IT was meant to be a weekend away from it all - a chance to spend some quality time together and re-ignite the old flame of romance.

OK, so we had four noisy children with us in a holiday village in the middle of a forest. But my wife had thoughtfully booked a blissful afternoon in the spa just for the two of us, complete with a session temptingly called Rediscover Romance.

"Enjoy these harmonising treatments together... enhanced by the sensual aroma of ylang-ylang essential oils," enticed the brochure. It went on to promise a welcoming foot ritual, full-body Hawaiian wave massage, and hot stones therapy designed to realign our chakras and induce a deeper state of inner peace.

I had no idea what my chakras were, or why they might be out of line, but it was apparently guaranteed to get any couple in the mood for love and that would do for me.

The day before our journey of romantic rediscovery, my wife and I warmed up for the main event by trying out the private sauna attached to our chalet. Very peaceful it was, too, until our youngest popped his head in and said:

"Dad, come and stand out here for a second."

Fixed to the wall outside was a bucket, full of ice cold water, with a rope attached to tip it upside down.

A dad's gotta do what a dad's gotta do, so I stood under the bucket, pretending not to know what was about to happen. The freezing water took my breath away and I ran, screaming and shivering, back into the sauna.

"Enjoy that?" laughed my wife.

Before I could answer, I slipped on the floor tiles like Bambi on ice, and went head over heels. In the process, I cracked my head, wrenched my shoulder, twisted my knee and fell against the sizzling stove of red hot rocks.

It wasn't the flame of romance that was burning - it was me. The result was a dramatic dash to the medical centre, where my badly-blistered arm was bandaged and the nurse insisted on it being kept dry.

"But I have to rediscover romance in the spa tomorrow!" I protested.

"Well, it's up to you, but I really don't advise it," said the nurse, sternly.

The next morning, my wife had another go in the sauna. She complained, with typical insensitivity, about the lingering smell of burning flesh and took to calling me Hog Roast - Hog for short.

In the interests of romance, I forgave her and we kept our date at the spa. Despite it all, we relaxed in the aromatherapy steam rooms of Turkey, India, Greece, Japan and Italy.

In the heated outside pool, I had to keep my injured arm raised so it didn't get wet. That led to complete strangers thinking I was waving at them and one or two waved back, looking puzzled.

When the time came, we entered the massage treatment room for our eagerly-awaited foot ritual and ylang-ylang workover against the backdrop of soothing music. It was so completely intoxicating that I almost forgot the throbbing of my barbecued bicep (such is the high pain threshold of the formidable male species).

Understandably, in view of what had gone before, I flinched when the masseurs announced they were about to place the hot stones on our bodies. But we finished with a glass of champagne and toasted the merciful realignment of our chakras.

Back at the chalet, our eldest greeted us with a cheery "Hey, how'd it go?" and a manly slap on my bad arm.

We'd rediscovered romance. But the scars may never heal.

DID YOU SEE?

THAT clever new invention called the Mosquito, designed to disperse unwelcome gangs of teenagers?

It's a black box that gives off an unbearable, non-stop high-pitched whining noise. I think it might have been made with a recording of our Jack.