The Curse of the Beast Under The Shed.

So far from civilization that even Angels stood no chance, could it have been those festering socks that kept The Beast at bay?

'In Watchet, no-one can hear you scream...' Melissa, largin' it up at the bar.

"Yes, I think I'm just about packed now. I've just got four pairs of jeans to take up and I'll be ready." Unusually, there were no mutterings from Mr Cake about how long I was taking. Instead, he cheerfully announced that he still had to sort out the roof rack and was off. Five minutes later he was back again, with an alarming revelation.

"Me and me dad have just seen a rat go under the shed. Don't worry, it was only a small one. I'll sort it out when we get back."

I found this horrifying not only for all the obvious reasons, but because I was brought up by my dad to believe that the mere mention of the word R.A.T is Extremely Unlucky - only by saying M.O.N.K.E.Y can you ensure yourself a bleaker future. I'd love to be able to say that I don't subscribe to such superstition, if only to wipe the smile from Husband's face when he suspects differently, but then again, after the way things went during the week that followed, I wouldn't be surprised if he now thinks there's something in it too.

Jobs all done, we piled into the car to pick up my sister, who was still struggling with her packing. "You're going to have to sit on this suitcase," she said "I can't shut it on my own." I had my doubts that I'd be able to help either. It was probably the most enormous suitcase known to man, and appeared to contain more things for her and her three-year old than I'd packed for my entire family. As we finally managed to snap it closed, she realised she'd forgotten to pack her iron. I was quick to assure her that I'd brought my own - otherwise she'd have been liable to pack her ironing board too.

"It's your round - come on, give!" Sally and Shaney.

With the weight of the car pushing the wheel arches practically to the floor, we set off for our holiday destination just sixty-five miles away. During the two hours that it took us to get there we could probably have been overtaken by a steam-roller on a go-slow, but we eventually caught up with the campsite we'd visited twice previously. Woohoo! Time to re-acquaint myself with the gorgeous Sean of security…

At first glance little had changed, but it soon became evident that the site was under new management. The traditional 'traveller's heave' confirmed that a) the toilets were still exactly the same, and b) sixty-six per cent of female holiday makers never bother to flush (ewwwww…), but the tiny tell-tale signs of a new broom beginning to sweep clean were everywhere else. Even our usual brand of beer had gone, to be replaced by something that probably had less alcoholic strength than the water the glasses were washed in.

After a few of these, it was time to collect the keys to our accommodation, which during a convoluted booking fiasco had mysteriously changed from the usual chalet to a caravan. In a desperate attempt to say something favourable, I can only describe it as… compact. For practical reasons, sister and niece had the room with the double bed, while son and daughter shared a cupboard with two bunks. It made sense for 6' 2" Mr Cake to be allocated the longest portion of the 'L' shaped sofa, leaving me with something the size of a shopping trolley.

Still, we were on holiday, and the knack of getting into your glad-rags with one foot in the bathroom and one foot hanging out of the living room window isn't that hard to develop, even if you do risk finding yourself wiping someone else's bum while trying to blow your own nose, and before long we were all in high spirits and hitting the club in typical Cake family style.

"It Guards The Gates Of Hell" The Wicked Witch of Watchet gets it's claws out and prepares to drain the bar, while the security crew never really knew what hit it...

It was great to see the security crew again and catch up with all the gossip, but where was Sean? Sadly, working in a petrol station in bleedin' Taunton. To add insult to injury there was no other talent in evidence whatsoever, eventually resulting in straits so dire that I ended up chatting up my own husband. Unheard of, surely?

The three hours of sleep I got that night were the longest I managed all week - woken by Mr Cake rolling off his bit of the couch and finishing up under the dining table, where he slept on, oblivious - but by the middle of the duration I was considering sleeping in the tea towel drawer, which seemed temptingly roomy.

Things were made worse by the effects on Son and Husband of their idea of campsite food. Silent nights were interrupted by violent gaseous emissions, and early mornings saw the rest of the family wake one by one to emerge gasping at windows that were almost wrenched off their hinges, such was the hurry to see them opened. Onlookers wondering why one particular window remained untouched only had to lower their gaze to see husband's evicted socks exuding toxic fumes beneath it.

"I hate to worry you, but those trainers behind us have started to glow." Steve and Dan in 'Attack of the Fetid Footwear.'

Yup, civilization was a long way off and the only link I had to it was a slim one, because nowhere on the site was it possible to get a mobile 'phone signal for most of the time we were there. Periodically, lights would flash green to indicate that the 'phones had decided to lock onto the mast after all, usually when we were in the bar, when there'd be a mad scramble for the door in the hope that once outside we'd be able to maintain a connection with the network for a little bit longer. I sent many text messages during these times, in various stages of inebriation, and can only wonder horrified at what the thief must have thought who stole a friend's mobile while I was away. It's not everyone who understands the 'vibrating knickers' thing…

Even without the wonders of technology I was determined to make the best of the week, but once I'd wore myself out with a few days of playing football and swimming, there was little to do. I'd finished my entire stash of reading material by the end of the third sleepless night, and as well as the evil by-products of burgers and chips, the air of the caravan now hung heavy with The Scent Of Potential Murder - my sister had PMT. This first became evident as she cursed her way through an attempt to inflate Niece's armbands, and probably peaked on the morning she woke to find her bedroom redecorated with her new cosmetics. Filling my hours with beer swilling was definitely the most attractive option.

One of the, erm… highlights of the club week was the talent contest. Just two entrants had emerged during the afternoon auditions, and I couldn't help feeling sorry for the first one, who didn't stand a chance. Until the second one opened his mouth, and slaughtered Robbie Williams' 'Angels' before our very ears. At its heights (or depths, more accurately), two of the lads from security ambled by. In a dazzling example of comic understatement, one turned to me and said "I hear one of these on tonight is crap…"

"Look out, child - it's behind you!" Shaney and her Auntie Social.

My resolve to pretend that I was having a good time finally cracked on the day before we were due to leave. It wasn't the sudden and violent storm that bothered me, though the loudest rock concert probably couldn't rival the sound of hailstones on the tin roof above us. I can even say that I quite enjoyed the spectacular display of lightening that the Gods put on that morning. That was before Daughter spotted IT. "Look, mum - there's a rat!" Sure enough, beneath the neighbouring caravan scurried a massive R.A.T. And another…

As the rain cleared, they streamed out - straight into the ditch I'd cheerfully been sending my son into to retrieve the football just the previous day. We were packed inside of an hour. Mr Cake insisted on staying for the final night, but I can't imagine that there was ever a family that rose and dressed as fast as ours did the following morning. Next year, I predict we'll be holidaying elsewhere. A tour of Taunton petrol stations sounds quite appealing…