeks and Welsh rarebit but I'd rather be dining outside on a warm summer evening on local cheeses and wines and marinated olives.

Name somewhere in Wales where that would be possible.

The other possibility for us is to stay in a friend-of-a-friend's apartment in Marbella. The accommodation would be cheap but it looks as if we would be paying peak fares for us and our two sprogs if we travelled during the school holidays.

What we thought would be a low-budget European break will actually be as expensive as a luxury week for two in the Caribbean.

I know airlines need to make a profit to survive but couldn't they do it without penalising those of us with children?

Things are tight enough for most families as it is and having to pay sometimes more than double for a flight simply because they know you cannot travel at other times is grossly unfair.

I feel better for getting that off my chest.

The other problem with flying abroad for a holiday instead of motoring to our destination is the prospect of selective packing.

Our luggage allowance would largely be taken up with the necessities for our ten-month old baby - clothes, buggies, emergency nappies, foods he likes, enough toys to satisfy his five-minute attention span.

There might just be room for me to squeeze in a pair of shorts (not a pretty sight) and two T-shirts. My sombrero would have to stay at home.

This wouldn't bother my husband, who is accustomed to travelling light.

In fact, he has so few clothes in the first place that even if he took the entire contents of his wardrobe, he'd still have space in a rucksack for the latest issue of Mojo magazine, a ton of camera equipment and several snacks for the journey ahead.

I'm sure he could go camping and take little more than a bumbag.

My attitude to holiday hunting is not helping. I sense my husband is exasperated.

Whatever he presents to me, I can't help thinking of all the reasons why we shouldn't go (too hot, too cold, too wet, too dull, too expensive, too dangerous for small children, too downmarket, too awful for words) before looking for the positives.

"Look, why don't you do the research instead?" he says. "It's so depressing hearing you knock down all of my suggestions."

"I haven't got time," I reply. "Besides, I find it too bewildering, and too stressful."

Cardiff, here we come.