I HAVE missed you for the past couple of weeks, I've been on my jolly hols. We didn't get to Mablethorpe, too expensive.

We cannot afford anywhere in Britain, so we sought out a package deal in the sun. I got to thinking just how different vacations would be if we were seriously, stinking rich.

There would be no packing, just buy new when you get there. Or, if you are skiing, your winter weather gear would be waiting in your wooden chalet. If it's the Caribbean, your tropical linens would be hanging, neatly pressed, in your luxury villa.

When did you last see James Bond struggling through the departure lounge with a wobbly-wheeled suitcase? You're not telling me that his immaculate tuxedo has been crushed in the baggage hold. Or does he pack a travel iron and does he wash his undies in the bathroom sink with a tube of travel wash? For the idle rich there is no three-hour check-in at the airport sitting around with all those common people, jostling for seats with blokes in their cheap and sad nylon England shirts. Which is a fairly masochistic thing to wear when you are heading for Greece and the football-crazy Greeks are still gloating about that win.

No, the rich are chauffeured straight to their private Lear jets, and once on board the pilot and attendants are all theirs. No waiting for the trolley dollies to reach your seat - 356A - to be handed a warmed up chicken and two veg and a chance of "duty free" perfume. It would be one of those planes where the pilot watches his passengers in his rearview mirror and tilts the plane so their drinks slide readily into their hands.

Neither do the rich have to suffer the indignity of a body and baggage search, like my wife, in front of gawking hordes. She set the alarm bells ringing as soon as she walked through the metal detector archway. By the time a zealous security guard (female, of course) had become thoroughly intimate patting her down, the offending weapon was found to be too much metal in her shoe heels.

Then, just when we thought we were free, it was her bag they decided to search, out of all the hundreds of other passengers. Everything was tipped out and rubbed down with an impregnated cloth which sniffs out explosives. Of course, my wife has always looked like an international terrorist. It must be her Jackal-like name, Sonia; her too-close-together evil eyes; or the bandolier of hand grenades she wears at a jaunty angle across her shoulder.

I have warned her a thousand times about that Semtex mascara.

None of this would have happened if we were filthy rich. Nor would we have had to wait 90 minutes at the end of the flight for our cases to pop up on the baggage carousel because the Greek handlers refused to go out and empty the plane in monsoon rain.

Once in their secluded villas, the obscenely wealthy don't have to bother about rubbing in suntan oil and trotting to the fridge for more drinks.

I know that's what wives are for but it's only fair to give the old workhorse a rest and put money into the local economy by employing a dusky maiden.

There'd be no evening walk down to the harbour, trying to translate badly-spelled Greek/German/English menu boards, seeking out the most appetising bargain and fending off the restaurant touts who pull you bodily into their establishments.

And then being sat under a mosquito-infested tree, knowing the foul-smelling, military strength jungle juice is not going to keep the blighters off.

No, if money were no object, we would be on our private balcony watching a perfect sunset with white-coated waiters attending our every need and dishing up succulent seafood prepared by our own chef.

No harbour-hopping sea trips in a rusty old tub racing other sweaty passengers for the best seats. Just hop aboard our luxury yacht, captain awaiting our orders (pink gins all round) and decide on a destination.

Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? A how-the-other-half-live clich. Perhaps in another life.

Meanwhile, if this column is slightly oil stained and a little blurred it's because I'm writing it under a blazing sun, sweat running into my eyes. Another day in this Mediterranean hell. Just get me back to work.

Updated: 10:15 Tuesday, August 03, 2004