Camping trip to Norfolk starts predictably with Husband on a Short Fuse lining up luggage on the pavement outside our house, trying to find the perfect packing solution.
“Surely as long as it all goes in, it doesn’t really matter how it is packed,” I plead in the face of impatient children strapped in the back seat.
“Systems, it’s all about systems,” he mutters. “I’m trying to assess what we will need first when we arrive and put that on top. Do you know what you’ll be cooking for tea?”
“We’ll just get something there,” I say. “Or on the way.”
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“But if we stop on the way then that requires a different system,” he says, prioritising small folding chairs over gas canisters. “And will we stop at a service station, or have sandwiches at the side of the road?”
“You have to accept that we need a degree of flexibility. Not knowing what is going to happen can be liberating. It is that endless repetition of routine that kills the human spirit,” I explain. “We are on holiday.”
He looks at me askance.
“Organisation is the key to a successful camping trip,” he says.
“Well, I think spontaneity is,” I say.
Finally he gets in the car and shuts the door. “Oh my God,” he says. “What is that smell? I thought you took the car to be cleaned.”
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“I did,” I say. “But they refused to do it on health and safety grounds. They said there were mushrooms growing on the floor by the children’s seats.”
Husband on a Short Fuse takes a look behind his chair.
“That’s incredible,” he says.
“We can have mushrooms on toast for tea,” I say. “It’s been a bumper year for fungi, especially truffles.”
We are halfway up the M11, windscreen wipers working overtime in the face of a torrential downpour, when we hear loud scratching noises underneath the passenger seat.
“What is that, Lucy?” Husband on a Short Fuse asks suspiciously. We switch off the Mr Men story tape and all listen. The scrabbling continues.
“Don’t tell me. We’re infested with vermin,” he says, holding his head in his hands and using his elbows to steer.
I turn around to look at the children. They are all staring at their laps guiltily.
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“What’s going on?” I ask. “Whisper in my ear if it’s easier.”
“While dad was packing and unpacking the car we went in and got Rover and Spot,” middle son whispers. “We didn’t want to leave them on their own. They’re in a shoe box under the seat.”
“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” I explain to Husband on a Short Fuse with forced jollity. “We’re not infested with mice, but they have brought their gerbils with them.” He groans.