Wednesday, 17 October 2012

"Kamper Van With A 'K'..." is ours (gulp)
Well the husbands really gone and done it now.  Catapulting us straight into the realm of (albeit fictional) Chevy Chase and his 'Wally Wagon', he's only gone and purchased an 80's VW Campervan with retro racer stripes and - you guessed it - the word 'Kamper' scrawled jauntily across the side.  Nice.

Now I realise that there are many women out there probably thinking 'Right On!" and who might envy me my impulsive husband and his solo purchase.  You know...the 'open road' and all that.  And I understand, I really do.  Many many moons ago, the husband and I happily careened round the Continent in a bright yellow VW Camper we nicknamed 'Mellow Yellow'.  But that was
'BK' (before kids) and when I possessed the kind of youthful bounce-back looks which made showers/makeup/ mirrors merely optional.

In those days I could crash out after wandering the streets of Amsterdam and awake the next morning with unbrushed hair, pop a breath mint and slip on a pair of jeans and be pretty much good to go - looking none the worse really. These days however, the thought of being trapped in a vehicle with four 'fragrant' males, no toilet, (one of whom soils himself hourly), and no chance of a lie-in, fills me with dread.

Nonetheless a few weekends ago we convinced some friends to come and join us on a 'last of the season' (ie. 'before it gets too bloody freezing so much so that you'll want to die') camping trip.

Dare I say it?  It was fun.  A lot of fun.  The baby stayed in his brown Gap fuzzy bear outfit pretty much the whole time, crawling around like he was part of the habitat.
Anyone seen the little brown bear indigenous to these parts?
Egg and Dumpie kept jumping into the creek, soaking themselves on an hourly basis, and showing off in front of the little girls who made up the rest of the eight strong kiddie crew (including one aforementioned little baby brown bear).
Our Merry Crew of Campsters In the Green Fields of Grinstead 
But the real fun was to be had round the ever constant campfire and the many bottles of warming Red wine we'd had the good sense to pack amongst the marshmallows and baked potatoes.

Now I know how 'Wino's' got their moniker.  Even the cold shivery nights ain't so bad when you've got enough booze blundering through your veins.

So long as one of you stays sober enough to remember to whack the passed out other one in the head upon crawling into bed and discovering that someone (ahem) has inadvertently left the gas stove a-blazin' (in, I imagine, a well-intentioned desire to heat the bloody van up) and is gearing the family up for a Sylvia Plath moment in the wee hours...

But I stand (somewhat) corrected.  The van isn't all bad.  It is kind of long as no one I know ever sees me riding in it through London, in a totally non-ironic way.

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