LAST year's leaky roof put paid to this year's holiday.
But I have to say, when you go looking for it, Glasgow has its fair share of culture...
The art galleries, the museums, the bistro cafes, the parks – when it's possible to step on to the grass without fear of submersion.
But it was a more mundane expedition that hammered home the Continental aspirations of our dear green place.
In anyone's book, a trip to a large Scandinavian furniture shop is unlikely to set the pulses racing.
Yet, there we were, toddler, pre-schooler and my good self stuck in a very long queue amid summer holiday hell as we waited patiently for lunch.
It was hot. The queue snaked agonisingly slowly.
I told Child No.1 that this is exactly what's it like at Disneyland, except Mickey waves at you while wait.
Child No.2 could not conceal his irritation.
It did not take long for the gentleman in front of us to show his irritation at No.2's irritation.
So when I first spotted it, I thought my eyes deceived me. I figured it was a hallucination after yet another bright and early, in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-any-sane-person's-book start to the day.
Dinky bottles bringing the promise of a warm glow in either red or white seemed to be on hand in the chiller.
Surely not? Glasgow and responsible day-time drinking are not common bedfellows.
I craned my neck around the bustling, mental-busy meatball haven that is Ikea's canteen.
There was scarcely a seat to be had in the cavernous hall. But there were no fights, no argy-bargy and no-one stockpiling six or seven of those little bottles just to save time in the queue. Closer inspection confirmed it.
Red and white wine on hand for those who like their meatballs and salmon washed down with some sophistication.
A marketing graduate's genius idea; after waiting in a queue the size of ours, heaven knows there's a need for wine.
It was with some reluctance that I fingered the car keys, eyed my increasingly agitated charges and reached for coffee.
The misery was compounded when the very good-looking couple behind us began to kiss. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-blown proper French kiss.
Child No.1 and I stared. Alerted by the sound of smacking lips and irked at the thought of someone eating before him, Child No.2 stopped heckling the gent in front to glance over his shoulder.
Child No.1 was thrilled. "They kissed the way princes and princesses kiss," she exclaimed, much to the saccharine delight of the besotted couple.
"Why do you and Daddy never kiss like that?"
Yeah, well, maybe they're on their holidays.