Welcome to England

It seemed like a jolly idea: a few days in a caravan (we haven’t done that for years) in the North East of England (we’ve never been there).  The journey, scheduled by Sat Nav to take just less than four hours took considerably longer as (wisdom, not being infinite, as advertised) we decided to make the journey on a Bank Holiday Monday and whomever is responsible for such things decided to dig up every single road along the way.  At least the various diversions meant that we got to see the centre of Newcastle – five times I think.  We arrived to typical North East spring weather – very cold, locals bare-chested, tourists in mufflers, the entire landscape being shrouded in a thick, freezing sea fret – and moved our gear into the caravan: approximately ten times the clothing required for a holiday in any climate less unpredictable than our own (e.g. absolutely anywhere). 

After an extended period spent shuffling from cheek to cheek in the car, I felt somewhat like a cowboy who had spent too long in the saddle, and it wasn’t too long before I realised that the old farmer Giles* had taken the opportunity afforded to them by a long journey to – quite literally – become a right royal pain-in-the-arse.  Oh well, I treated them in the way I always do: a raging hot curry should do the trick…

…This morning I am standing by the bathroom door, waiting for the cure to take effect, whilst listening to my wife – who has taken to her bed** – coughing in the bedroom.  You just can’t beat feeling ill in a tin box.  We’ll wait until she feels well enough to get up before deciding whether to stay here or head straight home: she might not feel well enough to travel and I might need to find a rubber ring to sit on.  I would tell you what this morning’s weather is like, but to be honest, I’m not sure.  All I can see through the window is grey: thick, cloying grey.  My watch tells me that there is no rain in the forecast but, as the site Wi-Fi is more intermittent than sunshine, it might not be the most reliable of sources.  I’m sure that I would hear rain on the roof if it was here, but I have no idea of whether it is on its way.  (Actually, we currently have what sounds like a whole flock of seagulls clog-dancing on the roof, so having given it some thought, I’m not entirely confident that I would hear the rain.  I’m not certain I would hear a nuclear war.)

The sea-fret is forecast to lift this afternoon – the sun may even decide to fleetingly peep out from behind its folds and shine down on us.  I might take my little canvas chair outside… and my big coat… and a mug of tea… and, thinking about it, it would probably be wiser if I stood anyway.  Experience tells me that time is the only healer for haemorrhoids: keep the pressure off and allow them to self-heal – I’ve tried medication before and, to be quite frank, for all the good it did, I might as well have shoved it up my arse …

*Piles (haemorrhoids)
**With what shows every sign of being a ‘with knobs on’ re-run of last week’s cold.

You better bring your own sun, sweet girl
You gotta bring your own sun
And don’t you forget, you bring your own sun
Just enough for everyone
For everyone… Welcome to England – Tori Amos