We're going to Ibiza

Last week we were lucky enoungh to spend a week in Ibiza, sunning ourselves on beautiful sandy beaches and enjoying good Spanish food. We went just outside the main season to avoid lots of families and of course took Pork Chop with us.

Full of anticipation we packed our bags ready to get up in the dead of night in time to catch our 6am flight. The Other Half didn't bother to go to bed while I spent a few fitful hours waiting for the 3am alarm call and getting progressively more annoyed with him for not coming to bed. The mooing cow alarm clock crashed through my brain bang on time and bleary eyed we packed up the car only transferring a bewildered Pork Chop at the very last minute. The theory behind this was to disturb her as little as possible but despite our best efforts she sat there wide-eyed and grinning at us like a Cheshire cat. At least she wasn't screaming her head off.

A short journey to the airport and a bus ride from the car later and we arrived at check in. Given the recent security scares we were expecting it to be horrendous but were pleasantly surprised to see the queue moving forward with remarkably un-British efficiency. The Other Half and I stood there rather smugly as we congratulated ourselves on how easy it had so far been despite the early hour. We were brought back to earth with a bump when we saw the queue for security snaking round the terminal like a human dominoes world record attempt.

There was nothing to do but join the end and hope that it moved quickly. Time ticked on relentlessly - one and a half hours before the flight, one hour, forty minutes, thirty minutes, twenty-five minutes. We were by now exchanging worried glances and wondering if we would actually make the plane. It was probably our fault for not leaving extra time but that did nothing to assail our nervousness.

Finally we reached the front and The Other Half, who had already obsessed over whether the tickets and passports were in his man bag about a thousand times, breathed a visible sigh of relief. But worse still was to come.

The security officer shouted: "Shoes and belts off please. Everything on the conveyor."

The Other Half: "What even the pushchair?"

Security guard: "Yes sir, even the pushchair."

The Other Half: "Do want the baby on there as well?"

Security Guard: "No sir, just the pushchair."

With The Other Half's feeble attempt at humour having gone down like the proverbial lead balloon we joined yet another queue to wait while they fetched Pork Chop's changing bag so we could taste all her food and liquids just in case it was explosives with a bit of chicken puree on the side. Despite all the warnings that people were not to carry lipsticks, lighters, fluids etc the girl in front, either because of sheer stupidity or in a misguided attempt to try and safeguard her Estee Lauder makeup and silver lighter, had stuffed the lot in her hand luggage. Consequently, the next security officer went through her bag with a fine tooth comb, checking every page ofher diary and rubbing every surface with a cloth to detect explosive residues. Only when all her illicit items were confiscated did we get waved over.

By now beads of sweat were forming on my head and The Other Half was hopping madly from one foot to the other. Pork Chop, blissfully unaware that we were in grave danger of missing her first ever flight abroad just sat there grinning at anyone who cared to look her way.

Security Officer: "Could you taste water for me please...and this juice...and this one. Oh it's frozen, that should still be okay."

Finally she pulled out a pot with pale yellow powdered formula in it. "Oh that's baby powder, no need to taste it, that's fine. Off you go!"

So that's okay then. Now forgive me for being slightly sceptical here and to be fair they are looking for explosives not drugs but surely at tub of powdered baby formula would be a very simple but devious way to smuggle drugs. And seeing as we were heading to Ibiza, arguably the European party Mecca, albeit with a baby, I was just a bit surprised they didn't check that too.

Anyway, it probably wasn't a bad thing as we had to dash literally with pram under one arm and baby under the other to the gate where we were embarassingly the last people to arrive. Finally we were crammed in like cattle on our lovely charter plane and could sit back for the next two hours. We were finally going to Ibiza!