As I write this, I am preparing to spend the Easter holidays in exotic climes. I have timed publication to coincide with my return, so burglars don’t get ideas about coming round and nicking the family silver. My mother would be proud of me.

We’re off to Hong Kong for two weeks. Recently, comedian Josie Gibson visited HK for a midweek break for Channel 5. That’s a 14-hour flight each way, with 48 hours in the city at the height of typhoon season. Sure, it proves it can be done, but begs the question: should it?

Our reasons for visiting are personal. My father-in-law (FIL) was born in Hong Kong and worked his way over by boat in the mid-50s. His culture plays a big part in our lives.

Previously, I was not a huge fan of Chinese food, but he won me over with his simple, flavoursome cooking, a world away from the excesses that plague some (but by no means all) restaurants and takeaways.

Chinese New Year and other big events are celebrated in Plymouth, which has a lively oriental community. These are always joyful and noisy occasions, without the help of alcohol - the only glass of wine in sight is usually mine.

The Other Half (OH) and I went to Hong Kong in the year 2000. It was my first time, his second, and it was by some margin the most exciting place I had ever been. So many of the things you simply must see and so are cheap or even free: a stroll along the harbourside at sunset, marvelling at the skyscrapers lit up in glorious technicolour; the Star Ferry and tram network; Temple Street Night Market; watching elderly men play mahjong in the park; the world’s longest escalator ride (yes, really).

A quarter-century on, something has changed. It’s less to do with 25 years of Chinese rule, although I’m sure that will have had an impact; it’s more to do with me.

Back then, I was footloose and fancy-free, with little more to do than earn the money and then enjoy the fruits of my labours. I had the energy to go gallivanting halfway around the world, bounce back from jetlag and cram as much into each day as humanly possible, Lonely Planet guide in hand.

But life’s competing pressures have conspired to replace excitement with something considerably less appealing: raw anxiety. I blame the menopause.

While OH is ramping up the anticipation, I’m imagining everything that could go wrong. Are our passports in date? Where even are our passports? (Answer: in the same place they've been for the past 10 years). Don’t forget the passports - my mum once left hers in her printer-scanner, and had to turn back from Southampton to pick it up, cutting a sad and lonely figure on the station platform. (Happy ending - she caught up with the ship later in Cadiz).

My capacity for booking anything has diminished to chronic levels. Back in the day, you would have gone via a travel agent; now, it’s all DIY online, where travellers are presented with a smorgasbord of businesses keen to get their mitts on your cash.

I can dither for days over these things. What if the cheapest airport parking is miles away from the airport? What if they damage our car? What if the website is a front for a sham operation run by cowboys?

What if the hotel is rubbish? Actually, we have booked this through the UK-based Chinese agents used by FIL. He has stayed there three times and swears it’s great. It’s certainly reasonably priced, but it’s just out of he city, and I can’t help worrying that this is like visitins is like visiting London and staying in Luton.

“There are buses. Taxis. Trains!” says FIL with a look of incredulity.

I have packed half a wardrobe to cover all weather eventualities, in the knowledge that I will probably wear one outfit for two weeks. The other backpack is full of three people’s underwear (I’m currently wearing the old lady pants bought during a hospital stay several years ago, saggy elastic and all. TMI? You're very welcome). And let’s not forget every charger going: iPhone/Android, toothbrush, shaver, headphones.

Have I mentioned that this time around, we are three? It’s Daughter’s first time, and she can’t wait to immerse herself in her paternal heritage.

She will come back to her mock (sorry, “trial”) exams, quite possibly in full jetlag mode. She’s taking some revision with her, but if our itinerary is as packed as it usually is, study might be taking a back seat. I really hope the cultural benefits of the trip will make up for this – and one of her geographical subjects is megacities, so the holiday counts as revision in itself, right?