We go on a winter break.

Some time ago, I told the LTLP that I was fed up with not having a holiday. I had found a website that listed all sorts of posh and funky cottages and villas that were nevertheless toddler-friendly. I proceeded to send her away to the computer, and an hour later she returned, having made a booking.

We arrive at Butlins, Skegness.

It appears to be very much the same as the last time we came here, apart from the fact that it is raining harder and it is December. I edge the car towards the bedraggled man in charge of inmates.

“At least the car is all fixed now,” I comment. “It needed a battery to work! Who knew?”

There is no response from the LTLP. She is busy looking at the Toddler to see if he is going to be sick again.

We are directed to our chalet. It is as cold as the storage area of a minor subsidiary of Findus Foods that’s situated on the dark side of one of the few moons of Jupiter which is presided over by Republican congresswomen. I run around switching on heaters and trying to find extra warm layers. I have been a bit disorganised with regards to this trip – at least the LTLP has bought some warm boots.

“Hurrreeeeabbaaarrrrffffffffff,” explodes the Toddler, into the LTLP’s warm boots.

This cheers me up a little. Perhaps the weekend will not be so bad. The front door opens once more behind me.

“Which room shall I put my bags in?” asks my Mother-in-Law.

My spirits sink once more.

We settle down to plan the itinerary for the break. There are all sorts of activities available, including Santa Claus and a Pantomime. I hunch down with a glass of wine, watching the rain alternate with sleet.

“There is a spa here,” the LTLP reminds me. “Why don’t you head off down there now?”

Again, my mood lifts.

I am given a grocery list and sent over to the Spar. Later on, I see an angry-looking woman slip over on some ice. This is terrific entertainment, and something that Butlins should investigate as an extra paid attraction.

The weekend passes quickly, despite my mood. I find that I enjoy hurtling down the water slides, and going on the bumper cars. When we get back, the LTLP discovers that you can catch vomiting disease through your feet.

“There’s quite a bit of it, admittedly,” says Short Tony.

He unlocks the back of his chicken-transporter truck and we gaze at the beef that towers within.

“Yes,” I agree.

Short Tony and Len the Fish have been at the butcher’s since early morning, sorting out the Community Cow. I take a step back and look at his tired and careworn frame. He carries the unmistakable air of a man who is tired of beef.

We stand for a while, contemplating the enormity of the beef mountain. To my layman’s eye, Len the Fish has done an excellent job of the butchery, in that it is dead, has been sliced up into bits, and put into bags. Short Tony begins listlessly sifting through the cuts. I, also, can summon no enthusiasm for the task. We have been using up stuff from the freezer for three weeks now, and I haven’t consumed a vegetable since the last of the peas.

“When is Len the Fish coming to collect his third?” I ask.

It transpires that Len the Fish has already collected his third.

We start to divvy up the beef. Clearly it is too much to carry back to the Cottage, so I fetch a wheelbarrow. I cheer up as I load. At least we have saved lots of money by buying beef by the cow, and if there is too much for me to store then I will be able to keep it in Short Tony’s new chest freezer, which he has had to buy as an emergency purchase in order to accommodate the money-saving meat.

“I will bring any back that I can’t fit in,” I tell him, disappearing via the secret path that leads between our houses.

I load the beef into our freezer. There is some left over, so I take that back to Short Tony’s, using the wheelbarrow.

Later I speak to the LTLP.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks.