The dark side

At least Euro Disney is predictably horrible - cynical commercialism wearing a giant pair of mouse ears, down to its oft-repeated slogan: "Where dreams become reality."

It's a bitterly cold Easter Sunday - snow is forecast but not yet - and Disney, in all its corporate glory, has made the decision to keep Jesus out of Wonderland, sensibly concluding, perhaps, that a giant effigy of the Crucifixion on the side of Cinderalla's pretty pink palace might put the punters off their hot dogs.

By the time we reach the first ride - a steam train that runs round the park - we've already had a crash course in queuing; first for the shuttle bus, then for security, then for the tickets, and finally behind a man who seemed at first to be queuing for something but turns out simply to have stopped dead and is staring in disbelief at the till receipt, stunned at the cost.

That queueing practice comes in handy straight away because the first train is cancelled and for every three announcements in an American voice attempting to recreate the laid-back feeling of the Wild West we have a cool French one cutting across it and announcing with evident enjoyment that the wait time has just increased yet again.

By the time the train finally arrives, it might just as well have been promoted it as an authentic recreation of rush-hour UK commuterland, because that's exactly what it resembles and its appearance is greeted with the sort of hysterical joy you'd associate with the last chopper out of Saigon

We head back to the coast. The weather worsens the further north we travel, snow falls heavily and the drifts pile up while Deborah, to add to the fun, begins running a temperature. Simultaneously, Francis and I both remember the Calpol, sitting on the table in the kitchen, waiting patiently to be packed. We end the journey at a crawl, following two lorries that are snowploughing at one end and salting at the other.

Francis' company has recently treated him to a satnav - though given his sardine inclinations, I can't help feeling sonar would have been more appropriate, and he has selected the voice of Yoda from Star Wars as his guide.

"At the roundabout, straight across you must go," says Yoda.

"The sign says the tunnel is the other way," I say.

"Never doubt the power of a Jedi warrier," says Francis, wagging a finger at me, as we speed off in the opposite direction.

"The motorway you must join, then the first exit you must take," says Yoda.

"Why are we surrounded by lorries?" I ask.

"Ssssh," say the others, Yoda included.

Two minutes later, we're in the freight terminal with just one other car for company, which I assume is also navigating by Jedi knight that day.

I get extremely stroppy and unpleasant ("Never doubt the power of a pre-menopausal woman") and compel Francis to switch Yoda off before I trample him underfood and we finally reach the terminal using those quaint, out-moded sign posts. Though we've missed our train, we are lucky enough to be put on the next one.

"So, what did you think of Euro Disney?" I ask the children, as we leave.

"Well, I won't be taking MY children there," says Beth.

"Remind me to avoid any trains with the words 'Thunder' and 'Runaway' in them," says Deborah, recovering slightly. "But I still can't believe I've been there."

"Judging by the satnav, nor can Yoda," I say, nastily.

"Honestly, you can't expect him to be an expert on navigation when he's having to take on the Evil Empire the whole time," says Francis.

"Hah," I spit. "And where does he say we are now?"

"Tuscany," says Francis, tapping the screen like a faulty barometer.

"Dream on," I say to Yoda, as, snowflakes swirling round the car, we join the back of yet another, brand spanking new queue.