| abstract | - Imagine this scene: you, your good lady wife Muriel and your two charming daughters Prudence and Bernice are out for a Sunday drive - perhaps you've decided to tour the local countryside and enjoy a picnic on your way home from church, or maybe you're on your way to pay Great Aunt Florence a visit. Perhaps you're having a good old sing-song, the most enjoyable way to cement loving family ties. Suddenly, you become aware of a strange, rumbling undertone to the angelic voices of your cherished family, a deep throaty roar that grows progressively louder. A flash of beige passes your window, followed by something large and off-white. "The maniac!" you think, as the slipstream buffets your car mercilessly, "He must be doing at least 50mph!" But the disturbing apparition does not vanish into the distance - instead, it careers wildly into your path. Your windscreen is filled with a large, flat expanse of fibreglass and plywood. With sinking heart you glance upwards and there it is, your worst nightmare - the words ABBEY GTS. It's a caravan. You'd heard of this happening to others, but somehow believed that it could never happen to you. The rear view mirror shows another beige car towing another caravan, and as you watch it approach two more draw up either side, boxing you in. The gingham curtains are plain to see, and they confirm your worst fears - you have encountered The Caravan Club. What happens next is anyone's guess. Sometimes, they will speed off again, their criminal urges satisfied by having simply terrified a God-fearing, law-abiding citizen. Other times they might force you to pull into a quiet motorway service station where, if they take a liking to your car, they might leave you stranded. The worst case scenario is that they take a liking to your wife and daughters - or perhaps your wife and daughters will take a liking to them.
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