Bad Mother's Holiday - Hilarious Summer Holiday Reading! Read online

  If Althea doesn’t come camping, she will lend me her bell tent. However, only she knows how to set it up – so she’ll have to give me detailed instructions. Knowing Althea, she will deliver these in mantra form.

  Thursday 28th June

  Woohoo!

  Althea is coming camping with us.

  The Morocco trip is a write off because the Moroccan authorities are cracking down on foreign tourists who smoke cannabis.

  Pleased that Althea is coming because she brings a lot of joy on camping trips with her hippy-love in collection of rainbow wind socks, bunting, hula hoops, etc.

  Asked Althea about sharing the bell tent, but she says Daisy and I can have it all to ourselves. She’s bought an old transit van, which she’s converted into a camper, complete with sensory area.

  Afternoon

  Have just returned from Althea’s house. Had to drive there to pick up the bell tent and other useful bits and pieces – enamel cups, etc.

  Forgot how much I hate driving in London.

  Why is everyone so angry? You pause for three seconds at a green light to stop your daughter throwing Ribena on the floor and BEEEP!

  Cycle couriers whizz straight across every junction, no matter what the traffic lights are doing. Saw one cycle courier ride straight into the side of double-decker bus, then go flying. Instead of bursting into tears, as I would have done, the cyclist leapt up and started punching the bus doors.

  Althea was enjoying the sunshine in her big, rambling garden when I arrived. She’d Rasta-braided her curly hair for the camping trip and wore a loose elephant print smock like an African guru.

  Wolfgang was in the branches of a giant fir tree, wearing wings made from real feathers, screeching and pretending to be an eagle.

  A dig around Althea’s garage revealed her bell tent was inhabited by a family of rats, who had eaten significant portions of essential canvas.

  Althea kindly offered me a patchwork quilt to lay over the holes, but in all honesty the tent is uninhabitable.

  Will have to visit Go Outdoors during peak season and buy a new one.

  Why didn’t I buy one with Dad back in May?

  I am such an idiot.

  Late Afternoon

  All the decent tents in Go Outdoors were at top price – over £70.

  That’s what comes of buying tents in summertime.

  I only want a little dome tent! I don’t care if it has a hook for my lantern and tough Teflon technology.

  The only tent I could afford was a child’s tent with dinosaurs on it.

  Daisy is delighted, but I’m worried the two-man tent is too small because ‘two-man’ is only ever really ‘one-man’ once luggage, pillows and shoes come into play.

  Arguably, Daisy is only half a man. But as previously outlined, she wiggles around like a demon. I’ll be lucky if she’s still in the tent come morning.

  Go Outdoors are rigged for weak-minded parents like me, because they offered a matching dinosaur sleeping bag with the tent at a 10% discount.

  It was very cute.

  Daisy got all excited and said, ‘Sleepy dinosaur, Mummy. Happy.’

  She’s certainly using words to good effect these days.

  Splashed out another £20 on a matching dinosaur sleeping bag.

  Also threw in a jumbo bag of M&Ms on sale by the till.

  Like I say, shops are rigged for weak-minded parents.

  Evening

  Arg!

  Along with the duvets, sleeping mats, crates of beer and bags of jumbo marshmallows, I couldn’t fit the little tent and Daisy’s new sleeping bag in my car.

  John Boy tried to help, kicking things into place with his prosthetic leg, but it was no good.

  My car is designed for carefree twenty-somethings who chuck a small dome tent, single sleeping bag and crate of beer in the car for a festival once a year.

  Now I know why people buy roof boxes, which before were a mystery.

  Have been forced to choose between thick, warm bedding and a bed.

  Admittedly, I could leave the beer and prosecco cool box and have room for an air mattress, but that’s not going to happen. In life, you have to prioritise.

  Have opted for bedding and packed two yoga mats instead of the luxurious flocked double air bed Mum and Dad lent me.

  Like Mum says, on a good camping trip you’ll drink yourself unconscious. And kids sleep through anything.

  Daisy is very excited about camping. That’s because she’s never been before. When she realises that, along with the toasted marshmallows, there is a lot of physical discomfort, arguing about tent poles and cold, late night dashes to dark toilets, she may change her mind.

  Friday 29th June

  Camping today.

  Am trying to put on my cheerful hat, because I can recall some nice times on family camping trips.

  Fish and chips around the campfire. Mum’s super-duper hot chocolate with whipped cream and crumbled up cookies on top. Bacon sandwiches in the morning. Bacon sandwiches for lunch. Sometimes for dinner too – who doesn’t love a bacon sandwich?

  Unfortunately, bad memories also linger.

  Thin 1970s camp beds and even thinner 1970s nylon sleeping bags, fierce wind, rain and thistles making a mockery of Dad’s ‘storm-proof’ tent, Mum snoring through thin canvas walls.

  Mum has won a campsite record before – causing FOUR neighbouring campers to sleep in their cars.

  As soon as we arrived at the campsite, Daisy ran around like a lunatic, shrieking, cavorting and singing inappropriate songs, occasionally helping herself to Wotsits and chocolate biscuits from Mum’s giant food suitcase.

  Put my tent up surprisingly quickly, but then Dad passed his critical eye over it, saying I hadn’t pegged it out symmetrically, lashed the storm guy ropes or put the pegs in at a 45% angle for ‘maximum strength’.

  Let Dad re-do the whole tent, while Mum and I opened the prosecco and set up the barbeque.

  John Boy, who was already on his second can of Stella Artois, said, ‘Just stick all the charcoal self-lighting bags on Aunty Shirley. You want a proper tear up for that many sausages.’

  Like an idiot, we followed his instructions.

  Half an hour later, we had flames as high as the caravan, and the campsite fire warden sprinting across the field, shouting and waving.

  The warden insisted on dousing our barbeque with three buckets of water, but the flames refused to be quelled. The barbeque was like one of those mythical beasts that reform over and over.

  Eventually, John Boy starved the fire of oxygen by squirting his shaving foam over it. But obviously, no one wanted the sausages after that.

  Mum suggested getting fish and chips or Domino’s pizza.

  Dad accused Mum of intentionally ruining the barbeque so she could order a takeaway.

  Mum was incensed, saying they’d been married over thirty years – didn’t he know her well enough to realise she’d never intentionally ruin sausages? Then Mum stormed off to the caravan, slamming the door so hard it came off its hinges.

  Dad roared that he’d warned Mum about the dry rot around the doorframe.

  Mum roared back, ‘Fuck off!’

  They’re trying to fix the caravan door right now, but it doesn’t look promising.

  Althea still hasn’t arrived, which is a shame because she would cheer Mum up with her colourful camping gear and The Doors, Pink Floyd and David Bowie MP3s and booming speaker system.

  Afternoon

  Alex is here.

  He’s turned Christian Grey and stalked me.

  I’ll be honest, being stalked feels great. However, I’m keeping things friendly, not romantic. I’ve learned my lesson, re: falling down that rabbit hole again.

  Alex arrived in a Land Rover (which he called a ‘Landie’) borrowed from one of his many farm-owning friends, plus some army-style cooking equipment and a set of cricket bats.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked him. ‘How did you find us?’

  ‘
I came to spend time with you and Daisy,’ said Alex. ‘And Laura told me where you were.’

  ‘This is verging on stalker-dom,’ I accused. ‘Do you have a Red Room in that big house of yours?’

  Alex didn’t seem insulted by the stalker accusation, simply saying, ‘Whatever it takes,’ in a mysterious voice.

  Said I couldn’t handle cryptic crossword clues with Mum swearing in the background about ‘sodding dry rot’.

  ‘Are you staying the night?’ I asked Alex.

  Alex said yes – he planned to knuckle down and sleep in the Landie.

  Apparently, Alex is very used to roughing it. His London boarding school regularly drove the boys out into the wilderness and left them with nothing more than a rucksack of equipment and an ordinance survey map.

  ‘We were expected to navigate twenty miles of dense woodland, build a fire, pitch our tents, then cook a roast dinner,’ Alex told me. ‘We had no adult help whatsoever, and anyone who got hyperthermia was given a jolly good talking to.’

  John Boy, walking past with a pint-sized can of Stella, said: ‘Sounds like the army. You must have had a great laugh.’

  Alex said yes – there were ‘japes’ to keep the lads’ spirits up. Like bundling the effeminate boys in grey blankets and kicking them down hills. Or pouring pepper into boys’ underwear so they’d be in agony and couldn’t sleep.

  John Boy was impressed by Alex’s traditional army mess tins and canvas bags, calling them ‘well smart’. He offered Alex a can of Stella Artois, and the two proceeded to have a manly chat about surviving the great outdoors.

  I suspect Alex would have preferred an expensive whisky in a spotless glass, but he accepted the beer and drank straight out of the can.

  When Daisy came running over for more Wotsits, she waved enthusiastically at Alex, hopped onto his lap and ate crisps between thumb sucks. It looked so natural – her sitting with him, all cosy and comfortable.

  I, on the other hand, was awkward beside Alex, taking large glugs from my enamel mug of prosecco, not at all sure what to make of this new development.

  Brandi, Callum and Richie arrived mid-afternoon in Brandi’s pink Mini, car windows down, horn beeping cheerfully. Richie sat in the passenger seat, knees together, head bent over his mobile phone. He was dressed in classic music-festival attire: sawn-off denim shorts raggedy around the knee and a Red Hot Chilli Peppers t-shirt.

  ‘Would you like a pint of real ale, Richie?’ Dad called out, patting a metal beer keg draped in damp tea-towels. ‘I’ve brought one of my favourites from the pub beer cellar. It’s called Golden Oldie.’

  Richie mumbled something. Brandi played the role of interpreter: ‘He only drinks Smirnoff Ice’.

  Fortunately, the pint offer wasn’t wasted, because John Boy accepted on Richie’s behalf, and downed the Golden Oldie in seconds. Then he had a shot of Aftershock, took off his prosthetic leg (which was giving him a rash in the heat) and went off to chat up some twenty-something girls at the other side of the campsite.

  We heard whoops and screams as John Boy hopped around with one of them on his back.

  Evening

  Nice evening around the campfire. The fire itself took a while to get going, but we got there in the end – despite the damp wood. The poor fuel quality was Dad’s fault, because he refused to pay ‘a king’s ransom’ for bagged firewood from the honesty shop.

  Alex offered to pay, but Dad wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Five pounds for a bag of firewood!’ said Dad. ‘That is quite literally burning money. Wood grows for free! Who’s up for a foraging mission?’

  Dad took Daisy and Callum for woodland foraging and returned with a poor collection of green twigs. Then all the men fought over lighting the fire.

  Alex managed it in the end. He used petrol from the Landie fuel tank.

  Once the petrol had burned off, we were able to get more sausages cooking – luckily, Brandi had two packets of Wall’s sausages in her little pastel-blue cool box, along with a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice (for Richie) and various mixed cocktail cans.

  As predicted, Mum came out of her huff when she smelt food cooking.

  Mum was as surprised as everyone to see Alex.

  ‘What are you doing here then?’ she asked.

  ‘I came to see Juliette and Daisy,’ said Alex.

  ‘Don’t mess her around again,’ said Mum. ‘Do you want a pint of ale? Bob’s bought a keg.’

  Alex said yes, he’d love a pint of ale.

  We had a little game of cricket while Dad made sure the sausages were absolutely, completely cooked all the way through and Mum shouted at him for being ‘bloody obsessive’.

  Then we all sat around to eat.

  Alex did make some tentative requests for ‘Dijon mustard and possibly a few rocket leaves’, but he ate the crap, cheap sausages without complaint and made lots of nice comments about hearty food and good company.

  Late evening

  Althea finally arrived at 7pm.

  She and Wolfgang came careering across the field in her customised transit van, beeping her horn and flashing her headlights. They were later than usual because they’d stopped to pick fresh strawberries at a local farm.

  Apparently, it took rather a while to show Wolfgang how to pick single strawberries.

  Althea offered us five cardboard baskets of strawberries for a ‘midnight feast’, several of which contained entire plants, complete with roots and leaves. She gratefully downed the plastic pint of ale Mum gave her, then single-handedly erected her huge events shelter, raggle taggle of bunting and fish wind socks, cauldron tripod and hammock village.

  We all tried to help, but Althea is militant when it comes to her artistic vision. The event shelter ‘altar’ had to face east, and the bunting hang just so.

  When Althea had finished, she put on a floppy Liam Gallagher sun hat, accepted another pint of ale, sat in her Mexican hammock chair and asked Alex what he was doing here.

  ‘I came to see Juliette and Daisy,’ Alex replied.

  ‘We’re just friends!’ I said, in a high, embarrassed voice.

  ‘Alex,’ said Althea. ‘Do you want to be just friends with Juliette?’

  Alex looked at me, all stern. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Jules,’ said Althea. ‘Do you want to be just friends with Alex?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s not going to work out.’

  ‘The past is gone,’ said Althea. ‘All you have is now. If you both want it to work, there must be a way. WOLFGANG, STOP JUMPING OVER THAT FIRE!’

  ‘We’re too different,’ I said.

  ‘So it’s just a sex thing?’ Althea asked.

  Alex barked, ‘Absolutely not.’ He stared at the fire, looking all angry and brooding.

  Then Dad strolled over swinging a cricket bat. ‘Alex, do you fancy a sunset game of cricket? Callum? Richie? John Boy? Who’s up for a thrashing?’

  ‘What’s this sexist bullshit?’ Althea demanded. ‘Only asking the men if they want to play.’

  Dad explained that Mum, Althea and I were all inappropriately dressed for sports, referencing our ‘dangerous footwear’ (flip flops).

  ‘It’s a sprained ankle waiting to happen,’ said Dad. ‘I won’t have a visit to Accident and Emergency on my conscience. Not on this trip.’

  Callum was keen to join in, but Richie opted out of the game after a few minutes. It was for the best. I’ve never seen literal butterfingers before.

  After the game, we all sat around the fire drinking and chatting.

  Then Alex and Dad went for a ‘nice walk in the woods’, so I was able to question Mum, Brandi, Althea and John Boy about the latest Alex-related developments. (Richie was there too, but might as well not have been – he had his headphones on and was playing Angry Birds).

  ‘I got it wrong about his girlfriend,’ I explained. ‘He wasn’t seeing that Bethany girl and he wants to try again. What should I do?’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Althea. ‘You’ll grow as a per
son.’

  ‘He’s less of a twat than I thought,’ said John Boy. ‘He got the fire going, and I like his camping set up. He’s come all the way out here to see you. That’s good. It shows he’s keen.’

  ‘He’s really fit,’ said Brandi.

  ‘He could be worse, love,’ Mum conceded. ‘I mean, look at Richie over there. At least Alex can look you in the eye and tell you if he wants sausages or not.’

  It was Daisy’s comment that really got me. ‘Love Rex, Mummy,’ she said.

  Now I’m back in confusing ‘will they, won’t they’ no man’s land.

  Things are easier when I’m sure we have no future.

  Am writing this by lantern light with Daisy sleeping beside me.

  Alex is sleeping in the back of the Land Rover on a wool blanket – which he said was reminiscent of his boarding school days.

  Better go to sleep now.

  Someone – Mum I think – just screamed ‘put that sodding light out.’

  Saturday 30th June

  I’ve done something crazy. Possibly stupid. Either way, my life is about to change big time.

  Daisy woke at 6am.

  This meant I woke up at 6am too.

  Bloody sunshine.

  I’d forgotten about the curtain-less qualities of canvas.

  Took Daisy to the toilets and was struck by the sparkly green grass and rolling fields.

  Lovely to be part of nature like this. For a moment, I understood Dad’s love of camping and sleeping in the wild. Then we reached the horrible, concrete toilet block with its pathetic lukewarm showers, and I remembered why I hate camping.

  Daisy and I went for a wee and brushed our teeth (I didn’t risk the showers, instead using John Boy’s ‘army bath’ technique of liberally spraying deodorant).

  When we came out of the toilets, Alex jogged past. He’d already been for a three-mile run and picked up bacon from the campsite honesty shop.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite well,’ I said.