It always sounds so glamorous in the glossy pull-outs: "Le minibreak". It conjures up shiny town plazas, fresh air and, best of all, no need to reschedule meetings or work like a horse when you get home. We have no family summer holiday in sight, so my husband and I decided that June is the perfect month to explore the joys of the minibreak. The first scheduled trip was a "working" visit to a health spa in France for a Sunday newspaper. Two nights away from the dog, the fish and the football: it sounded blissful. As the flight from Gatwick was at a nightmare hour, we pushed the boat out and booked an overnight stay at Le Meridien hotel, next to the airport. Our only concern in the world, for a few short hours, was whether or not three nights instead of two broke our minibreak rule and made it a full-scale holiday. A quick look at another glossy brochure assured us that a full-on vacation meant spending a minimum of seven nights away from home. We were safe.

There was just one small problem - when we arrived at Gatwick, toothbrushes packed, house locked up and euros at the ready, there were no plane tickets at the BA desk. I had a tickling sensation in my stomach, the kind I always get when I've messed up big time. A quick call to the PR girl in charge of the arrangements confirmed my worst fear.

"Hi, it's Lauren," I said, trying to sound chirpy. "We're at Gatwick now and just wondering about the tickets . . ."

There was a slight pause. "We-ell, Lauren, we'll be sending you those any day now . . . Errm, you do know that the Evian trip isn't until July, don't you? That's what it says on the itinerary we e-mailed." I grabbed the crumpled A4 page from my handbag and there at the top, in bold, couldn't-be-clearer type, were the words "EVIAN- 8 JULY to 10 JULY".

The hotel at Gatwick had lots of chrome and marble-effect flooring. We walked slowly through the open-plan reception/restaurant/bar area and, without acknowledging each other more than was absolutely necessary, my husband and I lugged our bags up to our £100 room.

"Look, darling," I lisped gaily, still hoping to save my night away if not my marriage, "it was a mistake. But we can still have a good time, treat ourselves, go to dinner, to the bar, pretend we're stranded on a . . ." He stalked to the minibar with grim intent. "Now don't do anything silly," I said. "The stuff in there costs eight times its weight in gold!"

"I'm going to enjoy every bonus of our minibreak room. I'll take a shower, then a bath, watch a movie and," he said quietly, "right now, you are not in a position to say anything at all."

A mediocre, overpriced dinner in the reception-cum-restaurant followed, then a trip to the atmospherically challenged sports bar.

Unbelievably, two days later, when we celebrated our anniversary, we set off for France, unperturbed by our recent disaster, for a champagne-and-seafood lunch sur la plage. Friends had recommended a "divine" restaurant, with a seafood platter "to die for", just ten miles south of Calais. The wind and the buffeting rain made our planned walk down the promenade in Wimereux somewhat, let's say, bracing. The wave that soaked my husband made us both laugh. Nothing was going to spoil this day away. Even when we found that the restaurant we had travelled hundreds of miles to patronise was shut, we merrily shrugged our shoulders and squelched our way six doors down.

The champagne was delicious, the langoustine, crab and oyster platter a dream. It was a tiring but delightful trip abroad only slightly marred by the two emergency stops we had to perform on either side of the Channel on the way home to allow me to projectile-vomit my guts up on to the hard shoulder.

Not going on holiday this year has cost me just under £500, plus I've lost weight and avoided sunburn. What a bargain!