IT's that time of year when people start turning their thoughts to where they will go on their summer holiday.

The dreaming, imagining, deciding and contemplating is all part of the fun.

And no one enjoys partaking in the daydreams more than me. Visions of Corsica, Sardinia and the Ionian Islands have been prancing and flitting through my mind for the past two months.

So what is it I go and do for the second year in a row no less? I succumb to the lure of Glastonbury tickets going on sale during the first week in April. Will I ever learn?

Glasto is king of the festivals and being supremely fun fun fun is a part of its mantle. I LOVE it.

The atmosphere, the sense of community, the bands of course and the hectic dance tents. Staying up all day and night is part and parcel and everyone is euphoric.

What is a crushing blow however is the mud. You simply can't get away from it. The amorphous globs are to be found in your wellies, your tent, your hair and your pockets. It's not pleasant.

In fact the entire site looks like a super-sized mud wrestling pit, naked people sometimes included. NOT me I hasten to add, what in heaven's name do you take me for?

Last year on watching Paul Weller a man with a huge rucksack strapped to him was flailing around in front of us so enthusiastically he tipped over backwards into two-feet of mud. He reminded me of an upturned ladybird and as showering is a limited resource in the brown fields of Somerset I imagine he didn't get the dirt out of his underwear for the rest of the weekend.

This is not a train of thought I wish to dwell on.

So basically what I envisaged last spring to be a key part of my summer jaunt - sand - was far removed from what it actually was - a mucky mire.

The same will undoubtedly go for this time round when Glastonbury 2008 kicks off in all its boggy glory and I rock up with waterproofs, my lesson learned from the previous bonanza.

Of course travelling further afield to more exotic climes is not without its pitfalls. The anticipation is great as I said earlier but the reality for me is not.

I hate packing, organising, booking the holiday and paying for it (I'm a skinflint). Checking in doesn't excite me but those three little magic words - tax free shopping - do.

Plane delays are a pain, especially if they cause you to lose half a day of your holiday and don't even speak to me about lost baggage.

Once upon returning from a holiday in France the clever souls at Charles de Gaulle Airport "perdu" my most treasured possessions for a week.

I was bereft without my hair straighteners and newest clothes.

When you arrive at your long-anticipated destination and find the resort is a building site with a pit for a pool it's no picnic either but nothing can beat throwing on your cossie (because this is a garment that can rarely be donned in our fair country) and getting down to the beach, followed closely by fine food and freely flowing cocktails festooned with a ridiculous amount of sparklers, fruit and umbrellas.

All is well with the world and after you can go to the little shops by the beach and purchase some coveted espadrilles - heaven!

So there you have it, the two flip sides of my holiday spectrum with all their funny little peculiarities and I'm hard pressed to choose between them God bless em.

Viva the institution that is the festival. Long live the Union Jack-bedecked Brit abroad.