I broke two golden rules at the weekend and paid an awful price.

The first was to venture out of the house on a Bank Holiday. I always swore I would never go out in the mindless, lemming crush of people and traffic. The second was to go out in the mindless crush of traffic - and visit the in-laws.

We had an idyllic weekend planned with friends, but a sudden illness in their family put paid to that. Oh, disaster.

It gave my wife the golden opportunity to suggest seeing her "aged Ps" - elderly parents - as well as her sister who was also visiting them. I don't often mention the f-word - family - but then obscenities do have a way of slipping out.

Anyway, in a weak, brain-vacuum moment, and not considering the consequences, I agreed. Well, they are getting on a bit and it is a year since we last saw them.

Trouble is, they live in the Lake District, that tourism honeypot that gets overcrowded before you can say Windermere. And for someone who is allergic to Bank Holiday traffic, it was absolute lunacy to agree to a 280-mile round trip when the entire 40-million car population of Britain was heading in the same direction.

The three-hour drive there was a stop-start nightmare. I followed the same car for about 70 miles and became thoroughly intimate with its rear end. By the time this crappy Ford Escort pulled over for petrol I was ready to strangle the nodding dog in the rear window, not to mention the horrid kids who looked back and put their tongues out for mile after mile.

Five minutes from our destination my wife began reciting her list of demands: Don't drink too much, don't smoke too much, don't pick your nose, don't fall asleep in mid-conversation.

Yes, dear. No, dear.

Then we arrive: Kissy-kissy, lovely to see you, come in, sit down, sit up straight. Suddenly, this amazing transformation comes over my wife. She reverts to a clan member.

She starts talking like her sister, the laugh becomes identical and the mannerisms are so incredibly in tune they might as well be joined at the hip. So I go outside for a quiet smoke in the garden.

Now the big problem is, and I can't remember whether I told you this, my wife and her sister are vegetarian. They got it from their parents. I am a dedicated, voracious meat eater.

It's not normally a problem at home because my wife is pretty good about it and will singe flesh on my behalf when it is her turn at the cooker.

But when I am outnumbered four to one, nut cutlets and leg of lentil are the order of the day.

Astute and pre-meditating as ever, I suggest taking them out to a restaurant for the evening meal, the only way I am going to taste some animal in my food this weekend.

Thankfully, they agree, but first it's out with the holiday photographs because that lot have just been on a Mediterranean cruise without us. "That's us in Greece, that's us in Spain, that's us with a stray cat, that's us..."

Two hours to go before we can go out and eat, and my eyelids are flickering.

Don't get me wrong. These are lovely people - even if they do think offenders should have their hands amputated for not holding a door open for old ladies and I can't tell any Les Dawson mother-in-law jokes about her being so ugly her lipstick backs into the tube.

And I am only slightly aware that every time he sees her, dad is scrutinising his daughter for weight loss, frown-wrinkles or bruises to determine whether I am maltreating his precious. But I realise they all need time on their own and make an excuse that I need cash from the hole in the wall.

I sneak out and dive into the nearest pub. When I got back, I swear no-one noticed I'd even been gone.

So when our stomach rumbles have reached fever pitch and we have admired ten 36-exposure packets of prints, they take us to their favourite posh pizza restaurant.

Hmmm, meat, even if it is pepperoni. I failed to notice the large sign at the door which proclaimed it was a vegetarian, NO-SMOKING restaurant. I paid for my lack of observation with a cheesy, mushroomy chunk of dough.

Next morning I awoke at 7.30 with my body screaming "Feed me meat, now."

With the rest of the house fast asleep, I tiptoed to the door intent on finding a greasy spoon for the biggest bacon sandwich in the universe.

Only to be confronted by mum-in-law. "Sleep well? Would you like some muesli?"

Aaargh.

I'm a meat eater get me out of here.

Updated: 10:07 Tuesday, June 01, 2004