Better Red than dead at Butlins
It's all research to a writer. We savour every experience, each observation, people, places, smells, sounds. They can all be filed away for possible use in some as yet unimagined and unimaginable piece.
Like the beige ceiling up there with its slightly crooked tiles made of what looks like old fashioned pinboard surrounding the blue-tinged neon strip lighting, the screaming children, the adults with eyes mimicking those snail head feelers, the cold wet sensation across my naked shoulders from the pimply tiles which contrasts with the warm streams of dark red blood flowing down my chest to clash strangely with the scarlet stripes on my swimming shorts.
And of course, the bloke with the very hairy chest and shoulders pinning me flat on my back and preventing me from getting up like one of those ancient black and white ATV wrestling bouts with commentary by Kent Walton.
Bet you're ahead of me here ... yes it's an Easter break at Butlins, where, I found out later, they do still have live wrestling matches.
Yes, it sounds pretty grim. In fact, it was brilliant.
Let's cut out all the Elmore Leonard stuff and tell you what happened. I slipped over on my way to the swimming pool changing room. Flat on my back. Banged my head. Quite badly.
I was more worried by the very audible effect this was all having on my poor grandchildren.
The staff were terrific. Fear of concussion meant they kept me lying down while I was checked out. They insisted I couldn't walk to the first aid room, and they were clearly following all their own safety procedures so steadfastly that I became a quiescent patient to make their life easier.
A bit like a wedding or a funeral, the process took over.
Before I knew it my head was bandaged and I was on my way to Minehead's minor injuries unit in the front seat of a Butlins van.
The chap who took me was one of the security staff, a chatty South African who seemed slightly disappointed that he didn't need to use one of the cars with blue flashing lights which they have.
In between giving and receiving messages on his concealed microphone (I soon clocked the tell-tale curly wire disappearing under his woolly hat - writers don't miss much) he regaled me with his knowledge of England's non-league soccer teams. We end up discussing Rushden and Diamonds - I used to know someone who played for them.
He's been here nine years. I'd like to have known more about his background, but we didn't spend enough time together for me to start probing. Mind you, I found out the pub where he drinks (his mate's the barman), so I may drop in there one evening sometime in the future.
I didn't need a stitch, as the Butlins lifeguard team leader who patched me up had feared and a call to the resort soon brought my soccer-mad chauffeur back. I had plenty of time to collect my daughter and now-less hysterical grandchildren and still get pretty much to the front of the queue in the Gold Dining Room for our evening meal.
We'll draw a veil over what the other diners thought of my hairdo that evening. My daughter Sarah described it as Rasputin meets Donald Sutherland and the dried blood (don't wash it for 24 hours, the nurse had said) must have looked like some strange henna concotion.
Excellent food, by the way, bags of choice with plenty of vegetarian alternatives and loads of things for picky children (are there any other sort?).
Jessica, who is nine and wants to be an author and/or actress, became an expert on providing our breakfast toast and DIY coffee and tea, and soon passed on these secret skills to Rebecca, who is seven in a few days and who wants to be a teacher.
Great dodgems on the free funfair, plentiful entertainment of the ITV kind, and loads and loads for the children to do. Kids love it as the spot-on Butlins slogan has it.
Most of the extremely pleasant catering workers seem to originate from Eastern Europe and all the entertainment staff, including the legendary Redcoats, seem to originate from that unfathomable country which spawns the likes of Joe Pasquale and Bonnie Langford.
They are universally young, attractive, smiling, friendly, wonderful with kids and more than willing to don bizarre dinosaur and other odd furry costumes. They all seem to genuinely love what they do and the ones who run the kids' clubs possess impressive circus skills.
As a stream of cars leave on the morning of departure the Redcoat who took the Simon Cowell role in judging the children's pop singing contest is cheerily waving goodbye. It's beginning to rain and the wind off the sea is making his red plastic anorak flap like that plastic bag in American Beauty.
Minehead is a great centre for exploring Exmoor, so even if you don't spend all your time on the resort, the price, with meals thrown in, represents excellent value.
So, Easter has left me with an egg-sized bump on the back of my head and lots of new pages in my writer's notebook. Acres of tattoos straight from Chav Central on display in the excellent Splash pool where there was also an OTT drama queen of a lifeguard and a tiny punter with a Jordan-sized boob job.
Non-silicon obesity is much evident in our dining room, ditto those golf cart scooter things and too many out-of-control kids. The recent much-publicised complaints by teachers about parents being responsible for badly-behaved kids seems all too obvious.
Our two were, of course, the exceptions which proved this rule.
Apparently at the height of her hysteria over grandfather being laid low, wannabe author Jessica took comfort in the fact that I would probably write about my experience. A bright child.
It's all research, Jess.