AS money-making schemes go, it was a ruse of pure genius. We're not talking Stephen Hawking-style genius however, the sort where, disabled or not, you need a wheelchair to carry around your enormous brain.

Instead, we are talking evil genius, the sort where you have to wear a swishy black cape or stroke a white moggy at all times to give everyone fair notice of your wicked intent.

On the surface they seemed like perfectly nice people. But I suppose it was too much to expect for him to have a black, twirly moustache and for her to cackle mysteriously from beneath an impenetrable black shroud. That would have been too easy.

They greeted us with warm smiles and invited us into their home with what appeared to be a sincere welcome. They even provided a complimentary bottle of wine. But it was red wine - blood red. You see, the clues were there if only we had looked for them. But we didn't.

It was only when they left us to settle in, when they shuffled off to their hidey-hole and we left the cocoon of the kitchen to venture into the rest of the house, that the horror hit us full in the face.

Or, at least, it hit the smallest member of our party full in the face. It was a glass table, with corners sharp enough to blunt a diamond, covered in every breakable variety of knickknack known to man.

A sharp intake of breath all round was followed by an out-and-out gasp of horror as our eyes collectively made it past this first obstacle and on to the rest of the house.

Not that we could actually see much of it you understand, because every available square inch was covered in pottery, glass and semi-precious odds and sods. All on potentially lethal glass tables or wobbly plinths that threatened to collapse at even the suggestion of a sneeze. All at kids' eye level.

It goes without saying that the particular eyes of the particular kids in the room immediately lit up at the possibilities such a treasure trove of breakables threw up.

Yes, they would probably lose an eye in the process, but such a relatively minor injury paled in comparison to the sheer joy of smashing a collection of pottery hats against a herd of stone herons (it's the truth, I tell you - no hallucinogens have passed my lips).

As if this weren't bad enough, it was then that we saw the neatly typed note on the dining room table: "All breakages must be paid for." Could we re-mortgage the house at such short notice? Or should we simply lock the kids in a cupboard and hope for the best?

In the end, we decided to lock the knick-knacks in the cupboards instead and banish as many glass tables as we could carry to an out-of-the-way bedroom.

While we were doing this - and the little one was smashing her cheekbone on to the lino in the kitchen (ho hum, the joys of family holidays) - we began to notice other little notes around the house.

"This is a non-smoking house" said one; "please ensure the shower curtain is within the shower tray" said another; "don't put anything down the toilet that might cause a stoppage" said yet another; and, my favourite, "don't try to retune the television as it has been installed by a professional electronic engineer".

I'm not saying the owners of our holiday house were control freaks. Heaven forbid. Let's just say they liked to know their priceless collection of porcelain Dutch children (kissing, rowing boats and in risqu poses combining the two) were in safe hands.

Maybe that's why they also insisted on living in a caravan at the bottom of the garden throughout our stay.

Happy holidays!

Updated: 11:15 Monday, September 06, 2004