As a three year old, Bryn turned to me and asked very seriously, "Mummy, if you could have one wish what would it be?" I was just weighing up in my mind the relative merits of world peace and an end to child poverty when he piped up, "I bet it would be hair-free legs wouldn't it?" At the time I laughed, but if he asked me the same question today then a lack of body hair would feature fairly high on my wish list.
You see, I am rather more hirsute than I feel comfortable with at present, due to not really having had a proper bathroom for 10 days (see post 'The Bathroom' for further details). As a general rule, and to spare the sensitivities of the rest of the population, I tend not to be one for baring too much flesh. It is thanks to the law of sod that the only spell of adulthood where I have not had ready access to soap, water and shaving foam, has coincided with one of the longest spells of warm weather I can remember. A dilemma then. Do I go for comfort and risk tendrils of under-arm fuzz escaping for public viewing and stubbly white legs being on show, or wrap myself in leggings and a long-sleeved top?
Fortunately the bathroom should be finished today. I can get out all my depilatory accoutrement and even if it snows tomorrow I shall be out there in my shorts and vest top.
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.
As a three year old, Bryn turned to me and asked very seriously, "Mummy, if you could have one wish what would it be?" I was just weighing up in my mind the relative merits of world peace and an end to child poverty when he piped up, "I bet it would be hair-free legs wouldn't it?" At the time I laughed, but if he asked me the same question today then a lack of body hair would feature fairly high on my wish list.