Message to the outside world.

Posted on by Alex

There is Wi-fi access, smuggled past the guards.

I am still in Camp Center Parcs, wondering what will happen to me. We arrived six – seven? – days ago, and were immediately taken to a group of huts by the gates, for processing. Our paperwork was stamped – thank God it was all in order – and we were allocated a berth accordingly.

One of the horrors of this place is that whilst families might arrive together, the camp authorities deliberately do not change this state of affairs. We eat, exercise, sleep together. Food we have to scrape together ourselves, or is provided from places featuring laminated menus. Comforts are small, such as the maid service and jacuzzi.

God willing, this post will reach the outside world. I have met a man who promises that he can arrange it that I can leave tomorrow. I do not know whether this is true, or will turn out to be yet one more small cruelty. Remember me to the people on Twitter.

I take up bicycling.

Posted on by Alex

I haul the old machine from the shed, where it’s been resting for a few years.

I have not bicycled for ages and ages, having given up reluctantly due to my arse problem. But I am in the mood at present to get back onto all sorts of horses, and bicycling seems a good start.

Chuff. Chuff. Chuff. I chuff, huff and puff as I force myself up the gentle but long hill to the Village Shop. I feel the muscles in my legs working away, tightening, getting fitter with every thrust. Who is interested in owning an abusive Wii Fit when there is bicycling to be done on a sunny day?

I pick up my newspaper. The Village Shop Lady looks at me in some concern.

“Been bicycling,” I breathe, handing over my small change. This will make it easier on the way back, except I now have the weight of a newspaper to consider.

I retrieve the bicycle from the rack at the front of the shop and set off down the hill. Wheeeeeeeee!!! This is brilliant – the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, not having to pedal at all except a few thrusts to get me going and a couple of top-up pedals as I pass Eddie’s house. I realise that I have missed this feeling immensely. It occurs to me, as I sail down the hill towards the Cottage, that bicycling on a summer’s day is possibly the nicest, nicest occupation in the world.

I fall off my bicycle.

“Ow!” I say, as I mis-time a small stunt and fail to make the raised area beyond my driveway. “Aarrghhh!” as the bicycle disappears from underneath me.

I dust myself off, put the bicycle away crossly, and retrieve my newspaper from the ground.

I stomp in to the Cottage to sit down in an armchair. From across the room, the Wii gives me a sarcastic look.

I am rudely awakened.

Posted on by Alex

“Go back to bed,” I snarl.

The Toddler does not want to go back to bed. “Go back to bed,” I repeat. But to no avail. It is the same every morning. I do not know at what age children’s brains fully develop and they start realising that ‘go back to bed’ are the four best words in the English language alongside ‘fancy a quick pint?’ and ‘shall I wear boots?’. “Go back to bed,” I insist, from under the duvet.

It is fruitless. I rise bad-temperedly, and start thinking about breakfast.

There is something particularly draining about feeding the chickens, making tea, cooking breakfast, starting the washing machine, emptying the dishwasher, doing play-doh, drawing some pictures, doing a jigsaw, watching ‘Thomas the Tank Engine’, doing some more play-doh, hanging out the washing, checking on the chickens again, giving the dollies their milk and taking them to the play supermarket, making some more tea, putting some more washing on, watching ‘Hana’s Helpline’, putting the play-doh away and doing one more jigsaw and then looking at your watch to discover that it’s still 9.20am.

Fortunately, we still have to go to the Village Shop. That will kill fifteen minutes.

Honestly, I don’t understand what it is about children that they want to cram so much into the day. It can’t be healthy. She demands to watch Postman Pat, but I put my foot down. Postman Pat is different now. I suspect he might have had a bust-up with the Post Office licensing people, as he works from the ‘Special Delivery Service’ depot instead of the Post Office, and keeps buzzing around delivering stuff in helicopters.

We go to the Village Shop. I am knackered now. It is 10am.