#95 Mobile toilet

We’re all on a journey.

Our journey has certain staging posts. Learning to walk. Learning to swim. Learning to ride a bike.

Our first kiss, first broken bone, first alcohol vomit. Finding love. Losing love. Finding love again. Getting married. They’re like the rungs of our life.

Some of us try to resist this natural progression and stay at one stage or other, but if you do, quite soon you become ridiculous. You’ll find yourself in a night club were everyone is younger than you. You’ll start growing a mullet, wearing shirts tucked into your jeans and hosting motoring programmes.

To be happy we must accept change gracefully and with good humour.

Sometimes, though, change in our lives is so unexpected, so profound, so jarring, that it’s almost impossible not to be scared.

We used to look at people and be baffled. “Why would you want one of those?” We wanted to ask them. “Lose your freedom, your hopes, your dreams?”

If you have one, then basically your life is over, there’s nowhere left to go. And if you do manage to go anywhere, you’ll be going there very, very slowly, and carrying your own toilet.

Yes. We bought a caravan.

Today I was up a ladder, fitting a new skylight to our twenty five year old, ebay bought, four birth, almost mould free, “Swift-Rapide”. Or “Quick-Quick”, possibly the most ironically named thing in history. Our caravan’s rear end must have, for two and a half decades, made countless thousands of motorists chew their steering wheels in frustration, and hopefully will countless more.

“She’s a beauty.” I think proudly as I look at her. She is certainly not a beauty. But she’s ours. I may give her a name. I may also buy a captain’s hat.

So how did this happen? How can I adapt so quickly to something so awful? The answer is simple.

Any amount of un-coolness, slowness, humiliation and chemical toilet emptying is far, far preferable to the sheer hell of camping. With two young children. In a tent.

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