On our recent holiday in France, I used this well-worn phrase so many times that Christine, my long-suffering wife, started to total them up.

It started at East Midlands Airport. The flight to Nice, on easyJet, was a reasonable £152.78 for the both of us. When we checked in at the airport, we were told that it would cost a further £64 for the two small cases we were taking.

"How much?" I exclaimed.

"And,"added the smiling young woman in the check-in counter, "just to let you know, all refreshments on the plane must be paid for."

Then we got to France. We took a taxi from Nice to Vence where we were staying, which is some 15 miles away,

"Soixante euros," said the lugubrious-looking taxi driver when we arrived at our destination.

"C'est combien?" I exclaimed.

He shrugged. "Service non compris," he added.

"Sixty euros and a tip on top!" I cried. "We'll be going back on the bus."

In the pâtisserie the next day, I peered into the display cabinet at the delicious-looking pastries and flans. The apple tart cost e22.

"C'est combien?" I exclaimed again. "Well, I'll tell you this, Christine," I said, "we'll not be eating cakes."

"I wish you would enter the holiday spirit," chided my wife later as we wandered around the supermarket.

"What, with these prices?" I grumbled, pointing to a shelf. "Even the wine is dearer than in England."

"Not everything's dearer," the Englishwoman behind me vouchsafed. "Cotton buds are cheaper in France."

It is not that Yorkshire folk are parsimonious. It is just that we like value for our money.

A friend told me the story (clearly a tall tale but worth repeating) of the Yorkshireman who went to place an In memoriam notice in the Yorkshire Post following the death of his wife. The couple had been happily married for 50 years.

When informed of the cost by the woman at the desk, the man uttered, in true Yorkshire fashion, "How much?"

Shaking his head, he reluctantly produced his wallet. "I want summat simple," he explained.

"Perhaps a small poem," suggested the woman at the desk.

"Nay," said the man, "she wunt 'ave wanted anything la-di-da. Just put in: 'Gladys Braithwaite's died'."

"You need to say when," he was told by the receptionist taking his order.

"Do I? Well, put died March 17, 2008. That'll do."

"It is usual for the bereaved to add some meaningful phrase," said the woman.

The man considered for a moment. "Well, put in, 'Sadly missed.' That'll do," he said.

"You can have another four words," the woman at the desk explained. They are included in the price."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Well, if I've paid for 'em!" exclaimed the man, "I'm 'avin' 'em."

The obituary was duly printed:

Gladys Braithwaite.

Died 17th March, 2008.

Sadly missed.

Also tractor for sale.