Two go....?

....CAMPING!!

The opportunity of a long weekend away has arisen towards the end of July. I think, right, get somewhere booked up. Have a bit of a holiday. I set a budget and went about research on the interwebbly. But could I find anything for my budget? Could I cocoa.

Well, the offers were there. But when you actually investigate the offer, you suddenly find yourself caught up in the world of 'having to buy additional extras' or 'all the offers have mysteriously gone, but here's another break exactly the same but twice the price.'

Anyway, after a particularly extensive and headache-making search yesterday lunchtime(in between trying to read a bit of The French Lieutenant's Woman and sorting out the A level poetry choices from an extremely hefty anthology called The Rattle Bag) I suddenly thought, or perhaps my naughty Guardian Angel put the thought in my mind, why not buy a tent and go camping???

I mean, it's got to be a better experience than when I last went camping thirty-plus years ago, surely? Surely it's all high-tech light-weight breathable fabrics and electric hook-ups nowadays? No half-tonne stiff 'n' stinky canvas monstrosity that smells of wet cow if you don't air it regularly and toilet blocks that involve industrial concrete and a hole in the ground. Yes, I thought. That's the thing. For the budget, we could purchase a jolly decent tent AND have a few days away AND still have a tent at the end of it ergo perpetuating a new Much Malarkey Manor Camping History - a tragi-comedy in the making if ever I heard one.

So I said to Andy when he got home from work, 'Let's buy a tent and go camping!' and he said 'Yes!!' because he is very keen on camping and the only tent he's convinced me to enter in the last 7 years has been the marquee we had at our wedding.

Thus we spent a very excitable evening on the interwebbly exploring and evaluating a variety of tents. Little pod ones that you throw into the air and they 'POP' themselves into shape and land on the grass, voila! Or plummet over a cliff if the wind is high, I guess. HUGE twelve people jobbies that probably require their own erection team (no sniggering at the back please). Green ones, orange ones, some as big as your head. So many to choose from. I had only one stipulation - that it had two sleeping spaces or 'bedrooms' as they are known in camping parlance. Andy had only one stipulation - that he could stand up inside it without the top rubbing his head and incurring comedy static. We measured the inflatable airbed to make sure it would fit. Some manufacturers have very odd ideas about how much space is reasonable sleeping space.

And finally we whittled it down to the Outwell Winnipeg 600, which sounds like a motorbike but isn't. It's a 3 room tunnel tent and comes in a smart striped pattern (blue). It has a rain safe door and Sealed Ground System which is ESSENTIAL for keeping bugs and dirt at bay - apparently. It has large panorama windows and a hydrostatic head of 3,000mm which means it can withstand a lot of rain. Well, hurrah for that! Also, there is a You-tube clip which shows you how to put it up. And even better still, it was £130 off in the sale!

The tent is now in our possession. We are about to have a go at putting it up in the back garden. I expect the chickens will help...

Have they gone yet?

'Have they gone yet?'
'I don't think so. I can still hear the wails of an angst ridden soul emanating from the bathroom.'
'Why does she do that do you think?'
'Blowed if I know. She should try eating a few worms. Then she' d know true suffering.'
'And do I have to type this with a cat on my lap?'
'No. Kick her off...'

Yooowwllllllllll............pfffsttttt....pffttt....

'Look,' says Miggins. 'If you two are going to hijack the Manor blog for a week whilst Andy and Denise are on holiday, you've got to be subtle.'
'Subtle? I don't do subtle,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'So I see,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Your hat says it all. Who kicked the cat?'
'She did!' say Pumphrey and Slocombe, pointing accusatory wings at each other.
'Or possibly Mrs Bennett from beyond the grave,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Don't you be dragging Mrs Bennett into this. She would NEVER kick a cat,' says Miggins. 'Her legs were far too short for a start.'

An awkward silence ensues. Upstairs, the wailing has stopped and been replaced by the far more cheerful sounds of someone singing 'Dancing in the Moonlight,' and going into the loft to retrieve suitcases.

'Talk about mood swings,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'When are they going?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only Tango Pete called. He wants to know when he can arrive to start setting up the portaloos for 'HenFest 2010.'
'Not until mid-day tomorrow,' says Mrs Miggins. 'They're supposed to be leaving at 10, but you know what she's like. Reckons she's all organised, but then spends an extra half hour running around doing pointless displacement activities like hoovering the cupboard under the stairs or repointing the chimney.'
'Okay,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'I'll call him back and let him know. '
'And you've bribed our chicken sitter?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'All inclusive week to see Michael Buble in concert seven times,' says Miggins. 'The muck will hit the fan only when the credit card bill arrives, and then I say we meld into the background until the shouting is over.'
'She'll never suspect us,' sayd Slocombe. 'After all, it's a well known fact that chickens have no idea about how to use a credit card.'
'Quite,' says Miggins.
'Actually, I'm surprised at how well I can manage this keyboard,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Especially now I've got rid of the cat.'
'It's because you've got nimble toes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I have nimble toes, too, but they are more suited to the ballet.'
'Perhaps I should develop a career in keyboarding,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'There's no such thing,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Really?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'What am I thinking of then?'
'Snowboarding?' suggests Mrs Pumphrey.
'Ironing boarding?' says Mrs Miggins, who, quite frankly, would like someone else to do the sheets and duvet covers every once in a while.
'No, no,' says Mrs Slocombe. She pauses in her typing to have a think ...

............


...........


'You'll have to start again,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Or we won't get any further.'
'Sorry,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Well, whatever it is I'm trying to think of, I'm sure it will come to me soon. So, HenFest 2010, here we come, eh?'
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I'm very excited. I've got a new head scarf in Parisian Pink chiffon, and a tambourine.'
'And I've left the outside tap running so we'll have a good pile of mud,' says Mrs Miggins.

Upstairs, the sound of suitcases being dropped fromt the loft hatch has stopped.

'What's she doing now?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Decanting shampoo, conditioner, shower gel and moisturiser into handy travel-size bottles,' says Mrs Miggins.

'The sign of a deranged mind in need of a good holiday,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey.
'Exactly,' says Mrs Miggins. 'But at least they can go away knowing Much Malarkey Manor will be in good hands. Or rather wings.'
'Is that a good thing?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Of course!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Just you wait and see.'

Camper Vanning

We are umming and aahing about getting a camper van. A volkswagen camper van for two.

'You won't be able to stand up in it,' I said to Andy, aware of his wont to bang his head on things in general, let alone low slung camper van ceilings. 'But we could get an awning to attach to the side. You'll be able to stand up in that.'

I'm not keen on awnings having spent many a caravan holiday in the 70s stuck in one with my brother whilst our sister lived it up inside the caravan on the bunk beds. He trod on my little travel alarm one year and broke the hinge. I was livid. I was sure he'd done it deliberately but I couldn't prove it. I mean, it was safely tucked under my camp bed. How could someone had stood on it there unless they had very big feet or the intent to commit a deliberate act of vandalism?

The consensus of opinion re: VW camper vans seems to be 'don't buy one. Get a Peugot/Ford /Toyota instead.' Of all the people we've consulted on this issue, none have actually given us a solid reason why we shouldn't get a VW; they have merely made random coughing grumbling sounds that mean nothing. So until someone says to me 'Don't buy a VW Camper because it is a well-known fact that the bottoms fall out of them after six months/ the stove will explode if you go over 30 miles an hour/they have a habit of migrating back towards their native Germany,' then I am going to continue my investigations regardless.

You see, the house we are hoping to buy is considerably cheaper than the house we are hoping to sell. Which means we can either a) pay a big chunk off the mortgage or b) go on a spending spree e.g buy a camper van. Of course, this is all circumspection at the moment. I'm sitting here, having spent most of this morning giving the house a once over tidy 'n' clean (after my deep clean 'n' chuck out efforts last week) in anticipation of people coming to view. All the little 'just jobs' that we've been meaning to do for the last three or four years have been done. Actually, I was thinking, as I finished off a bit of paintwork, it wouldn't matter if we didn't sell because the house is looking rather fab at the moment.

Anyway, back to the potential camper van purchase. We'd already explored caravans earlier in the year when I happened upon a new model on the British market called a T@B. It is like a little teardrop and is very cute - a pod made for two. It could also double up as an extra bedroom for visitors, provided we secured it to the drive so the visitors didn't wake in the morning to find they'd been stolen by thieves during the night and were now in Amsterdam or Cherbourg.

But again, I was slightly against getting a caravan. Not because of the actually living in one, because my childhood summers were often spent in caravans and one of my greatest joys was pumping the water up into the sink using the manual peddle pump or being allowed to light the gas lamps, but because of the moving it around the countryside malarkey because you knew you'd always meet something bigger and less flexible coming the other way and your dad would end up having an argument about rights of way with some stranger in the middle of a single lane bridge. Also, I used to hate it when you'd be travelling along the motorway with your Eldis or whatever chugging along behind you and a lorry would whoop past causing massive drag and wobble. I had visions of being sucked beneath the lorry and dragged along the road, the caravan being crushed like an aluminium drink can.

So a camper van seemed the obvious practical alternative. No bigger than the people carrier we currently own, but with infinitely more character and the ability to provide a cup of tea a darn sight cheaper than a motorway service station. And other camper vans we've looked at seem so, well, boring by comparison. All boxy and charmless.

Yes, I can see us with a VW camper. But then again I used to be able to see us living in a gated mansion with 200 acres.

Sometimes dreams aren't as grand as you first imagined them to be. Sometimes you realise that it actually takes very little to bring happiness and peace into your life. Sometimes, less really is more.

Entertaining Andy

Today marks the start of Andy's holiday week. Well, it will be when he comes home from doing a Saturday morning shift. It's only his second week's holiday since before Christmas and I intend that he shall not be giving work a second thought.

This morning, he was awake at 5.30. So was I, but during the summer this is the norm for me. I am failing to be fooled by the black-out blind recently installed in the bedroom - all it does is make me think the weather is a bit grim when, in truth, when the curtains are drawn, I am met with blazing sunshine.
'It's no good!' says Andy, suddenly leaping out of bed. 'I've got to look up something that's been bothering me.'
'What's that?' I say. 'Tell me, I might know.'
'What island was Icarus born on?' says Andy, one leg in and one leg out and wobbling perilously with tiredness. (Was it Icarus? Or Odysseus? Why do all Greek myth names sound the same? Why can't they be called Basil and Dave?)
'Ithaka,' I said, which was either an inspired memory recall or a complete shot in the dark, I haven't yet worked out which yet. I, personally, like to think that Odysseus/Icarus founded Ibiza and had a nightclub named Helios filled with hostesses called Athena.
'ITHAKA! That's it!' yells Andy, and flomps back into bed.
'I'll make a cup of tea,' I say. I think, he's worrying about Greek mythology. Should I call a doctor?

Downstairs, whilst waiting for the water jug to do its filtering, I go into the garden and do chicken duties. I think, 'I'll do watering duties whilst I'm out here,' then wish I hadn't because the legs of my jim-jams get soaked through via wild hose pipe shenanagins and I have to dry them with the hair dryer whilst the tea is brewing.
'I need to stop Andy thinking about work this week,' I say out loud.
'Is she talking to us?' says Pandora.
'No, she is talking to herself again,' says Tybalt. 'But she will tell people that she is talking to us. We are what are called 'insanity scapegoats'.
'Ooooooh,' squeals Pandora, 'I've always wanted to be a goat,' and she does some goat-like prancing whilst Tybalt stares resignedly at the ceiling wondering when the tiny weirdo cat is going home.

It was bad enough last night, this worrying about work thing. Andy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
'I'm not tired now,' he said, where one hour earlier he had been struggling to stay awake. It can't be the telly, I think. We'd been watching 'Doc Martin' which is hardly high action, brain frizzing stuff. I like it because it is light, entertaining wind-down, feel-good TV like 'The Darling Buds of May'. (I'm also rather fond of Martin Clunes who was my second choice of hubby after Andy.)

'You're thinking about work, aren't you?' I say.
'No,' says Andy.
'Aren't you???' I persist.
'Yes,' says Andy.
'Tell me,' I say. 'And I'll sort it out.'
'I have to write the practice protocols for treating dogs with heart conditions,' says Andy.

Well, as you know I am a writer!
'Simple pimple,' I say. 'Here is my protocol.'

1)If your dog has a slow heartbeat, put it in a cage with a cat and that will liven it up.
2) If your dog has a fast heartbeat...

'...remove the cat from the cage?' interrupts Andy.
'Don't interrupt,' I say. 'I am writing an important veterinary protocol.'
'Soz,' says Andy. 'Do carry on.'

3) If you have to lie on the floor to hear your dog's heartbeat, it is either lying down too, or a chihuahua
4)If you can't hear a heartbeat, your dog is dead.

'There,' I say. 'Job done.' And I smile because I am happy that I've lightened Andy's work load, if only in a small way.
'If you need any more protocols writing, let me know,' I say. 'It's not unlike writing department policies at school. I wrote some GREAT department policies when I was teaching.'
'I'll bet you did,' says Andy.
'My department self-evaluation form, or SEF, as us pros call it, was stuff of legends and fiction,' I say.
'Hush now,' says Andy.

By the time I get back upstairs with the tea and still damp jim-jam bottoms I have made a mental list entitled 'Things I Need To Keep Andy Entertained This Week, Thus Preventing Him From Thinking About Work.' Or TINTKAETWTPHFTAW'. (I might need to work on the title - even the acronym doesn't work very well.)

Here is the list:
1) all food beginning with 'ch' - chocolate, chips, chicken, cheese, chipolatas, chilli
2) DVD box sets of Doctor Who, Hustle, Seinfeld, Buffy the Slapper and The Sky At Night
3) A variety of flour with which to make a myriad selection of bread - Andy has already informed me he is going to work his way through the River Cottage Bread Book this week
4) A pair of clown trousers
5) A funny wig
6) A treadmill for comedy impersonations of Ronnie Corbett falling over in Peter Kaye's version of 'Amarillo'
7) A musical score of the entire works of Oscar and Hammerstein
8) A big sign saying 'STOP WORRYING ABOUT WORK!' writ large in purple crayon

Wish me luck!!