By Lucy Sweeny

The Hairforce is mentioned in the infamous Times Slummy Mummy – perfect casting as we are here to help the time challenged, over stretched mum:

First week of our holiday at Yummy Mummy No 1’s Majorcan farmhouse passes by without major incident. Yummy Mummy No 1 is pathetically grateful that we haven’t been scared off by Eta attacks and we are pathetically grateful that we’re not on a rain-swept beach in England. Even an outbreak of nits does nothing to curb her enthusiasm for us. “There’s a woman in town who knows what to do,” she says, waving a card at us. “I think we’ll use the conventional method,” I reply, waving a nit comb at her. “You’re so brave, Lucy,” she says. “You face terrorists and nits with equal courage.”

When I’m convinced there is no trace of irony in her tone, I ask her what she does about head lice. “We always go to the woman in Primrose Hill,” she explains apologetically. The only cloud on the horizon is the imminent arrival of her husband. The evening he is due to fly in, she offers to baby-sit and suggests we go out for dinner in Pollensa in the kind of way that means it could be a deal-breaker if we don’t. She even offers us her hire car.

“I’ll drive,” says Husband on a Short Fuse in the deep, gravelly voice he adopts when confronted with manly activities such as barbecuing and taking out the rubbish. “Right-hand side, right-hand side,” I say, as we turn from a rough track onto the main road. “I know, I know,” he mutters.

We turn into Pollensa and I suggest we park the car and walk to the restaurant up the hill in the old part of the village. “It will be much easier,” I say. “The streets get very narrow and curvy. And it’s steep. There could be clutch-control issues.” “Lucy, are you suggesting that I can’t handle the Spanish road system?” he asks. “Yes,” I say.

We drive through the village in silence. I tell him to take a right and he takes a left. I open the electric window. He closes it. I turn up the air con. He turns it down. But any feelings of anger dissipate as the road starts to taper dramatically. Husband on a Short Fuse clenches his teeth and continues until the road is so narrow that the wing mirrors actually touch the sides of the houses. “Like a cork in a bottle,” I say. He tries to open the door of the car, but there’s no space to get out. He tries to reverse, but the car scrapes ominously along the side of the house. The owners come to the front door, but they can’t get out because our car blocks their route. “OK, Lucy, you were right,” he concedes.

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