Under the sea

We're in Folkestone, having arrived at the bit of the holiday when, in what turns out to be a dress rehearsal for the Terminal 5 opening at Heathrow, you've just been told that your Euro Shuttle is stuck in the tunnel, they've no idea when it will be unblocked and you're checking your travel insurance documents for clauses that specify how long you have to be trapped in a car with your three fighting children to file a successful claim for mental torture.

I'm stunned, as always, by the docility of the travelling public. The numerous embarcation lanes are all jammed with cars and, by now, I'd be expecting at least some tangible signs of suppressed rage - at the very least, a few graphic *&&!!@ speech bubbles rising up into the sky, the way they do in cartoons, but there's nothing - just silence. Apart, that is from Leo and Deborah, who mop and mow fit to bust until we push them out of the door to play, quite literally, in the traffic - which for now, at least, is at a standstill.

Meanwhile, with nothing else to do, I'm reading Beth's celeb magazine and she's deep into Leo's copy of 'Match' magazine.

"I must remember to drive on the left when we get to France," says Francis.

"The right," I say.

"No, we drive on the right in the UK," says Francis

"The left," I say. "Perhaps you're getting confused with the steering wheel - that's on the right."

"A detail, I'm sure," says Francis. A detail, maybe, but one I'm very glad we've sorted out now rather than just after we've created our very own contraflow on the Autoroute.

When they finally clear the train (a process that I imagine involves a giant corkscrew and an enormous 'pop' when success is finally achieved) initial relief gives way to more frustration when Beth and Leo realise that the brief exhilaration of movement has been replaced with inactivity, at least from their perspective, as the train slides into darkness.

There are two other cars in the carriage with us. In one, an enormous man is asleep behind the wheel with a tiny terrier curled up on the summit of his vast stomach, like a decoration on a cupcake.

An 8-year old boy called Tom comes over from the other car for a chat. He, of course, has eyes only for Leo who is older and therefore, incredibly glamourous, but, to his evident discomfort he is instantly annexed by Deborah. Within seconds, she is perched next to him by one of the windows, making enormous sideways eyes at him as she combs her hair with one hand and gestures in an animated way with the other, apparently having made the decision to confide her entire life history to him during his enforced 35 minutes of captivity. I can make out only the occasional phrase but "It was SO unfair," and "And then he did it again but they blamed ME," both seem to loom large in her chat up lines.

But it is all in vain. "Where's your brother?" he asks, wistfully, as the train comes out of the tunnel, then swings down from his perch and leaves her looking mournfully after him, hairbrush still poised for action. She catches sight of me and a terrific scowl crosses her features. "Were you watching me?" she says indignantly, then bursts into tears of chagrin and rage.

Holiday romance is certainly a potent thing, even when you're only 7.