DECEMBER 1998. Provost's Hall, University of West Yorkshire.

Dr. Matthew Crawley, in his 11th year on the economics faculty at the University of West Yorkshire, had gotten a substantial bonus that Christmas from the school's president, Dr. Robert Grantham. Dr. Grantham knew that somehow he was holding a brilliant scholar back from fulfilling his potential - he might have been setting public policy for Britain, but for a teaching post in a middling institution in the North, surely. But Matthew was a devoted family man as well as an academic, with a pretty wife, an eight year old boy, and two daughters, one four years old and the other a toddler just out of nappies.

'You've had a busy year, Matt,' Grantham said, clapping the younger fellow on the shoulder. 'Your book came out, you helped in the search process for Merriman over there. I hope this is enough for a nice, quiet vacation for you, Mary and the kids.'

'This is incredibly generous of you, though, sir,' Matthew said, still reeling inside at the size of a cheque large enough to pay for a prudently managed two week trip to a resort somewhere.

But the elder knew it would be good for the younger, and spoke almost confidentially now:

'You'd like some time off, though, wouldn't you, Crawley? Go ahead. Come back refreshed after spring break! Hug the kids, and say hallo to Mary, there's a good chap. Now off you go home for Christmas. You have just one assignment, to go over holiday brochures.'

'I will, Robert. And thank you so much again!'

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1998

'Rawr! RAWR!' George made a little snarl, making a plastic tyrannosaurus rex chase a somewhat battered action figure (only slightly out of scale) around on the living room carpet. 'You're going to be delicious! Rawwwwrrrr!'

Little Violet Crawley reached for some of the other brightly coloured new toys closest to her brother, knocking down a raptor striped in orange and red and knocking a puce green apatosaurus nearly a foot away, grabbing the grey brachiosaurus by its long neck. George turned his big eyes upon his sister, grabbed the raptor, and glared at her, bringing the trinkets in his hands to face her. He then raised his voice in a louder

'RRRRRAWWWWRRRRRRR!'

Violet began to cry, and little Belle woke up startled from a nap in her dozing mother's arms. Dad had been watching, looking up every so often from the Financial Times.

'George Matthew Crawley, you apologize to your sister this instant,' Matthew insisted in the low, stern tone the lad feared more than any animal noise.

'But, Dad, she took my dinosaur!' came the boy's petulant complaint.

'I mean it, George. I'd rather not take those away for a week so soon after Christmas Day,' Matthew replied evenly.

'Oh, all right. I'm sorry, Violet.'

The little girl's sobbing lessened.

'You pwomise?'

'I promise. You can play with my raptor, too, okay? It's more fun with two.'

Matthew and Mary, pleased with that exchange, filed it in their memories to be discussed after bedtime came.

LATER THAT NIGHT

Now tuckered out enough to retire themselves about 2 hours after they had put the kids to bed, the handsome professor and his main squeeze got under the covers, and then he turned out the lights. Still definitely enough in love that sleepy kisses drizzled over several moments were their way of saying good night, they let themselves sink into each other's arms, engulfed in Egyptian cotton and down.

'Matt?' Mary spoke in a hushed tone.

'Yes, darling?'

'That was very sweet of George to let Violet play with his toys, wasn't it?'

'It was, at that…' he smiled, the warmth of his voice suggesting his expression in the darkness.

'Even if he's been eating, sleeping and breathing dinosaurs ever since that movie came out…'

The one Matthew and Mary had to take their son to because a few of the characters got eaten by those animatronic beasts. They'd liked the approach to the story, though they would have liked more of the moral tale…

'Oh, I can understand raptors, though,' came the husband's sweet tone.

'You do, Dr. Crawley?' his bride of nine years drawled in that appealing, familiar way that never failed to lead him on.

'Yes, indeed... I learned that the word "raptor" comes from the same Latin word as "rapture" does…'

'Yes, darling?'

'… to seize and sweep away. Like a peregrine, like a gyrfalcon, if you prefer.'

'How about like a snuggly creepy-Crawley? I like those kind best...'

'You catch on well...' Matthew observed. 'Now then... rawwwwwwrrrrrrrr. Rawwwwrrrrrrrrrrr... just ... rawwwwwwrrrrrrrrr...'

A honeyed sound, said in happy families like these to mean 'I love you' in dinosaur. Ah, who is the raptor, and who their prey? It is the eternal question...

THE NEXT MORNING

Now, Matt having - eventually - slept on the wonderful possibilities of taking his family on holiday, he looked over some brochures as he drank his morning coffee at half past six, narrowing his choices down to the places that were the most relaxing, the most beautiful and with the most fun in it for the kids.

'Got the flyers out again, I see,' Mary uttered as she brought dry toast, butter and marmalade to the kitchen table. 'Anything stand out from the others?'

'Oh, a couple of nice locations,' Matthew replied. 'I'm thinking Dorset, Devon, maybe Cornwall; on a budget, of course.'

'That's my Matthew. Oh, remember, by the way, school fees are due for George next week.'

'I have it on the calendar, darling.'

'When's our holiday on the calendar, then?'

'In the middle of March, after the winter doldrums set in,' he replied. 'Good time to get away...'

'And George will be on Easter break, and Violet still won't have started school yet. Good,' said Mary. 'We just need to make sure there will be enough for the kids to do.'

A FEW WEEKS LATER

Matthew had decided that they would go to the Heritage Coast, and stay in Lyme Regis, where the Easter Bonnet Parade, an aquarium, a museum, fossil hunting and the Cobb made up a list of major attractions. History and literature also played parts in his choice, as he thought it charming to see places associated with famous authors, Lord Admiral Nelson and the little collie, Lassie. The time was nigh to book a place to stay, and he found a small hotel in the northern part of town, the Seashell Inn. Children were welcome and ate breakfast for free. Why not? He rang up this Mr. Henry Talbot, the proprietor, and got an answer after a few rings.

'763904. Seashell Inn, Tony Gillingham here at your service.'

Easy enough to book a suite for a family of five, and Matthew was able to report to Mary as they did the dishes that night that the Crawleys now had a place to stay in Lyme Regis.