Family Holidays Part One: Journey and Arrival

So, as I stagger towards the end of term (I've always thought that Gok Wan's efforts would be much more profitably spent on a series called 'How to Teach Good Knackered') I begin to reflect on that greatest of oxymorons 'The Family Holiday'.
The majority of my childhood/teenage holidays involved the caravan, trekking off with my parents and two brothers to various corners of the UK and France towing this mobile torture cell, sorry I mean 'home' behind us. If it was ever in front of us then we knew we were in trouble.
As we know, every holiday begins with the journey. Now, I am sure that this points to a huge character flaw in me, possibly even a personality disorder, but when I'm going somewhere I just like to get there. The less time spent in the car/air/train/sunshine community minibus the better. Unfortunately my father does not share my point of view, preferring to take his time, stop every hour and shun major roads. Don't forget, these were the days before Sat Nav so we would spend many a happy afternoon getting lost on country roads with pensioners on push bikes overtaking us and probably covering about 15 miles in the process. On this basis driving down to the South of France could take several days.
Eventually, after days spent in a hot vehicle (no air con in those days) with precious little to do (batteries on 'personal stereo' went flat at Calais) we would arrive at 'Le camping Merde de Cochon' or similar. Great, time to get out, stretch your legs.... Oh no! We children had to remain in the car until dad had 'put the stays down'. To this day I am unsure what exactly this means, but it seemed to take an intolerably long time and involved much bad tempered shouting from Dad and encouragement and placating noises from Mum. We would finally be allowed in to the inner sanctum, with stern warnings to take our shoes off. The kettle would go on, tea would be made and for a few glorious moments all would be well with Famille Bennett. It would, dear reader, be all too short-lived...

Speaking Naarfolk

If you ever find yourself in this part of the world (i.e. If your Sat Nav has broken down) then you may find you need some help with understanding basic phrases. Here are a few you may hear when out and about.

• Yew nart frum roun hair? - You haven't yet lived in Norfolk for 40 years.
• Thassa roite noice traactur yew gort thair - I like your farm machinery.
• Get orf moy laand - I think you are trespassing old chap.
• Ah yew gunna warch Naarch? - Will you be attending the next Norwich City Match?
• Oim garn up tarn. Yew cummun? - I'm going into the city. Would you like to accompany me?
• Dew watta bare? - Would you like some alcoholic refreshment?
• Moy hatta loive! - Goodness me! (my heart alive)
• That tayk bout an aar. - You'll be travelling for approximately 60 minutes.
• Oi doont loike nunna that forrun muck - I only eat English food.
• Oi hint gotta naarfak axunt- I don't talk like a yokel.

Sat Nav

Living round these rural parts Sat Nav can be invaluable but it can also leave you incredulous that a machine could be so stupid. I often wonder if there is a national conspiracy to leave Norfolk off GPS systems so that we natives just end up driving around the county in a pleasantly befuddled manner but never actually get to escape!
On one occasion I was out in the car with my young son and was getting particularly frustrated with the polite but rather frosty tone the Sat Nav lady was taking with me. The longer she persisted with her erroneous instructions the more fed up I got, until eventually I shouted at her "Shut up you daft cow!". She did...for several miles....and then for a few more.
In the back of the car my little boy was getting worried. "Mummy, you've upset the lady. You need to say sorry", he pleaded. And so it was that I found myself, lost in the depths of Norfolk, apologising to a small grey box. Amazingly she did start speaking again after that, and we eventually found our way home! Definitely a Normal for Norfolk moment.