Bring, bring. Bring, bring. My ninjabile rang. It was a call from my Ninja Papa. Worried that I might be feeling a bit glum after the Carol van Klubbe disaster the other day, he'd perhaps ironically, clubbed together with my Ninja Grand Papa and bought a ninja family caravan and was inviting me away on a caravanning trip with him and my Ninja Grand Papa too. Funkiest of all was that I got to choose the campsite! It was the best news I'd had all day. So I got booking online at campingninja.com and selected a campsite.

The caravan was perfect for winter. We packed in our belongings, ambitiously including the sun umbrella and took a little piece of our home away with us, like a snail. It was a home from home. But not a sweet home from home once the evening came. Partly because despite being 83, my Ninja Grand Papa still insists on sleeping on the top bunk - one of the charms of old age, refusing to accept that he's much more than a grown up these days and reverting to acting like a child.

It was so painful watching him slowly climb up the ladder, with one step every seven minutes and then getting stuck for a long time half way up, and it was impossible to sleep with the distraction of him hovering mid way, dangling in the air.

Finally he made it up to the top. I closed my eyes ready to sleep. Then my Ninja Papa started snoring! That was it. I'd had enough of it all. I picked up my ninjabile and went online to book another pitch at the campsite. One all to myself.

A few ninja seconds later, my pop up tent was pitched and I was about to snuggle down to sleep. A next door neighbour to my silenced by the walls of the caravan, snoring Ninja Papa. Result! The perfect solution for a happy family.

And then to the land of nod, dreaming of, in the random way that dreams are, of peanuts, a tent floating on top of a swimming pool and a guitar dancing around a camp fire. Bizarre. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.