Mark Kotting, author of Babble and Squeak embarked on a voyage around the world with his family a few years ago, which he wrote about in regular articles for the Guardian. The features are available to read by clicking here! Oh to be on a sunny beach!
Below is a taster of Mark's first blog:
I don't like the word journal and I don't like the word soccer, so we're writing a diary and soccer's called football. I know how lucky we are, and thank whoever is looking over us.
Already a tourist. Bags bumping Wednesday night backs. Silver screws holding the slatted District line floor. All change, Piccadilly line. And Heathrow's knackered under the strain of fingernail biters, mobile phone thumb flickers' paranoia. But it sells good teddies, so my girls say.
Boom, blast off, the best bit, the plane's going down the runway and Etta looks up and says, has the trip started yet? I smile and say, I guess it has. She's reading the menu. She says, what are we having first breakfast or dinner? Whatever you want, I say. Yeah we're on holiday, she says, closing her eyes as the plane tips back, taking us higher.
We bounce our way over, one with her head in a sick bag, the other changing channels. The woman behind has never been so uncomfortable, the man in front, me, is the same, cattle class. We arrive, you either do or don't. Billie's sick again, walking through the terminal we catch it in a bag, given to her on the plane, her toys and chocolate are ruined. Passengers stare walking by, we crouch, stroke her head, we're here, Bangkok.
We're driven downtown by a man who doesn't stop talking. He says the girls should swim with crocodiles, ride elephants, drink Coke, and do it all with him, him cheap. Billie taps me and says doesn't he realise we're tired, what have we got daddy? Jet lag love, I say. Yeah, she says and stares at the man who hasn't stopped talking.
Bangkok's hot, very hot, and we're here when it's cold, the taxi driver just told us, rubbed his arms and shivered. We got out and a man saluted us. I saluted back, the girls asked why'd he do that? No idea, I replied.
We're in the red light district, that's where the hotel is. Billie's already noticed how many men from England come over and fall in love with Thai women, so many, she says. See, she says every time we walk past another one. It all makes perfect sense to her. When we're out walking, the child's grip gets tighter, over every crack of the pavement, beggar and parlour door. I'm having trouble looking around because of the words being spoken from the end of my hand. Read more
The kids are being hit by heat, dust and noise, smiles and touching hands. They're in shock, they've seen Blue Peter and it's not like this.