We have been thinking about holidays again and the air is filled with talk of flights and villas, lotions and costumes. There has definitely been a progression in our household when it comes to such things. Only a few years ago, when the girls were easily fooled by the idea that being under canvas was fun, we would prepare for the summer months with thoughts a little less grand. We always tried our best to get a holiday no matter how limited our funds; some times it was fulfilled by visiting family across the Pennines and taking trips out to towns with more sand than sea. Or discovering the debatable beauty of refurbished canal walks hidden behind newly converted waterside dwellings.
Most of our holidays involved camping and as such were a strain on our tempers and our backs. I don’t know what it is about inflatable mattresses but they seem to be timed to deflate at about the same time as you manage to drop off to sleep. Cooking is not much more fun as you try to make a Sunday lunch using one pan and a Swiss army knife. The girls were mostly oblivious to such difficulties and enjoyed the different sights and sounds of outdoor life.
One of our most memorable excursions was to an event on the Lincolnshire showground along with thousands of other families. Having arrived at the site, stressed from a journey with far too many toilets stops and burger wrappers, we attempted to set up the tent. Let me warn you that tents are like Christmas tree lights; they never come out of the bag in the same neat order that you put them in the previous year. To add to this trial I had forgotten to bring the large box of tent pegs collected over our years of camping. Being Friday night on a bank holiday weekend there was little chance of replacements being available, so I was left to wander round the campsite searching for all the bent ones left by previous campers. After losing several yards of skin on my knuckles during the straightening process, we were able to use our temporary abode at the same time as the light faded in the sky.
On the second night of our stay, at about two in the morning, I heard whispered voices on the other side of the canvas. As quick as a dad can, I scrambled out of the tent to see half a dozen teenagers about to run away. I managed to catch one by the arm and began my investigation feeling sure that they must be up to some mischief. The boy shook with a little fear as I quizzed him, 'What on earth are you up to at this time in the morning?' I asked.
'We were playing a game', he spluttered.
'A game! What kind of game?' I said, not satisfied with his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you', he replied.
'Just tell me what the game was', I said letting go of his shirt sleeve.
'It's called Hunt the Loudest Snorer'.
I should have ended the conversation there but lack of sleep or stupidity had now kicked in.
'And...............who was the loudest snorer?' I asked uncertain of whether I wanted to hear his response.
'I am not sure if I should tell you' he repeated.
'Just say it' I said somewhat prepared for his reply.
'You were!'
I let him go and chuckled as I returned to my deflated airbed.
In the morning I told my wife about what had happened (she didn’t seem too interested at the time). 'At last!' she said with a sense of victory, as if now others knew of her life of suffering.
Her reply didn’t concern me and I did a victory lap around the tent; being a competitive male I take any ‘win’ as an achievement no matter how dubious. As my reward for being ‘The Camps Loudest Snorer’, I re-inflated the airbed and returned for en extra few moments practice of my new found talent.
In Tents
Bathroom Blues
Early morning bathroom fever used to hit our house every day, as the five females of the home all tried to mark out their territory. Mostly this involved laying claim to the hairdryer or carrying round the curly brush to make sure it was always available (I still, to this day, have to work out why, in a house of a hundred brushes, only one was good enough for all of them). Added to this was the rush for the bathroom door with each one demanding that they had a reason to take priority. I often tried to bring some logic to the arguments that raged about who should rightfully inherit the water closet first. I soon realised that my involvement was neither wanted nor useful.
Things have not always been so tense in casa Molineaux; for the first eighteen months of married life we owned a terraced house. It was advertised to us as having an ‘indoor toilet’, because at that time many older homes still only had an external ‘privy’.
In truth it was an extra cupboard built into the back box room but, because we are at a nostalgic age, we now lovingly refer to it as an en suite bedroom.
Over time we gradually increased our bedroom space to accommodate our offspring but, due to the older nature of our houses, we never quite managed extra bathrooms; meaning that queues for baths and toilets have been a regular feature.
I have tried several schemes in order to avoid such gridlock in the morning. I had a run of setting the girl’s alarms at 15 minute intervals, but it only took one daughter to sleep in to throw the whole schedule into chaos.
I have learnt over the years to spend as little time doing my own ablutions as possible in order that I might not enrage the already anxious female population of our house. When I do leave the shower, after the shortest time possible, it is to the sound of my wife complaining about the excess water on the floor; apparently I am supposed to begin the drying process whilst still in the foot and half of cubicle space.
I am not sure that the complaints are justified when you consider the obstacle course that I have to negotiate following female bath time; this after I have found my way through the haze of perfume and other noxious gases that come out of the cosmetic pots.
For me shower time is a quick event with the point of the exercise being to get clean. All our girls are unanimous in the view that it can also be good therapy to stand motionless under moving water for a very long time. If I were cruel I would try to speed up the process by turning on a downstairs hot tap in order to change the water pressure and temperature. (No! Honestly I haven’t done this).
At a moment of greatest frustration I once joined a local sports club because it had excellent showers and the queue was less than the one at home.
Things started to get a little easier as two of the girls headed for university and I hoped that my opportunity for a free bathroom might arrive when our eldest daughter got married last year. The actual result was that she now visits and brings her new husband along to join the queue.
My other main complaint is that my razor is no longer my own; after I have spent a small fortune on blades I find that they lose their sharpness within days. Apparently those designed especially for females are not as good.
I have finally fallen on an excellent idea that I am sure will solve such problems. It came to me whilst I was waiting to buy cheese at our local supermarket. I pulled the ticket from the handy machine provided and calmly waited for my number to be displayed on the electronic sign. Then it came to me; if it is good enough for shoppers wanting dairy products then it should work well with daughters wanting to start the day with a shower.
Sans Sucre
I have decided to adopt a new keep fit regime and am pleased to report that I can now lift the remote control without gasping for breath.
When doing my research to decide how to approach my new found zeal for fitness I noticed a theme starting to develop. Firstly I need to cut out sweet things and secondly I need to exercise more. Not exactly rocket science.
I have therefore decided to start small and let my routine grow. I am going to begin by cutting out three sugary things from my daily life. But what should they be. I already drink diet cola. This was the result of a previous attempt to reduce my noticabilty at gatherings. I managed, after two weeks, to get used to the taste and now I cannot return to the regular variety. Now I am left to wash down my mid-afternoon chocolate biscuit with a sugar-free fizzy drink. I have a feeling that one should cancel out the other but no scientific facts to back it up.
Incidentally, have you noticed that most ‘large boned’ people tend to drink diet drinks and a majority of slim people drink the normal variety? Not sure what to make of it but I am suspicious and wondered whether I am being given the whole facts.
Anyway, I still need to move towards being sans-sucre in other areas. I have decided, therefore, to give up listening to the Carpenters, I always found them very sugary. I will also cut out chocolate in the afternoon and not eat anything sweet after 20:00 hours (not even if the chocolate mints tell me that I should on the box).
Added to this I have decided to walk up one flight of stairs before getting the lift, instead of at the ground floor. I tried walking up all six flights at once but I had to set up camp on floor three and breath from my oxygen mask for a couple of days before continuing my trek.
The problem I have is that I am stuck in a vicious cycle. Two nights ago I went to the cinema and, because I have certain standards, I ate all my chocolate before they had turned down the lighting. This meant that I was forced to share a giant bag of popcorn with the rest of the family. My bride, of twenty-six years, chooses to take once piece at a time and eat it with her natural grace. I, however, feel that it would give me no challenge whatsoever and would not treat the product as nature intended it. It is perfectly obvious that one should take the biggest handful possible and see how many will fit into your mouth. You might not agree but I know that, in the spirit of Homer Simpson, I am right.
This always results in the loss of at least half of the contents of my sticky fist. When I was younger and leaner most of this excess would drop to the floor only to be used as sound effects at the end of the film. Now, however, the majority of the ‘fallen ones’ drop to be neatly perched on the ledge of my ample stomach, not more than 6 inches from my mouth. They remain there perfectly saved for me to enjoy during the rest of the show. The net effect is that I eat twice as much popcorn as I used to do when I was slim.
I think I need to find a cinema that is up six flights of steps.
