Once upon a Sunday, there was a car packed with people and playthings and overnight bags.
The car left home about 11am, and the occupants got to see Handsome Husband, have lunch and catch up with all rabbits friends and relations at the blessing of the graves. There were many mysteries, including the Missing Holy Water Bottle, the Moving Tree and the Stolen Vase. Biting of cheeks to retain some solemnity. After the hugging and the chatting and the laughing and the praying, the occupants of the car loaded up again, and headed further west.
About 6pm, the day’s destination was reached. Sea and mountains and emptiness. Hurrah! Deep, invigorating breaths all round. Six people bundling out of the car, stretching. Girls buzzing to show off the caravan to grandparents. Yay!
You know what happens next, don’t you?
Yep, the hunting and pocket emptying was to no avail. The caravan keys were safely in the bag at home. The one that didn’t get brought to save on space.
Caravan Man doesn’t have spares.
Spurs Fan demonstrated what a proper teacher he is by doing that “livid, but very, very quiet” thing, and planning on getting back into the car right now and driving home. I considered what a fun journey that would be, and wondered about B&Bs.
In the meantime, girls and grandparents were dispatched to the playground, and Caravan Man was rounding up the neighbours to see if any of their keys might work.
With a wiggle and a jiggle, one did. The neighbours, relieved that it was somebody else’s crisis, loaned us a gas bottle as ours was safely locked in the wee room with the boiler. Nobody’s key fitted there.
There was wine.
There were beaches. Calming, restorative beaches. Relaxing beaches. A day in the sun. A gift for the neighbours.
A visit to the key cutters is imminent.