Shakedown Trials

'What the hell happened to you?' I asked him.

'Whaddya mean?' My dad asked puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start...' Interjected my mum. I turned to face her, to chastise her for

interrupting a potentially important diagnosis.

'And what the hell happened to you?' I asked her

'Whaddya mean?' My mum replied puzzled

'Your face!'

'What's wrong with my face?'

'Where do you want me to start' interjected my dad

I could sense a circular discussion coming on.

'You've got what looks like a bruise on the side of your jaw, mum. And your

face is... well... massive, Dad. You look like a melon on a toothpick'

They had just spent their first night in the Kempervan. 'Shake down' trials

my dad called them. I had met them in the back arse of nowhere before an

annual family picnic.

'You must have hit me when we were asleep' my mum said rubbing her face.

'I was probably trying to stop you from snoring'

'I'm surprised you could hear me snore over your snoring'

etc.

From the ensuing discussion, I gathered that the first night in the van was

a little uncomfortable. When my Mum described is a 'bijou' she wasn't

kidding. There is barely room in the back for two people to sit side by

side never mind sleep. The pop up roof is supposed to be used as a sleeping

berth. However Dad won't get up there on account of his vertigo and Mum wont

get up there on account of her claustrophobia.

They were camping at a local campsite and only after they had turned in for the night had they realised that they were parked on a very slight incline. The result being that their feet were above their heads. Understandably Dad wasn’t keen on getting up, unhooking the van and parking it the other way round. Somewhat less understandably my Mum wasn’t keen on lying the other way round in the camper. You see, she insists on sleeping with her head pointing towards the back door of the van. If her head is pointing towards the front seats, it affects her claustrophobia, and sleep is not possible for her, and by extension not possible for my dad, given that she supplies a minute by minute commentary on her lack of sleep. I did point out to her that you generally sleep with you eyes closed, so why would it matter. This thought was met with scorn.

I don’t know if you have ever slept with your feet above your head - its not he most comfortable of positions. They awoke next morning in a crumpled heap, jammed up against the back door. Once they had untangled their limbs, it became apparent the previous nights sleeping arrangements had been injurious to both. Mum with her bruised face and my Dad with his massive heid. Apparently 8 hours effectively suspended upside down had caused the blood to flow into his bonce. He now sported a face that looked like a football and a head so large it had its own weather system. His forehead had been stolen and replaced with a fivehead. I won't lie to you, he didn’t look great.

I asked him how he felt.

‘Well know you come to mention it I do feel a little light headed. I thought it was just the bottle wine we had last night’

‘Light headed?! Light headed? Are you kidding? It’s HUGE! Your head looks more massive than a medicine ball’

When I enquired how they had slept the response wasn’t overly encouraging. The van was pretty cramped, their sleeping bags were overly restrictive, leading them to believe, in their half conscious state, that they had been mummified and entombed – not a feeling conducive to a restful and refreshing nights sleep, I'll venture.

Although whilst my Father plainly wore the signs of an imperfect night rest, my Mother seemed quite sprightly.

‘It does look quite small in there’ I had observed.

‘Aye, we did “touch knees” a couple of times during the night’ Had been my mothers response, much to the mirth of my Aunts and Uncles who were also at our picnic.

Judging by the spring in my mothers step and the hang dog expression worn by my father, it looked like they had ‘touched knees’ a few times during the night.

‘If the caravan is a rocking – don’t come a knocking’ as I understand they say in the campervan fraternity. Never a truer maxim was uttered. If the caravan is a rocking, my mother is most likely chiding my father for his choice of parking place or trying to escape from her mummified tomb. My advice would be to leave them to it, you wouldn’t want to be interrupting that.

From Glasgow,
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