It is going to be a tough sell, arguably the toughest of my life. But before I tell you about the sell, let me put the scale of the task into perspective.

I used to be the news editor for this paper. Back then, the Birmingham Post was a six-day a week operation. Memory plays tricks on us all but I would estimate that for half of the week – say three papers out of six – there wasn’t a stand-out front page lead. This was a particular problem for me because that was the main purpose of my job.

What in the trade is called a splash was often a barely perceptible drip. This meant I was frequently in the position of attending the main news conference with little in my metaphorical armoury of stories, perhaps a harmless twig.

It was my job to persuade the editor and the senior editorial team (the deputy editor, the assistant editors, the night editor, quite possibly the managing editor – we had them all in those days) that my twig was in fact a mighty oak.

Readers would gaze on it in wonder. It was all a matter of perception, of selling the twig to my bosses, and therefore the readers.

Fortunately, brighter minds than mine would often spot that a story I had buried at the bottom of page 8’s “news digest” was a rip-roaring front page exclusive. On other occasions, the editor would tell me I was a useless git and ordered me to produce an alternative news schedule within the hour.

Sometimes, rarely, I pulled off the seemingly impossible. The newsroom’s back bench, as it was then called, bought the “twig.” The editor was tickled pink. He stopped, temporarily, abusing me.

And it may be that my twigs were better stories than the occasional oaks that I helped to nurture. Like many men, my value might be judged by a measure of twigs.

I mention all this to demonstrate that I have a working knowledge of selling skills. Like a contestant on The Apprentice, I know what is required to be a salesman.

But I am going to have to up my game.

Last year, we had a family holiday in Barbados. The trip came about as a result of blood, sweat and toil – and a measure of good luck.

It was one of those “once-in-a-lifetime” holidays that you really, really hope isn’t literally once-in-a-lifetime because the thought of not returning to island breaks my heart.

(You’re feeling really sorry for me now. I can sense it. Please send cheques in the usual way.)

So, last year it was steaming Bridgetown – and this year it looks like it’s Birmingham. Think of the money we’ll save on antihistamine and Puiz Buin.

Tropical beaches, near constant 28C-30C temperatures, bathing in crystal clear waters, flying fish and rum punch will be traded for the Bullring, fluctuating squalls, tepid beer, shopping trolleys in the canals and a trip to council pool, floating plasters and all. What’s not to like?

If you were 12 and 15, which my children are, why wouldn’t you want to swap the Caribbean for the charms of the Costa del Brum?