The summer holidays are upon us and, if you haven't killed your kids yet, you are probably starting to pack for your long-awaited fortnight away in the sun.

Unless, of course, you are anything like my mother, who barely has time to unpack her suitcase from one holiday before she starts packing for the next.

She calls it being organised; I call it obsessive.

If you are more like me (heaven help you), you won't have started packing just yet. In fact, you probably haven't even got the suitcase down from the loft yet. There's plenty of time. You can do it tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.

And so on and so forth until you find yourself furiously shoving your smalls into a dusty, cobweb-covered suitcase as your plane taxis along the runway.

Regular readers will be aware of the gaping chasm of difference that stands between my mum and I.

While she has a daily schedule to which to stick, I often don't even know what day it is. And while she ticks off her long list of chores and appointments on a calendar without an inch of unwritten space unwritten, I draw smiley faces on mine and watch re-runs of Quincy to avoid actually doing anything useful.

You may well imagine that two people at such extreme ends of the personality spectrum would make disastrous holiday companions. But you would be wrong.

Even with her reams of "to do" lists and my interminable procrastination, we actually rub along quite nicely.

The key, I think, is that we set out on our jaunts with realistic expectations. We don't expect to have a holiday of a lifetime, we just expect to have a nice time. Preferably without too much blood-letting, but with six family members under one roof you can't necessarily rule it out.

If you accept that a bit of bickering is unavoidable, holidays can be a perfectly pleasant way to pass a week (don't go for a fortnight, you'll end up killing each other).

If, however, you expect a perfect break during which the sun always shines, your husband wakes you from your slumbers every morning with a hot kiss and an even hotter croissant, and your kids don't sunburn, fight or vomit, then all I can say is "bon voyage and enjoy your holiday in Cloud Cuckoo Land" (turn left at La-La Land and keep going until you lose the will to live).

Why do so many of us assume that our nearest and dearest will miraculously change as soon as they don a pair of dodgy shorts and splash on some Ambre Solaire?

And why, if we dump our family and travel with a pal instead, are we always surprised when they turn out to be just like us (i.e. lazy, nail-biting slobs who leave wet towels on the bathroom floor and used, disintegrating teabags on the balcony)?

According to a new survey by Teletext Holidays, one in ten people regret their choice of travel companion and wish they had left them at home (along with their travellers' cheques, their passport and their plane ticket).

Many complained their partner was boring, had nothing to talk about and lacked any romantic spark, or that their pal was selfish, stingy and - to put it bluntly - a bit of a slapper.

No! Really? You mean Bob The Bore and Sue The Slapper didn't miraculously mutate into Robert The Romantic and Suzanne The Sophisticate as soon as you stepped off the plane?

How dare they remain their old tedious selves when you paid several hundred pounds to live with them in a hot box next to a building site for two weeks?

The fact is that people don't change. Their complexion may turn from a fetching pale blue to a vivid cerise (complete with draping curtains of peeling skin), but their personality will remain the same.

Be realistic this summer. Don't expect your clan to metamorphose into the Waltons overnight. Picture yourselves instead as the Addams family with a tan and you won't go far wrong.

Updated: 09:29 Tuesday, July 22, 2003