Countdown to camping

In a few days time we will be driving to France to go camping. The children are beside themselves with excitement and so too is my husband, who has spent the last few years trying to convince me to embark on this fun-loving holiday. My excitement levels are low in comparison, verging more on utter panic at the thought of living in a confined space with a whole host of other merry campers in the middle of the summer holidays. And what if it rains? I have been busy logging on to weather forecasts praying for sunshine but not too hot of course. I cannot even begin to contemplate the thought of being cooped up in a ‘static home with decking’ watching the rain pour down outside.

My excitement levels are also lacking due to the huge amount to do in the days leading up to the holiday. Added to the daily household family chores, there are clothes to wash, iron and lay out ready for packing. Needless to say, the children have a regular rummage through them, excitedly trying on swimming costumes and pulling on armbands. The dogs too have to be packed for, ready for their holiday down the road at Granny’s. Unfortunately, the Puppy is going through a particularly tricky phase and displaying all the signs of canine ADHD (I promise to embark on training when I return). My mother is in the midst of a kitchen extension, so is distinctly unenthusiastic about the grand-dogs arriving.

Meanwhile, I continue with my mammoth house clean, sorting through cupboards, changing sheets and washing towels. I never quite understand my rather neurotic desire to return to an immaculate house, but on this occasion the thought of my crisp, white cotton sheets might just help me to survive the camp.

Thankfully, my husband decides to take two days holiday leading up to our Dorset departure offering some much needed distraction for the children. However, he failed to tell me (until a few moments ago) that he has booked himself on a two day sailing course down at Weymouth although he has pointed out he will be back home in the evenings – just after the children have gone to bed.

Everyone I meet assures me how much I will enjoy my first camping experience. In fact, strangely enough I have not heard of a single bad experience. This makes me a little suspicious. However, I promise to join in with my friendly fellow campers, think of Dorset and keep smiling.

Trip to London

We are sitting having a picnic in Green Park, on a half-term trip to London. My four-year-old son suddenly asks, “Mummy, why are there so many baddies in London?” For a moment, I think he is referring to the national publicity about London’s knife crime and begin to tell him that whilst there are some baddies, there are many more goodies. He pauses for a moment before adding, “But why are the baddies all sitting on benches eating their lunch?” I glance across to look at a mass of men in suits enjoying their sandwiches in the sun. Why does he think they are baddies? “Because they’re wearing black and baddies always wear black.”

Now everything becomes clear. Earlier as we had walked along the busy pavements, he had been careful to step aside when any man in a suit walked past. I had mistaken this for politeness. Actually, he was quite terrified and had convinced himself that anyone wearing a suit was a member of a large London baddy gang.

The three children finish their lunch and bound off into the park to let off some steam, after a morning’s trailing round a museum. They rugby tackle each other to the ground, shrieking and I feel instantly relieved that they are wearing old jeans. However, I am horrified to see The Toddler suddenly whip down his trousers and ‘widdle’ on the grass, much to the amusement of his brother. At that moment, three small girls scoot past him staring. They are dressed in matching floral smocked dresses, their hair neatly held back off their face with velvet hair-bands. Meanwhile, my daughter, with her mass of brown hair unleashed around her face, is busy picking up litter from the ground. The girls’ smartly dressed mother looks aghast as my daughter scoops up old tissues and a crisp packet stuffing them into her coat pocket. “Just leave it,” I shout. “But Mummy, the litter might kill the birds,” she cries.

Suddenly, I hear high pitched screams and see the two boys running towards me terrified. “The big birds are chasing us,” shrieks my son. A small group of pigeons are following behind them, desperately hoping to be fed. With the three children huddled around my legs, I shoo the birds away, much to the amusement of the lunchtime workers. The pigeons refuse to budge and more join them. I fling the Toddler in the buggy and yell, “Run.” We sprint out of the park and return to the safety of our small flat, away from the urban baddies, litter and pigeons.

The fun-fair

Day two of our summer holiday and we discover a child-friendly beach. It has a huge expanse of white sand, public loos nearby and a fish and chip van (farewell sandwiches!). There is also a nice tanned young man who sets up the deckchairs, parasol and windbreaker we have hired. My husband abandons his Blackberry and settles into his newspaper and I catch up on the latest celebrity news in my Heat magazine (it’s a holiday, after all). Suddenly, we hear the tinkling of music.

We turn to see the bright lights of a fun-fair opening its doors for the hords of holiday makers which will soon descend upon us. We glance at each other, wondering whether we can divert the children with a race up the beach in the other direction. No chance. The children jump up and down chanting, “Please, please can we go.” There is no getting out of it. We enter the gates to find merry-go-rounds, dodgems, a helter skelter, crazy golf and dozens of ride-on cartoon characters. The children excitedly scatter in all directions. Predictably, our son eyes up a black racing car, whilst our daughter clambers onto a horse on the merry-go-round. Meanwhile, The Baby leans forward in his buggy, hallucinating with all the bright flashing lights.

Once we have filled our pockets with tokens, we chase after the children waving furiously as they swing past us on trains, cars and boats. It was when we climbed into the dodgems, that I began to rather enjoy myself and judging by my husband’s competitive look in the car opposite, he was too. We revved up our engines and off we flew, sirens ringing out and hooters blowing. My daughter astonished me with her eagerness to hit the boys head on at top speed. Hearts pumping, adrenalin rushing, I then eagerly volunteer to take them on the helter skelter. My husband chuckles when the young teenager taking the tokens for the ride, looks me up and down and hands me two mats, saying, “It might be more comfortable for you missy.” Charming. We climb to the top of the slide and the children are terrified. “Don’t be ridiculous – it’s only a slide,” I say suddenly feeling sick as I peer over the edge. After further encouragement, they both climb onto my lap and cling on. We gently slide down, but rapidly pick up speed. I shut my eyes, the children start screaming but thankfully we soon come to an abrupt stop at the bottom. I open my eyes to find a group of smiling parents, including my husband, looking down at me chuckling. I am sitting with the two children clinging to my waist, and my skirt somwhere up around my ears. Unamused and highly embarassed, I jump up, smooth down my skirt and grab the children by the hands saying, “Now, where’s the Candy Floss.”

Bank holiday weekend

Bank Holiday weekend, the sun is out and the children are excited about their Daddy being at home. I am excited too. I have spent the past few days carefully drawing up a long list of jobs that my husband is uniquely qualified to do. Painting, clearing out the shed, replacing the numerous halogen bulbs that have blown, washing the car, mowing the lawn and making several trips to the Rubbish Dump, along with every other father in North Dorset. However, the children have a different list in mind which includes making camps, going to Cool Play, lunch in the pub followed by watching the ‘Shaun the Sheep’ DVD.

Saturday morning begins at 6am, an hour earlier than usual, with the pitter patter of feet along the corridor and into our bedroom. We desperately drag out the next hour by hauling a huge wooden box of cars onto our bed, much to the delight of our three-year-old son who ‘bruuums’ small lorries, tanks and buses across the duvet, over our heads and down our arms. The small cold wheels driving across our skin did not have quite the same effect as a massage with warm stones but at least we are still in the comfort of our bed. After the usual discussion over who is going to get out of bed first, the morning routine launches into action.

My husband shouts from the shower, “The water is cold.” Without taking too much notice, I place The List beside his cereal bowl, and decide to cook his favourite English breakfast, to get him in the right mood. Bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato in the grill pan ready for the piping hot Aga. However, not piping hot at all. Stone cold and well and truly off. Trying to remain calm, I say, “Darling, when did you last check the oil?” My husband appears in clothes that definitely don’t shout “gardening” and says, “Not for ages. Why?” He then spends the next few minutes sticking a bamboo cane down the top of the oil tank and calmly declares it empty. It then hits me. Bank Holiday weekend, no heating, no water and no oven. I become hysterical and fly into an almighty panic, while the children dance around the garden in their pyjamas jubilant about the prospect of eating meals out. I walk back into the kitchen subdued at the thought of my carefully planned Piquant chicken and Fondant potatoes replaced with Cheddar cheese sandwiches and Hula Hoops. My list is scattered across the kitchen floor in tiny pieces and as the dog looks up at me, head turned to one side, with a scrap of paper saying “Dump” stuck in its little beard, I realise that this Bank Holiday weekend was not going to go according to plan.