“DAD,” says Emma, tumbling out of the car and stretching her legs, “should water be pouring from under that car?” Being just 15 and non-technically minded, she doesn’t realise the people-carrier parked two bays along from us has got radiator problems.

Me having more experience of perils automotive, I exchange a sympathetic glance with the owner, now busy ringing the RAC. Besides, we’ve had a lucky escape of our own, having endured a frustrating, stop-start, seven-mile approach to the Dartford crossing while watching the engine temperature gauge nudging the red zone.

Fortunately, we just moved often enough to force a bit of coolish air through our radiator and see the needle drop slightly; but it was touch and go.

I kept expecting some kind of fan to fire up like a hovercraft under the bonnet and make a big difference. Perhaps it would have done if the stationary spells had been longer. Or perhaps not . . .

As we nip off to the Dartford services for a wee (and pass on the extortionately-priced lollies, despite gasping for one) it becomes clear we limped into the car park just in time. For in the space of a few minutes the place has become gridlocked.

Over 20 minutes we watch a Nissan Micra move forward just four car lengths. “We’ll boil over if we sit in this queue,” says Jane, and we adjourn to the play area. Holiday travel . . . who needs it?

This is par for the course. Our journeys to and from Dorset have averaged 40mph – which, considering they’ve been mostly on motorways, is pretty poor.

It’s felt like the Dr Who episode featuring Father Ted actor Ardal O’Hanlon as a talking cat. Set in the year five billion and fifty-three, vehicles on the planet New Earth go round slowly in circles for aeons, never getting off the motorway.

Jane and I do a mental check. Good things about the hols: waterpark flumes, Bournemouth’s free firework display, sliding down a ski-slope on rubber rings, zooming along zip-wires in the forest. Bad: the M25, M3 and M27.

Mostly, this purgatory has been caused by sheer volume of traffic. It’s a pointless way to waste our lives. Fortunately, this jam – probably down to volume, Lakeside shoppers and a long-term road closure by a roundabout – is clearing. Next year we travel early, late, or go by public transport. Grrh!

We saunter back to our bay. “Dad,” says Emma, “should water be pouring from under our car?”