Monday, 12 July 2010
Dad bought an aged VW caravette from a bloke at work. It was painted two tone green and looked dull and van like. It was the best car we ever had. Freedom from travel sickness and the ability to see over walls. Cups of tea made fresh wherever we pulled up in it. The world was our lobster!
We toured Scotland in it the first year. The first night we all slept in it, or to be accurate I slept. I had the prime berth over the engine at the back, with the dog at my feet. My Gran lay across the front on a partially inflated air bed and three pillows, she may as well have stayed sitting up. I have no idea where she stowed her teeth. Mum, Dad and Dave top and tailed it in the main bit. Dave sighed a lot. He was in the middle and couldn't breathe. Dad slept with his nose in the slot for the knife drawer. About half an hour in the three of them had to get up for Dave to use the bucket. I knew nothing of this in spite of Mum shining the torch on me to check I was alright. When the spotlight shone on Beaty she was looking straight at it with birdlike fixity startling to behold.
Early next morning Dad had to disengage from his dual with the carving knife to let the dog out. He sighed and announced "The Caravette - a poem by Henry Gibson" a quote from Rowen and Martins Laugh In , which was popular at the time. It made us all laugh and passed into family parlance.