holiday...celebrate!

Dear Marianne,

Seven days to go until the school term begins, yes actually I am counting. Today lasted about four days, so the next six are going to be really rough. I have things planned of course, including: friends, family, London, swimming, sleepovers and even though I said I wouldn’t, the purchasing of cheap, brightly coloured crap from Woolworths. Next year we are going to go away in the summer holidays even if it kills, maims or just slightly damages me, we are going somewhere. Then the kids can say: “we went away here” and “we did this”, and I can also say to them: “we went away here” and “we did this, and that is why we're not doing anything for the next four weeks."
We have spent more time, money and energy on not going away, than we would have done doing the grand tour.

My parents took us camping every year. That is how we got a holiday, with five kids and not much money. We went camping in Weymouth, Plymouth, Littlehampton, and even in Croydon. Now I know that doesn’t sound believable, but honestly we did, and, not only was it Croydon, we weren’t even in a field on the nice edgy bits of the Town, we camped in my Auntie’s back garden on a really heavy council estate in Addiscombe. The local children used to burn down my Aunts fence on a regular basis, shout abuse at my cousin who is autistic, and generally make their life hell. My uncle was confined to a wheelchair, so what with all that and us in the back garden in a bloody tent, we might as well have hung a sign on the front door reading: “weirdos and vulnerable people live here please attack”. My other cousin, Bruno, the ballet dancer (I know, I know!), eventually saw the gang off by taking a large wooden mallet to the biggest nutters head – oh happy days.

Anyway, camping. It’s great for kids and absolutely horrible for parents, I know this because I have been camping with my kids and they loved it and I hated it. I now truly understand my Dad’s contempt for the whole thing. I have an image of him in his dirty man raincoat, banging in tent pegs in the driving rain and trying to keep the top thingy (see I learned nothing) from flying away in gale force winds. He was and is a gentle man who is usually very funny and contented, but “on holiday” he was absolutely miserable. He never shouted at us our whole lives, unless we were “on holiday”, and then it was a constant stream of aggressively delivered orders: “Somebody give me pole A, who’s got bolt C? Keep the flap zipped, get your things away from the sides of the tent, mind the gaz, mind the other gaz, Nick stop laughing, Rachel stop moaning, of course it’s dark we’re in a bloody field!”

Camping isn’t for the faint hearted, and my parents were even more cavalier than most. I have friends who go away with their three teenage children on holidays all over the world and don’t book their accommodation until they arrive at their destination. They think that’s crazy man, check this out. My parents drove to Plymouth with five children under 12 and never booked a camping site, not once. So we often ended up on sites with “dry toilets” –that’s not a toilet then is it - or dead animals – honestly we a found a dead cow once - and I shall never forget the farm we stayed on which had no campers but us, in a field that had no facilities at all, and gave you a choice of cow pat or nettle to walk on to get to the safety of the car. That was the same summer that Nick got the shits and spent a couple of nights with his arse hanging over the edge of a stream, with Dad in attendance. Nick was very stoic though, and the only signs of his misery were the streamers of loo roll flying from the hedge the next morning, that, and the haunted look on Dad’s face.

I’m trying now to remember what it was that was so enjoyable about sitting in three layers of clothing (including a jumper) in a not very rainproof tent, with rain thumping on the roof, eating frankfurters and rice, filling in puzzle books and playing cards with older sisters who always won, by the 20 watt light of a gas lamp whilst Mum painted her toenails and Dad stomped about outside looked at the gathering storm clouds, worried, double checked the guy ropes(why are they called guy ropes?) and worried some more. I can only conclude that what made it enjoyable for us was that we weren’t at home, we were away, and all these things we did when we were camping were enjoyable because they were different from everything we did for the rest of the year; we were “on holiday” and whatever Dad said, it was great. His consolation of course was knowing that when we all got back home and his five children were bored again, he could remind us that: “we have been away” and “we have done this, so we're not doing anything for the next four weeks.”

Rx