A storm rages outside.

“The gerbils,” shouts our middle son, over the thunder. “The gerbils.”

“What is he shouting about?” bellows Husband on a Short Fuse.

“The gerbils,” I say. “The gerbils.”

I rush outside with a torch, find the gerbils’ cage safely on high ground.

“Bloody things,” says Husband on a Short Fuse, still furious that the family pets have been smuggled on holiday.

At 10 o’clock in the morning, we head to the nearest local town to regroup. Caked in mud and carrying black bin-bags of wet clothes, we search for a launderette. But Holt is the kind of place you can find five kinds of olive oil and everyone has washing machines.

Then, to my horror, I see a vision of our previous existence, in the shape of Yummy Mummy No 1, with her four children and nanny in tow.

“Quick, get into this shop,” I bark. Everyone skulks into a charity shop.

“What are you doing, Lucy?” whispers Husband on a Short Fuse.

“We can’t be seen like this,” I say. But it’s too late.

“Lucy, what are you doing here?” asks Yummy Mummy No 1, peering round the door.

“I’m just dropping off some clothes for charity,” I say, handing over the bin-liners to the woman behind the counter. Husband on a Short Fuse looks bewildered.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her, hoping to buy some time to work out how to extricate ourselves from this unforeseen disaster.

“We’re staying with friends from school, just along the coast,” she says.
I can see her looking us up and down and sniffing the air. “Awful weather, but we’re very cosy. Are you near the sea?”

“So close that when you open the window in the morning you can almost touch the water,” I say. She pauses. I can see her looking at my muddy feet and black toenails.

“So what have you been up to?” she asks. Then it comes to me.

“We’re involved in a First World War enactment of life in the trenches,” I say. “It’s very educational and authentic. We have to blacken our faces, crawl through mud, and sleep in bivouacs.”

Husband on a Short Fuse smirks in the background. Then she spots the gerbils.

“And what are the rats for?” she asks. A big silence opens up.

“They were used in the trenches to detect mustard-gas attacks,” I hear myself say.

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