The Kempervan has landed

The Kempervan during its maiden voyage, with roof tent fully deployed...

Mum – Should you really be reading this? Surely you havesomething better to do with your time?

'I don't like your jacket'
Was the rather abrupt welcome I received when I visited my parents recently.
'Right. Thanks Mum. Just as well I do. May I enquire as to why you have an issue with my new and, may I add, very expensive jacket?
'It doesn't cover your bum'
'Right. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to'
'You'll get piles. Mind you, the size of your bum, I'm not sure you could have afforded the excess material anyhow'

That. From my own Mother. Some cheek (as it were). It's her fault - a fulsome posterior runs in the family after all. Her family. Unlike most ladies of her age, she doesn't shop at M&S for her underware. She prefers Blacks of Greenock. For my sins I have been blessed with a Bonellie Bum, so massive it comes with its own weather system and gravitational field.

Two things my Mother swears by. A silk vest regardless of the weather and a jacket that covers your arse. The cumulative effect will ward off piles, that and never sitting directly on concrete, apparently. I'm not even sure what piles are. I sure know how to avoid getting them though. A silk vest and long jacket and you'll never get the dreaded Emma Freuds, and you will be able to tackle the vicissitudes of life. Its all about being warm. In her eyes if you're warm you're happy... And you won't get piles.

As I have written before, my father is not a guy who is quick to temper. Infact, he’s not exactly quick to anything these days. He is, by nature, a very calm man. Indeed, he had an operation on his back a few years ago and, on occasion, he has to take treatment for the pain. We are not talking acouple of paracetamol and a radox bath here. No, Faither has been prescribedsome pretty hard core pain killers. Hard core, in the sense that they would tranquilize the angriest of bull elephants. As a result he is even more laid back than he ever was. Panic is not a response I have ever seen in my Dad. Whilst most peoples reaction to danger might be a typical ‘fight or flight’ response, his is more likely to consist of a ‘wee-sit-down-with-a-cup-of-coffee-and-a-kit-kat-whilst-I-find-a-scrap-of-paper-to-work-this-out,-now-where-did-I-put-my-glasses…?’And that was when he was a thrusting young buck with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye.   Even during those halcyon days his speed of reaction would more likely to be described as lethargic rather than electric.  In his dotage, if he were to witness any incident requiring swift action, his reaction time would probably be equal that of someone reading about it in the paper the next morning, and that is only assuming that he could find his specs so he could actually see what he was witnessing.

Many years ago, not long after I had passed my driving test, I was driving my Dad home whilst he was dosing in the front seat. I might have been driving a little fast, but still within the speed limit. Turning a corner I lost control of the car and we started to spin, performing a perfect pirouette. We bounced off the far side kerb with the car facing the way we hadjust come, then bounced across to the other side of the road, hitting the other kerb - the car coming to rest facing the correct way with the front wheels up on the grass verge. I shat myself (not literally, although it was a close run thing), not from the near death experience, but from the imminent hiding that I was about to receive from my Dad. I turned to look at him and asked, in a tremulous voice - that was a couple of octaves higher than it should have been, whether he was OK. His eyes were only half open, as if he had just been gently woken from a slumber rather than just having had a near death experience. The only sign that his equilibrium had been disturbed was that his glasses were perched on the end of his nose, making him look slightly more disheveled that normal. He snorted, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, sorted his glasses and said simply.

‘Probably best not to tell your Mother about this’

He then went back to sleep. Leaving me to drive home, a mental wreck. He has never spoken of it since, I sometimes wonder if he thinks he dreamt it. I owe my Dad a lot, almost 15 years on, my Mother still doesn’t know. He has never once cracked, even under the most intense of 'how was your day today, love?' type interrogations.

I guess I’ll find out soon enough if Ma reads this blog…

Regular readers of this blog will already know that my parents have blown my inheritance on a whimsy (Hail to the Chief). Which is just as well as after this blog I might be dis-inherited anyhow. They have decided that my suffering up the highest Cols of the Alps is too good to miss.They have set their hearts to go on ‘The Trip of a Lifetime’ and follow me round France. My pain seemingly being the main attraction. I can’t say that I am entirely delighted at this prospect, but other than register my disquiet with the management, there is little I can do.

To this end they have pawned the family silver (ie sold the car), have purchased a second hand van from Japan and have had it converted into a campervan. Now, don’t ask me about why they had to get a van from Japan, it all sounds a little suss to me. I did raise this as a potential issue with my mother and poo-poohed the whole endeavour. However, my poo-poohing was promptly poo-poohed and I was informed, rather patronisingly, that this arrangement is de-riguer when concluding these types of transactions.

I just wont be surprised if its all a front for some Triad drug smuggling ring and the tyres are actually stuffed with some Class A Narcotic.What perfect cover, a couple of pensioners in a campervan on the trip of a lifetime, actually smuggling drugs into mainland Europe. The Cosa Nostra come from Corsica – that’s all I am saying. See if I have to cycle down to some Corsican police station and bail them out? I wont be happy.

However, I digress. It was some months ago that they ordered the Kempervan, as it has cunningly been christened (by me... I thank you, I'm here all week). It took a while for it to be shipped from Japan and it only arrived a couple of weeks ago. The internal fit out has been completed, after intense argument over the addition of a heater. Mother insisting that even in the south of France in the middle of summer a heater will be necessary. After all who knows when life will bowl you a googley, but if you're warm then you can get your foot to the pitch of the ball and drive it through the covers for 4.

I spoke to my Dad just after the van had been handed over and asked him if he was pleased with it.

‘Well it’s a lot bigger on the outside than I had thought…and a lot smaller on the inside’

Hardly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for.

I asked my Mum what she thought of the pop up roof.

‘Oh its smashing, the grand weans love it. There’s no way I’dsleep up there though, way too claustrophobic. And there’s no way your Dad could ever get up there on account of his back. The weans love it though…’

'Excellent. You've blown a few grand on a climbing frame with wheels' I thought. I decided, however to keep my thoughts to myself on this occasion.

They then decided to take it on its maiden voyage. All was going swimmingly until they hit the dual carriage way outside Dundee. My Mum was barrelling along the A90 to Perth (rather too fast, by all accounts), my Father, as always when disaster is about to strike, was snoring in the passenger seat. There was then a sudden roar, the cab was filled with cold airand the van started to lurch across the carriage way. Before she realised what had happened Mum heard my father let loose a stream of invective the like of which she had never heard, the soliloquy ending with:

‘The bloody roof has bloody blown off!’

That’s how it was relayed to me. I’m not convinced the word 'bloody' was used. My Father has an enviable vocabulary and I simply refuse tobelieve he used bloody, twice in one sentence.

Out the corner of her eye Mum noticed my Dad leaping, salmon like, out and over the back of his seat displaying a nimbleness and speed of thought that has been singularly lacking in their previous 40 years of marriage and in one movement grabbing hold of the roof before it had a chance to separate from the body ofthe camper. There he was left dangling, his feet off the ground trying to hold on to my inheritance whilst my mother piloted the van back to a safe harbour.

Thankfully no white powder was released during the internal hurricane. Mind you, that would explain Dads sudden burst of speed…

So the Kempervan has landed. However, I’m not sure the portents are great for their voyage. Thank god they made the decision to get a heater. At least I won’t need to worry about them being cold in the 40 degree heat of Southern France.

I bet she still packs a silk vest though and god help Dad if he doesn't have a method for covering his arse and sits on concrete. You'll be able to hear the 'I telt you' from Mars.

From Glasgow,
n