To Suffolk

It's the day we set off to stay with Big Bro, who lives in Suffolk, and who can provide a place to stay for a couple of days while we cavort around in Kentwell dressed as Tudor maids.

The first part of the journey is hell. Tiger does nothing but chant that she hates everyone and makes to throw herself out the car around Bedford because she says Shark wants her to, so she will. Honestly, I'm begining to think about psychotherapy for that one. Tiger can be beautifully charming when she's a mind, but that cute face is just a front for something that resembles Mount St Helens.

We detour to visit Grimes Graves because I love that place, the quietness of it, the hollows and the histories, and possibly want to be scattered there if English Heritage wouldn't mind. If they put up a fight, Dig will have to scatter me on the quiet, and claim he's just popping round the back of the shop for a wee, because there's no public toilet.

Anyway, after Grimes Graves we're back in the car with Mount St Helens to see if we can make it to the Henge, where Big Bro lives, without loss of life or further incident.

The Henge is a village in Suffolk. There isn't much there, so don't visit. No shop. No gas. No bus, except on Wednesday. But there is a spare room for us, and a blow up mattress. Which is just as well, because I discover that the blow up mattress we've brought has a hole the size of a fingernail in it.

But we've arrived, safely at that, and Big Bro is as crazy as he was before, obsessing about fat and claiming he's going to give up eating for the good of his health. When he's not obsessing about that, it's the contents of the garage, which he's threatening to take to the tip next week if it doesn't disappear in the meantime. He has a reason, mind. Big Bro is living his youth years now he's in middle age and bought himself a Porche, which sits on the drive in the rain because what's in the garage is a floral pink and green sofa and a matching pouffe.

And so it's to bed. We blow up our double mattress for Shark and Squirrel who watch it deflate at speed, thanks to the hole. I tell them they won't be giggling about it in the morning. And just as well Big Bro keeps a spare in the garage, along with the sofa and pouffe. Soon enough, Squirrel and Shark are both fast asleep after the enforced march round my future resting place, Mount St Helen's snoring in her sleeping bag next to me, and Ermintrude's installed in the front room with a duvet. Me, I go to sleep dreaming of the peace and quiet at Grimes Graves.