"I'd get back in the car now", said the friendly ranger to me from the relative safety of her land-rover, adding helpfully, "...just in case the rhinos decide to charge".
This was yesterday, three days into our holiday. On the way to Bewdley Safari Park I had been musing about my five holiday predictions (http://normalfornnorfolk.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/five-predictions-about-our-holiday.html) and thinking how badly I had done. None of them had come to fruition so far. Geof was in disgustingly good health, Bryn was enjoying himself despite having said that the highlight of the holiday so far had been driving past Daventry on the M6, and my moderate wine consumption could have put me in the running for Band of Hope Queen. Little did I know that the holiday gremlin was just round the corner and that everything was about to change.
The day began happily enough as we set off on our trip round the safari park, looking at the lions and giraffes from the comfort of our vehicle. After a while the traffic slowed to a standstill whilst people ahead stopped to take photos of the animals. At this point I did what I thought was the sensible thing and turned off the ignition. When I tried to re-start a few moments later it was dead. Nothing. I tried a few more times. Same result. By now Bryn was starting to get agitated in the back of the car. We were stuck in the 'fast lane' at the safari park and could not budge. I stuck my hazard lights on and people started to undertake us and go past us on the grass to the right. This went on for some 20 minutes or so until we finally managed to attract the attention of a passing ranger. From the back seat I distinctly heard the words 'This is the worst holiday EVER', from number one son. Result! Numbers 1 and 3 of my list covered without so much as breaking a sweat. Jump leads were radioed for but by now Geof had managed to roll the car down the hill and get it to start. Later on in the day I managed to smash my beloved phone out of existence and was told a new handset would be over £300! I could probably get a small property in Albania for that. How can something so small cost that much?
My car doesn't start unless it's running down a hill, I have a £10 phone which doesn't even have a camera and have lost all my contacts and my 8 year old is mutinying ...and so prediction no.5 came to pass...
So, today we are off on holiday to Shropshire also calling in on the Land of my Fathers (or in my case mother) at some point. Based on previous experience I should like to make the following predictions. When we get back next weekend I shall let you know how many were correct.
1. Something will go wrong with the car - previous mishaps have included a puncture, car refusing to start and scraping it against a pillar.
2. Geof will be ill.
3. We will have an argument over directions. I drive, Geof navigates and likes what he calls 'short cuts'. I prefer to call it 'getting lost'.
4. At some point Bryn will say 'This is the worst holiday EVER'.
5. I will get through a lot of wine.
There will be very little internet access most of the time we are away so this may be it for a week or so. In the meantime do keep looking over my old posts. I am sure the holiday will provide me with plenty of new material for my return!
My blog is 4 weeks old today! So, to celebrate I am re-publishing my favourite post so far.
Many people do actually come to Norfolk on purpose, to live or for a holiday, but there are special training courses to go on before you take this step. However, there are stories of folk ending up here by accident, without following any previous acclimatisation programme or learning the language. All it takes is one wrong turn on the M11... (M - that's a motorway for any real Norfolk readers).
Here are a few ways for the un-trained to tell if they have ended up in Norfolk.
1. The surrounding terrain will become flatter than a Latvian gymnast's chest. (sorry Svetlana)
2. You will be able to see nothing but rows of cabbages or possibly sugar-beet for miles. We like growing things round here. It's what we do best. In fact, it's the only thing we do.
3. The people around you will begin to look a bit strange. Don't worry. This is not you starting to lose your mind and hallucinate (yet), this is due to centuries of in-breeding. Our 'Family Trees' don't fork much here. 'Family Trunks' would be more accurate.
4. You may witness some odd behaviour too. Again, this is due to in-breeding and is a well documented affliction known by the acronym NFN - Normal for Norfolk.
5. People will stare at you and point, especially if you are in a motorised vehicle which has not been designed for farming purposes. We are not really used to foreigners round these parts.
6. You will hear what sounds like a foreign language being spoken. This might be 'Naarfak' but it could equally be Polish.
7. You will drive through lots of towns with 'markets', especially if it is a Thursday (or thuuursdee). They are not worth getting out of the car for selling only cheap clothing, pet supplies and flimsy wrapping paper.
8. People will be dressed predominantly in green and yellow. Do not be alarmed. These are simple, harmless individuals known as 'Norwich City Supporters'. They should be treated with kindness.
N.B. If people are wearing blue and white then you are probably still in Suffolk. It is safe to leave your vehicle and seek help.
Above all, if you think you may have strayed into Norfolk DO NOT PANIC. A good rule of thumb is not to follow signs to places you can't pronounce like Guist, Happisburgh or Costessey. Do not be fooled if you see directions to 'Little London'. It has three houses and a post box. If you are in the north of the county you could see signs for 'New York' and 'Boston'. Turn your car around. You are in danger of going into Lincolnshire and may never be heard of again.
...and so the day would arrive when it was time to go home. By now there would have been so much rain that a local farmer would be called upon to tow us off the site and we would bid farewell to 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon' with mixed feelings (of joy and ecstasy). Armed with nothing but a personal stereo, some new batteries and a 'Best of Meatloaf' cassette I would settle back and resign myself to the journey ahead. This would invariably include a breakdown somewhere near Limoges(the car, not the passengers amazingly) giving me even longer to reflect on all the new phrases I had learnt over the fortnight such as...
'Merde alors, tu pues!' (Bloody Hell, you stink)
'Tu n'as pas entendu parler de savon?' (Haven't you heard of soap?) and my personal favourite
'Le mec anglais sur l'emplacement numéro 38 est complètement fou' The English bloke on pitch 38 is completely mad.
(Please forgive the errors - bit rusty - de savon or du savon?)
We would eventually arrive back in England to find that they had been experiencing the hottest, weather for decades whilst we'd been away, and that the whole country was walking around looking tanned and gorgeous. Still, at least we were back and it was all over for another year. I could have a shower, sleep alone again and set about tracing my real parents.
So, once the evening meal was over came those fateful words 'We need to make the bed up'. Now, this had to wait until the evening meal was over for the simple reason that the table formed the main base of the afore-mentioned bed. The bedding was retrieved from the cupboards (which were underneath the seats), the table collapsed and the cushions arranged to make a nice, comfortable, King Size bed. Lovely, nothing wrong with that, until you remember that I have two brothers and all three of us had to sleep in this space.
OK, here's the thing. When we first got the caravan we were 7, 9 and 11 and this arrangement was fine. We were small, there was plenty of space, and it wasn't in direct contravention of any EU laws regarding right and proper sleeping arrangements. Fast forward several years and you are presented with a very different and altogether less satisfactory scenario. Now, we were not the kind of children who had cool parents who allowed you to go off on holiday with your friends once you reached your mid teens. Oh no, we were still doing this aged 13, 15 and 17. I kid you not. Whilst this kind of behaviour might be acceptable, dare I say practically obligatory in parts of Norfolk, it is probably more frowned upon in other more sophisticated sectors f society.
So it was that I would settle down for the night with one brother prone to talking in his sleep and the other singing along tunelessly to Buddy Holly (I told you we weren't cool) on his personal stereo.
We would be woken at some ungodly hour the following morning by Dad grinding coffee by hand for his breakfast. Remember last night and having to clear the table before you could make the bed? Well, in the morning we had to get up before breakfast could be served.
All you wanted to do, as a teenage girl, following a stuffy night spent in the warm embrace of her younger brother was to have a shower and make herself look presentable for all those gorgeous French boys who were also staying at 'Le Camping Merde de Cochon'.
Memories of what I am about to recount can, 25 years on, cause me to cry real tears of pain and embarrassment. I know I have a few Psychiatrist/Physchologist friends reading this blog. If any of you could come up with an effective form of therapy for dealing with trauma suffered as a result of holidays then I would gladly try it. You could call it S.H.I.T - Sian's Holiday Intensive Therapy. Boy, would it need to be intensive. You see, my dad had bought a caravan with its own toilet and shower cubicle and for this reason was loathe to go to a site with any 'facilities'. Unfortunately he was also loathe to let us use the shower in the caravan. End result - you were allowed to have a shower 2 or 3 times during a 2 week holiday. When I say a shower what I actually mean is a dribble of water, tepid at best, cold at worst standing in a space which is smaller than the surface area of an average TV. Everyone in the caravan knew if you were using the water as the pump made the most god-awful noise, akin to a cow going through a particularly difficult labour. If you ran the pump for more than a few seconds Dad would be shouting through the door for you to turn it off.
Needless to say I never did pull on any of those family trips to France.
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...
I find myself awake at stupid o'clock this morning, a time usually only experienced in any meaningful sense by shift workers and small infants. Speaking of small infants, I am taken back to the days when Bryn was tiny and 5.30 am was considered a lie in and you knew it was going to be a bad day if the baby had woken you up before the CBeebies channel had come on air.
There could be many reasons for my current bout of sleeplessness: clammy nights, feeling hungry, things on my mind. However, on this particular day I like to think that I have woken up in sympathy with my colleagues who, as I write, are setting off for Germany with 35 excited teenagers. I myself have been on this trip a number of times but, more recently, have gone over to the dark side and accompanied the Spanish jollies (let's face it, that's what all you non-teachers think they are!) instead. On the last German trip two years ago we had literally been on the road (or to be more accurate, the school drive) for 20 seconds when one 13 year old girl threw up over herself and her (ex) friend. At this early stage of the trip I was still feeling reasonably fresh and enthusiastic and so set about cleaning up the mess. If anyone thinks teachers have an easy job then they should try cleaning up someone else's child's vomit on a moving coach. The novelty will soon wear off I can assure you.
...and so it was that I earned myself the (unpaid) title of 'Teacher in charge of Vomit'. Later on in the trip, the lack of fruit served at the hotel necessitated the addition of 'constipation' and 'rickets' to my responsibilities. All in day's work!
