THERE’S a saying that there are “different strokes for different folks”. Ignoring the fact I only know this thanks to the popular 1980s US comedy, it basically amounts to people having different ways of doing things, and what suits one would not be appropriate for another.

So it is with comedy. Diff’rent Strokes was immensely popular in its day and made stars out of its young leads. Remember its catchphrase, “What’choo talkin’ about, Willis?” Admit it, you were thinking about it.

But it has been asked whether its central premise, of a wealthy white widower adopting and nurturing two young Black boys from a different social background, would stand up to 21st century values.

Not everyone finds the same things funny. Take my dear old mum (“please,” as Bob Monkhouse might have said, “just take her”). She never could understand the appeal of The Royle Family. “It’s just too much like real life,” she would say, nonplussed.

That’s precisely why the Other Half (OH) and I would split our sides over it. My favourite scene remains the one where northern Nana (the splendid Liz Smith) says: “You know so-and-so? He died.” I have that conversation with my mum at least once a week. (The episode in which the Royles eat Club biscuits rhapsodically comes a close second).

Daughter is not at all keen on situation comedy, which by its very nature makes light of things going disastrously yet hilariously wrong. This rules out anything involving Rowan Atkinson – I can live without Mr Bean (so sue me), but Blackadder is an absolute classic. Unfortunately, seeing the sardonic eponymous hero getting his comeuppance is more than Daughter can bear, and she has to leave the room before the glorious finale comes to pass.

The Other Half and I are therefore reduced to watching our current favourite in secret. Here We Go follows the travails of the hapless Jessop family from catastrophe to calamity. A huge part of the appeal is the recognition factor: either someone has opened a window into your life, or you are not alone in making a hash of things on a daily basis.

I took solace in the latter idea during our recent holiday to Scotland (it was indeed brave in letting us over the border). A stopover in Chester in the middle of the heatwave resulted in a monster nosebleed for Daughter over breakfast; this was not the time to discover that the keycards to our third-floor hotel room had been demagnetised (apparently, you shouldn’t keep them in the same pocket as your mobile phone). By the time they had been reactivated, Daughter was a sobbing mess in the dining room, looking for all the world like an axe murderer.

We each have our role on holiday. I’m the one who harries people to be on time for booked activities, particularly the expensive ones. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve pointed out the “latecomers will be excluded” clause. As a result, we are always stupidly early, but that’s infinitely better than the alternative.

When we don’t have a firm deadline, OH is the one who nags daughter and myself to stir our stumps. This is especially true early in the morning, or when we’ve gone back to the digs for some R&R and disappeared down the rabbit hole of social media scrolling.

For Edinburgh, Daughter took on the role of planning director, leafing through guide books and promotional leaflets to choose the best ghost tours and must-see landmarks. This was admirable; however, she has yet to learn how to pivot, and discovering the castle was sold out for the entire day she had pencilled in did not go down well.

Dinner was often a flashpoint as we tried to manage the competing culinary desires of three individuals, none of whom are inclined to compromise on the cuisine they really fancy, or the establishment they really don’t.

A key factor in Here We Go is that all’s well that ends well. Every week, the Jessops manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. However minuscule said victory is, it will have the magical effect of cancelling out any fiasco that came to pass before.

So it was for us. While our Travelodge room in Glasgow was little more than a broom cupboard, our castle-view apartment in Edinburgh was simply fabulous (handshakes all round); the castle itself was equally wonderful, just a day later than planned. The nosebleed, meanwhile, will pass into family lore, to be revisited and chuckled over for years to come.

As we made our way back into England - a rollercoaster ride through the Cheviots along the A68, on an evening tinged with regular rainbows – we all agreed, over the driest of burgers at Scotch Corner services, that we couldn’t wait for the next holiday.