Thursday, 18 May 2017

Rainy days and Mondays...

It's just what you want to see when you are a new convertible owner....a rainy day reminiscent of Noah.  Not to worry, knowing our British summers, there will be plenty of opportunities to get my top down as it were.  I am anticipating a couple of hours during August and a late afternoon mid-September if I'm lucky.  If it doesn't ever stop raining, I'm going to go to my local multi storey car-park and drive around the levels with the roof down.  Desperate times, and all that,

Driving into Binland this morning, the noise on the soft roof reminded me of a particularly challenging camping holiday in Cornwall several years ago.  I don't think that any of our children have ever forgiven us for that week. Never mind buckets and spades, our first stop was Trago Mills for seven pairs of wellies and waterproofs.  The husband's sister Mrs W was with us for that week, and I'm not sure she's even got over it yet.  This is surprising, as she is from the north and is used to the rain and cold (I'm anticipating a rude call from her later today after this comment).  

The week peaked around day six, when son number two who was sharing our tent, went down with a sickness bug.  I spent that last night in the shower block with him, which wasn't too bad actually as it was warm and dry.  The tent was a write off though for obvious reasons.  I still remember how the morning we left dawned bright and sunny. How we laughed watching the steam rising from our tent....

Not all our camping expeditions were that bad.   Some involved cider which always helps, while others featured hiding from a vest wearing, tattoo covered woman who was hunting me down as daughter number two had punched her daughter.  Deservedly it materialised.  Racism has no place in our home, be that a brick one, or the one held together with a few plastic pipes and some string.  Anyway, she followed me into the shower block one afternoon, and I had to hide in a cubicle while she whistled 'Is this the way to Amarillo?'  As the sound finally faded into the distance, it was finally safe to emerge, making another poor lady, who had assumed that my cubicle was out of order, jump out of her dressing gown.  Happy days...

I mentioned the cider, and this featured strongly through the camping holidays.  The husband made the mistake of leaving me in charge of son number two while he took the three older ones potholing.  While he was gone, I stumbled across a cider tasting shop. Half an hour later having tried all they had on offer, the husband found me on a bench slumped over the pushchair clutching a plastic 10 litre container of the best cider Cheddar could offer, while son number two beat me over the head with a cuddly Pooh Bear.

As I said, happy days...


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