There's nothing quite like cramming five people and all their associated paraphernalia into one vehicle, transferring them to a new location, and then belatedly realising they all still need feeding and cleaning up when you get there.

We recently enjoyed a Clayton's break of our own, but this is not about getting everything from mozzie coils to medical supplies to fit in one car, about getting lost on the way, or about the sandfly horde we bonded so closely with during our stay.

It's about a little work I had done before we left.

With a weekend in swimwear looming, I felt I owed it to my thighs to tan up just a little.

Of course a natural tan is a health risk. Besides, I can hardly be seen doing the very opposite of the sun-smart message I preach to the children (and unlike other vices I warn the kids off, sunbaking is hardly something you can do when they're asleep).

I needed an instant tan, so I followed the advice of friends and booked in for a spray job.

The first shock came when I found out the dress code for a spray tan. Let's just say it's considerably less underwear than I usually consider polite on a first meeting.

My resolve wavered, but as a friend pointed out, they'd hardly be spraying me down in the shop window (bad for business no doubt).

The second shock came upon discovering the whole procedure would be carried out by a 14-year-old wielding a small vacuum cleaner (on closer inspection it was a young beautician with the spray gun contraption). And under fluorescent lighting, no less.

The third shock came when I looked in the mirror. Smaller family members were actually afraid of me for the first 12 hours.

Fortunately by the next day, and three vigorous showers later, the whole effect was almost natural. Providing you didn't look too closely at my ankles or wrists or fingers or toes.