You could go hop picking in Kent, camping in a soggy field in West Wales, visit your favourite landlady in a seaside B&B to start the day with a full English breakfast, while “Barney, darling,” checks whether you want tea or coffee, or you could find a holiday camp and be entertained to within an inch of your life. The problem with the British Holiday is that it comes at the end of summer. It’s not really designed for vacations but is really time off school to help with the harvest. Despite what you read in the Daily Mail, there aren’t nice little agricultural holidays to be had. Most jobs are done by machines and cheap foreign labour, who live in caravans and work 20 hour days. There might be work if you can drive a tractor or are familiar with the workings of a forage harvester (not the place Nigel gets unlimited salad with his steak).
The Long Suffering Husband is ready for a break. A break from what, I’m not quite sure because we really haven’t done anything for the last 17 weeks but it’s a break he wants nonetheless.
“Maybe we could rent a deserted shack on a beach no one goes to,” I said hopefully. I really did like lockdown. It suited me not to have to see people. He, however, has missed people and is completely sick of just me and the dog for company.
He looked at deserted shacks.
“They’re really expensive,” he said. “Over a thousand for 3 days.”
“We should stay home then,” I brightened, “Just think what we could do with that money.”
“Hmmmmmm”
“You don’t think?”
“What about a B&B?”
He continued to scroll through the pages of his i-pad
“Oh, you can get some really good deals at Pontins!”
Maybe holiday camps will make a comeback. They knew how to keep you entertained on rainy days. We didn’t go to many as a child being more of the pitch-a-leaky-tent on the edge of a windy cliff kind of people but I do remember one, where we went to a Warner Camp on Hayling Island. I have no idea where Hayling Island is but it was the first time I found a fish egg case on the beach. My sister was in her element, as there were lots of grannies and grandpas to adopt. It was where I first learnt the My Bonnie singing game that I still do with classes now and where I got highly commended in a fancy dress competition.
I always felt on the edge of the events. Never quite joining in but always watching and thinking it looked fun. Little did I know how horrific it would be. I really wanted to join in but we hadn’t planned for this event the way others had.
“Why don’t you just enter the knobbly knees competition?” my parents laughed. “You’d win that easily.”
It’s true. It was this morning’s yoga practice where I wobbled around in a low lunge because of my knees that prompted this blog.
I didn’t want everyone staring and laughing at my knobbly knees.
My parents were, however, very creative.
I can’t remember exactly what I went as but I wore my swimming costume and they pinned as much litter as they could find to me and hung a sign around my neck.
I think I served as an early environmental campaign.
I remember standing there and watching people snigger. I couldn’t compete with the Princesses and Pirates or book characters with brilliantly hand sewn costumes. However, the organisers could see the creative effort and awarded me a highly commended.
I have never had the desire to enter a fancy dress competition since.
If the LSH gets his way though, who knows, I could end up with a trophy for the most glamorous grandmother (right age even if there are no grandchildren) with knobbly knees.
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