Upon finding ourselves living in a caravan, we were keen to make the most of every opportunity to BE OUT OF THE CARAVAN. Suffice to say that even two Little Seymours in such close proximity at this time of year, when the nights are damp and stresses abound, are enough.
Our week in the caravan was odd. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love a caravan – always have. The “pretendy house on wheels” that would occasionally grace our driveway when I was small filled me with such excitement! It was a shared caravan, divvied up in time shares between several families, and when it was our turn to have it, I marvelled at it in all its portable glory. I played in it, entertained my friends in it, and sat daydreaming about being near my favourite beach in it… instead of on the driveway of a semi in suburban, commuter-belt Horsham.
Usually, the arrival of “our” caravan (a Sprite, I believe) heralded some sort of holiday. Probably to Pevensey. Pevensey is not my favourite beach, and so usually, the anticipation the arrival of the caravan generated was the best bit of the whole adventure. But the smell of it, the floral curtains, the “bathroom”, the “larder” complete with miniature boxes of Fairy washing powder (oh, the aroma!), the bunkbeds and and the teeny weeny kitchen was enough to satisfy me. And I have loved caravans ever since.
But… when one has no alternative to a caravan, that’s when a caravan loses its appeal somewhat.
Our week in the caravan started well enough, as I was proud of myself for successfully vacating the Worthing House on time, and without leaving anything there but a hair band and a phone charger. (How did we miss that? They’re like gold dust in this family!) So checkout morning went well, then progressed as follows: went to caravan, emptied caravan into Big Van, picked up Mini from school, re-claimed Landrover from brother, collected caravan with Landrover, towed caravan to soggy field, ditched caravan, went to mother’s for tea, returned to caravan to make it habitable… and tried to relax.
Does anything ever go to plan, though? In my single-minded mission to follow the itinerary, I somehow managed to leave the keys to the caravan at the farm where the caravan is usually stored, and so, at the point of depositing said caravan, we couldn’t get in the thing. Big Seymour was unusually understanding of my error – probably because he could see behind my masque that I was about to lose my sh!t in the face of our impending living conditions, and as the rain started, we drove back up to meet his mum, who kindly came to the rescue in her Smart Car with the keys we badly needed.
By this time, the rain was lashing down. The awning was not up and we were by no means set. And after our tea, for which we were most grateful, we needed to go and play house.
It was dark. It was windy. It was minging in that field. We abandoned all hopes of putting the awning up, and did what we could to make beds. And before too long, with one Little Seymour left behind at Grandma’s for her own sanity, we had enough beds for the rest of us to get in to and be cosy. There were complaints about the temperature – it wasn’t even cold! – but we all got into bed and enjoyed the drumming of the rain on the roof, and told ourselves it was fun.
In the morning, having Boy and Mini Seymour in the caravan was hard. I’d confiscated his phone by 6.40 am, and then had to listen to them both pushing camping equipment onto each other from their parallel beds. It was not fun. There was no milk, and no bread, and we had to erect the awning before dance classes, because life goes on.This was no holiday…
In Number Two’s absence, we decided to put Boy’s bed in the awning going forward. The further away from everyone else, the better. He was up for this, and soon he had his own inner tent and a neat little corner adorned with his crap. He settled in and made the best of it. Two dance classes and a jumble sale later (we can’t help ourselves!) we returned to the caravan at dusk, to protests from Number Two that she wanted to sleep in the awning, after we’d gone to the trouble of putting her feral brother out there.
Arguments ensued – we were only trying to keep the peace! Boy did not want to share his inner tent, Number Two did not want to share with Boy, Boy NEEDED all the space for his stuff that he’d neatly stored in the corner of the awning, leaving no room for a second inner tent, as he had now filled the remainder of the awning with his jumble sale purchases: a telescope and stand, an obsolete school tie and endless electrical crap to add to his collection, alongside his ancient dumbells. No matter how hard we tried, we could not convince either of them to share.
A trip to Camping World ensued – to see if therein lay the solution – but not before the magical moment when a call came through to say that we would only have to endure the caravan for one week, after which alternative (brick-built) accommodation would become available. Oh the joy! There was an end in sight.
The week in the caravan was, therefore, bearable. It even had its nice moments, with laughter, jokes and films on the old DVD player and great japes watching fellow campers try to drive out in the mud. I fell over (much hilarity) and the kids befriended a goat. The 50p showers were interesting, and we sure did find things we never knew there were to find in Small Dole; there’s a skate park and everything!
As I mentioned, we tried to stay out where possible, and what better to while away an evening than a school open event? Warmth, free pizza, scones, biscuits, tea and coffee. Entertaining talks and Science displays, interactive colouring in and an opportunity to revisit a classroom that was my own when I started teaching at that very school twenty (!) years ago. We even saw a display dedicated to Number Two (well, to the cast of Matilda from the summer), and I was able to glean some feedback about Boy’s progress, even though we were there for the purposes of Mini Seymour starting secondary school next year. Such fun! Chips on the way home and into bed. That’s the way to do caravan life.
Boy was out at friends’ on Monday and Tuesday evening, at the skate park and Rock Factory (whatever that is) on Thursday and fishing on Sunday. Mini successfully found her kit and was able to go swimming with school and Number Two even managed to have all the ingredients for her food prep lesson. Miracle!
As I reflect on last week, I realise that we did ok. The Four Little Seymours (well, the Three Little Seymours- one has escaped!) are putting up with a lot at the moment. They have no permanent address, and no end to this vagrancy in sight. I am pinning my hopes on them building resilience and gratitude for the simple things in life, but I fear I am just creating monsters.
Device monsters in particluar. Ipads, iphones, televisions, Xboxes – they are my enemies! And even though moving to a field with no wi-fi went some way to minimising access to the world wide web, the little buggers found hotspots, and claimed they needed them for homework.
Maybe now is not the time to be worrying that the Four Little Seymours are on their devices too much. Perhaps, with everything else that is going on, I should just give in to it, and enjoy the short-term peace it affords me… But I am stubborn, and resolute in my belief that technology should not replace real experiences, nor should it be allowed to consume us. It’s an ongoing battle, and one I am not sure if I’ll win. But I will try!
Because one thing is certain. I do like to complicate my life.
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