Barbara Argument's Column.

There was a time when we could go on holiday and really get away from it all.

Away from work and the daily drag. Away from the washing, cleaning and throwing food in the microwave.

Now real life follows you into sunny fantasy land.

Here I am scribbling away among the Majorcan apricot trees, lapping up the sea, the sand, the sunshine and sangria with the old barbecued sardines.

But the Teesside life I flew away from trickles in endlessly.

It's there in the newspapers with their addictive appeal for we newshound Brits.

Come the coffee hour, we're sitting with the rest of the sunburned masses in the local square greedily eating up the headlines.

Some other country's fascinating life is unfolding right there in front of us ( and what do we do?

Ignore it to catch up with the very latest on the life we were so keen to leave behind.

It's impossible to resist reading about Wayne's World Cup. The boss of Morrison's quitting. Breathtakingly bungled police raids.

Then there's the lure of an anti-World Cup quiz ( and the answer to a lifetime puzzle. What is rutabaga, that most mysterious of Branston Pickle ingredients? Just American for swede, apparently.

Out here all the newspapers ( today's newspapers ( are on sale in time for this morning's reading over the cafA con leche. How clever is that!

But it's not just the papers. Beep, beep. Incoming text alert.

"Hey, celebrations, I've got new job." Oh, great, we say, chinking glasses of San Miguel.

Beep, beep. "Denise is doing great. Out of hospital next week." Tears of relief and more clinking glasses.

Beep, beep. "Hola from Mexico," says youngest Chick. "Been snorkling. Look like a Clingon." Eh? What?

Beep, beep. "Been to the garden centre for patio slabs," Oldest Chick shouts across Europe.

Beep, beep. "Try beaut restaurant on top of hill," advises cousin.

And so it goes on. One beeping beep after another, bringing over there over here.

Shall I bother sending a postcard when texting and sending snaps from mobile to mobile has taken over?

These days, 'going abroad' is no more adventurous than tootling up the road to Whitby. I can be in almost any European piece of paradise quicker than driving to London ( and for less dosh.

When I was a kid, the United bus took me to Holy Island on a holiday journey which seemed a whole lot further than jetting to Thailand does now.

In an emergency it would probably have been the police from Berwick in their Noddy car bearing the message to us. And then only at low tide.

Now anyone can beep, beep direct the good news, bad news and ( let's face it ( no news.

You don't have to be the important boss who believes his company will collapse without his continuous input from a Carribean beach.

We live by the slogan it's good to talk ( and can barely bear to stop jabbering for the duration of a cheap flight.

So real life glides smoothly into holiday life and back again into real life, without the old brain cells noticing any real rest.

Is that the way holidays were meant to be? Surely not.