Soon we'll be hitting the open road, trucking on down the West Coast and generally having ourselves a (hopefully) good time. Or not.
I mentioned in our woefully neglected Family Pages, and let's face it, if you're reading this missive, you know where that is, that we are now the proud owners of a Trailer Tent or Tent Trailer, or, more realistically, a sodding big bank debt (but let's not dwell on negatives chums). This is to be our mobile home for our North American (and I do mean the continental land mass) adventures over the next few years.
Now this tent looks quite jolly at first glance, adequately equipped for the outdoor life, yet affording us all the comforts of "home". It apparently sleeps eight - I think you'd all have to be fairly close to try that - but six is possibly closer to reality. We can cook (inside and out), we have a wee fridge (that's small, not urine storage) and like all middle class tourists, we can plug the bugger into the mains at camp sites (that's known as a hook up in the trade - which should not be confused with the North American term for a convenient shag). We even have an add-on room for those mosquito driven, close to nature experiences. All in all, quite splendid.
The van has been modified so we can "comfortably" tow the brute, electrics, hitch, groovy plug in for the iPod, blah, blah - I've even installed non bogus map software for the necessary laptop. So basically all is done...
So all we had to do was stick the fork 'n knives, pots 'n pans, plates 'n bowls in the drawers 'n cupboards and we were done. Good eh?
So - on to the title of this posting...
The tent can't be kept on the drive. Too awkward for the cars, getting the Yam in and out etc, so we've stuck it in the garage to keep it clean and dry. And it pretty well fills the garage up - just enough room to park the Yam by the side, kids bikes, bags of ever-present crap, scarcely used golf clubs (hem hem) empty bottles - everyone knows the score.
So, on this particular day, fired with enthusiasm following a nice walk, trip to try out a gym and the promise of good weather, I decide to whip out the trailer to give it a good stocking up!
I move the van and the bug off the drive (sensibly parked down the street) and with a little sweating and grunting, start to manoeuvre said trailer onto the drive... and the bastard starts to roll. Then a little faster.
The thought enters my head, "Just steady it by the jockey wheel", then "Oh!" then "Fuckin' Hell!!"
I don't remember much else until I'm standing opposite the house in a neighbours front garden - said jockey wheel buried well into their flower bed. The plucky little tent had chased me (backwards) down the drive, across the road (my sandals were later found slap bang centre of the road, splayed like Donald Duck's feet (do ducks have feet?)) and was now blocking the road quite effectively. What to do?
I try to lift the wheel out in a vain attempt to avoid the probable embarrassment of seeking assistance, only managing to pull both forearms in the process. Complete failure. I ring the neighbours doorbell, announcing in my most nonchalant voice that they have a tent on their property, and could I please have a hand to stop them having a tent on their property - there are times when all you can do is be extremely British about such things. I cross the road, almost whistling and call out to Jan for some assistance please...
I get the anticipated reaction...
"What the fuck have you done? You daft bastard! You could have been killed!"
Up until this point the thought hadn't actually occurred to me that I could have been squished against our tent park owners son's car (which had only moved shortly before this debacle happened). If it had been there, the hitch would have probably gone clean through the back doors, pinning me to the side.
I mentioned in our woefully neglected Family Pages, and let's face it, if you're reading this missive, you know where that is, that we are now the proud owners of a Trailer Tent or Tent Trailer, or, more realistically, a sodding big bank debt (but let's not dwell on negatives chums). This is to be our mobile home for our North American (and I do mean the continental land mass) adventures over the next few years.
Now this tent looks quite jolly at first glance, adequately equipped for the outdoor life, yet affording us all the comforts of "home". It apparently sleeps eight - I think you'd all have to be fairly close to try that - but six is possibly closer to reality. We can cook (inside and out), we have a wee fridge (that's small, not urine storage) and like all middle class tourists, we can plug the bugger into the mains at camp sites (that's known as a hook up in the trade - which should not be confused with the North American term for a convenient shag). We even have an add-on room for those mosquito driven, close to nature experiences. All in all, quite splendid.
The van has been modified so we can "comfortably" tow the brute, electrics, hitch, groovy plug in for the iPod, blah, blah - I've even installed non bogus map software for the necessary laptop. So basically all is done...
So all we had to do was stick the fork 'n knives, pots 'n pans, plates 'n bowls in the drawers 'n cupboards and we were done. Good eh?
So - on to the title of this posting...
The tent can't be kept on the drive. Too awkward for the cars, getting the Yam in and out etc, so we've stuck it in the garage to keep it clean and dry. And it pretty well fills the garage up - just enough room to park the Yam by the side, kids bikes, bags of ever-present crap, scarcely used golf clubs (hem hem) empty bottles - everyone knows the score.
So, on this particular day, fired with enthusiasm following a nice walk, trip to try out a gym and the promise of good weather, I decide to whip out the trailer to give it a good stocking up!
I move the van and the bug off the drive (sensibly parked down the street) and with a little sweating and grunting, start to manoeuvre said trailer onto the drive... and the bastard starts to roll. Then a little faster.
The thought enters my head, "Just steady it by the jockey wheel", then "Oh!" then "Fuckin' Hell!!"
I don't remember much else until I'm standing opposite the house in a neighbours front garden - said jockey wheel buried well into their flower bed. The plucky little tent had chased me (backwards) down the drive, across the road (my sandals were later found slap bang centre of the road, splayed like Donald Duck's feet (do ducks have feet?)) and was now blocking the road quite effectively. What to do?
I try to lift the wheel out in a vain attempt to avoid the probable embarrassment of seeking assistance, only managing to pull both forearms in the process. Complete failure. I ring the neighbours doorbell, announcing in my most nonchalant voice that they have a tent on their property, and could I please have a hand to stop them having a tent on their property - there are times when all you can do is be extremely British about such things. I cross the road, almost whistling and call out to Jan for some assistance please...
I get the anticipated reaction...
"What the fuck have you done? You daft bastard! You could have been killed!"
Up until this point the thought hadn't actually occurred to me that I could have been squished against our tent park owners son's car (which had only moved shortly before this debacle happened). If it had been there, the hitch would have probably gone clean through the back doors, pinning me to the side.
Death by tent.
Almost worthy of an honorary Darwin Award.
So we grunted the beast back onto the drive, chocked it, opened it and did the biz - only to be confused over the process of closing it up, but that's another story, and not particularly worth revisiting.
Now we wait for the 10.30 ferry out of Victoria.
More to come.
