somewhere over the rainbow

Dear Marianne,

We are selling the camper van, known to all the family as Rainbow George (no reference to the crazy man who sold his house in Hampstead to fund a comeback for crooner Ronnie Carroll). When we bought the van four years ago there was a happy consensus amongst six of us that Rainbow was a nice name for a nice colourful camper van, but Archie was in a dark Green Day- type mood, so that we had to affix his suggested George to the end of Rainbow, or else.

Anyway, we have to let go of the beloved Rainbow George, - top speed 54mph going downhill with a following wind – because he is dying, actually I think he’s dead. So that when I say selling the van, I mean giving the van away, to a bloke called Paul who has hands the width of my head, which are always covered in oily stuff; he is a real man’s man. He is also a camper van man, he has six kids and a wife, who I suspect has forgotten what he looks like from the ankles up, – he spent a year doing up his bay window camper van circa 1970 (so no need for road tax), replacing the seals, welding the axle, moving the sink… we had a long chat. You too would know that these are important details if you had a camper van, you would also know that when you are on the road in a “dub”, you have to wave at other camper van drivers despite your innate English reserve which makes you want to hide, not wave. Paul, the camper van man drove his ancient beauty to the South of France with wife and kids and a spare engine along for the ride, not necessarily in that order I fear; crazy man! (I mean that in the sense of crazzeee maaaann, and not, mad bastard).

I will miss the rust on wheels that Rainbow George has become, because he was a complete unnecessary luxury which we all enjoyed. We loved the fact that we always had a queue of cars behind us when we went cross country, we loved the fact that there was only one seat belt in the back and room for the kids to roam (it was Russian roulette in reverse for them every time we went out). I loved the fact that when I was hippopotamusly pregnant with Mike I had to get help from Craig to turn the wheel, I loved the fact that we couldn’t get anywhere fast, I loved the fact that one day the gear stick came off in my hands as I was parking, I loved the fact that another day the sliding door slid right off its hinges and into the car behind, I loved the fact that everyone laughed at it but really wanted to go in it, and I loved the fact that the head of our local residents association complained about it because it was, well… a camper van.

This is the point you see, it isn’t just a rusty old thing, it represents a world which the chairmen of local residents associations don’t seem to care for, it provides you with all those things you are expected to feel and to enjoy when you are young and to give up when you are adult. It reminds me of camping, my mum’s orange lipstick, purple wallpaper, white wood furniture, bean bags, paisley shirts, flowery skirts and life in the slow lane. We didn’t own a camper van, my parent’s couldn’t afford one of those cool dude cars, we had a Renault bread van with the funny gear stick at nose height, windows cut in the sides and wood panels built over the wheels for seats. All five of us would be in the back, sometimes six when Dad got nervous (which was often), and he would join us in the back just so he could hold on to the door, I suppose in case a freak typhoon should rip it off and we would all fall out and die. I can laugh about it now, but I’m sure it was the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was nineteen.

It was actually Candy Thomas who owned a yellow and white camper van, well her parent’s owned it, and she just bathed in the reflected glory of the beautiful beast. Candy Thomas was the coolest thing in junior school, I wasn’t sure why, maybe because she had lived in Africa, (I considered Redhill exotic then), her brother was very sweet and sexy, her parents were hippy and groovy, and they had a camper van. I can’t quite remember now why I chucked Candy over for Christine when we had to choose partners for milk duty, but I think deep down I knew that Candy’s camper van set her apart from me. Now, my camper van, which sets me apart, has to go, and with it those moments of freedom, fun and carelessness. In a move heavy with a sense of masochism, we have replaced it with a second hand Rover 400 with fake wood trim and everything, and now instead of sitting up high in Rainbow George, I receive a knowing nod of acceptance frm the chairman of the Residents’ Association.
Help me Marianne - I don’t want to grow up - if it’s not too late I think I will see if I can get my van back from Paul, and then maybe I could convince the chairman to pull us along in it in the Rover.

Rx