AaarGA 2

"They're taking over and I just can't stop them," wails Vicky, down the phone. "You've got to come and do something."

Five minutes later, I'm in her kitchen, surveying the sea of pink, yellow and chocolate icing that's covering every surface. As I open my mouth to speak, there's the wholesome buzz of an old-fashioned clockwork timer.

"Oh, my God," says Vicky, "It's the next lot."

She pulls on oven gloves, opens the Aga door and pulls out several enormous trays, loaded with buns. "There's nowhere to put them," she says. "And I've run out of muffin tins." She lays them down on the floor and points towards the sink, where baking tins and racks form an ungainly looking pyramid, like a domestic version of the Angel of the North.

"Stop, Vicky," I say. "Sit down. I've brought some wine. I want you to drink it right now."

I pour as I speak. Vicky takes the glass with shaking hands.

"I haven't had a drop of alcohol for days," she says. "Last time I tried, I found myself grinding my own coffee beans instead. And look at that." She gestures to several packets labelled 'Wholemeal organic bread flour.'

"What, home made bread as well?" I ask, amazed.

"Yes. I can't stop myself. And just doing the business with waiting for the dough to rise takes hours. And the children are suffering terribly. They say they can't eat any more cake. They keep leaving stills from the latest McDonalds ads round the house. Yesterday I found them weeping over a picture of nuggets and fries."

We shake our heads sadly.

"I never thought I'd be able to say the word 'traybakes' without laughing. But look at me now."

I do. Her face is perfectly still, apart from a cake crumb that falls like a single tear on to the kitchen table.

"I don't think this one's down to Bad Lindy," I say. "I suspect you may be possessed by Cath Kidston."

"So who do we get to do the exorcism."

"I don't know," I say, looking at the Aga again. "But it may need to be somebody with an arc welder and a Corgi certificate."