Caravanning: a riches to rags tale

Although I don’t expect much sympathy (sniff), I am utterly bereft. Six months ago, our beautiful seven bedroomed seafront holiday home got sold. I know that makes me sound like a wanker, but the boys and I god damn loved that house. 

I would Insert Image here but it hurts too much. 

Instead, we bought a caravan. It wasn’t, initially, my idea. I have never been on a camping holiday (passing out under taupalin at Reading ’99 doesn’t count) and I’m not in to bird watching, or OS maps or swinging or any of that other deviant shit that goes on. 

However, bolstered by AO’s fond childhood memories and a ‘we’re no longer shackled to North Wales and Europe awaits our single axel adventures’ attitude, we hitched our wagon to the stars/impractical BMW and headed for the golden sands of Cromer. 

Fifteen hours later (NB- that’s a return trip to Angelsey with time for chips in Bangor), we arrived bedraggled and bickering in West Runton: a name so ugly it sounds like a limping inbred. 

Any road, time has passed, kids have whinged, been bribed, eaten crap, played the slots, and Gortex and matching fleeces have been spotted in communal bathrooms and the caravanning thing has been exciting, claustrophobic, cosy, frustrating and, thankfully, nearly over. 

We now hand it over to my sister and her family. Good luck.  

 
Here’s a pic of me drinking a bowl of gin, fresh from spa-ing at the communal showers where relaxing ‘Sounds of Healthy Stools Plopping’ is piped continuously. 

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