What a nasty man

Aaaaaaahhhh the joys of a holiday in a caravan. Cheap, cheerful, full of fun, exciting times when you are a six year old. Like you've fallen on hard times when you are a forty-something. 

Alas, that is where we spent five cosy days during the first week of the Easter holidays and we had a brilliant time. All shacked up together in a small plastic cabin and not one argument between us. 

We hired a rather nice adapted static caravan. Excellent ramp straight to the door, not so excellent flushed access from the ramp and over the threshold but better than lifting over several steps. Lots of room inside and a large bathroom with a shower seat.

It was during the evening of day one that Dan first pointed out the height of the sink and cooker or lack of it. Of course, adapted means everything is lower for wheelchair users. 

Beds were a thing of torture but bearable yet it allowed us to have an adventure and spend time together which we haven't been able to do for a while. 

As it turned out Zack was much happier at base camp than going on a tour of beautiful North Wales. 

We visited a few towns, which, whilst quaint in nature seemed to have not moved past 1959. And don't get me started on lack of internet facilities. Day two of my unplanned digital detox had reached fever pitch by my cries of "Why is there no wifi?" By day three I had learnt to accept my holiday life and was a much more relaxed human being. 

Swimming was a daily activity, adventure was a given and falling into a dress rehearsal for a musical was a fortunate event. 

Pottery was painted and a child's gambling habit brought to the forefront by a determined father to win at the Trolls grabber machine even if it left him destitute and penniless. We were never successful and probably twenty quid out of pocket. 

There was a lot of eating. A lot of eating. But most of all, a lot of laughter. 

We encountered back to the dark ages disability discrimination from a lady of a certain age in a tatty old shop. 

This equated to a stand off between her, Dan and Zack. She being of the mind that he was not getting down the corridor of tat and Dan specifically telling her he was and he will and by no means is his son being forced out of a shop. End result, said lady of age going back behind her counter and in a loud voice making the statement, "What a nasty man." 

Ding, dong, round two. Now I'm involved defending the 'nasty man' and trying to explain that it wasn't very nice to not try and make the shop a bit more accessible for people with disabilities. She didn't care, she worked there six days a week she told me. I walked away knowing you can't educate the ignorant.

All that didn't matter when we watched a show that included children who were on holiday, one of which had cerebral palsy like Zack. The staff working in the show (are they entertainers? well you know the type, theatrical, sing a lot) made every effort to include her and she had the most beautiful voice when it came to her line to sing. 

You can't always get equality, but it's there in between the dark, pushing through. 

Disability equality aside, our staycation was a massive lump of joy. These are our good days and our lucky days. And when you have a child like Zack you treasure them even more. 

In my head it had already landed firmly poo side up

What do you do on a Bank Holiday when the sun is shining? Why go for a picnic, that's what.


Yep. Thought we would have a nice and I underline the word nice, family day out. This included an hour of preparation just to get out of the door. Two huge bags, one huge buggy, two car seats, two children and two adults. 


We got to the park in question, sun shining, both the Pants and Scazaaaah (pronounced with Manc accent) were in a reasonably good mood. 


"Look, why don't we have our picnic over there." Dan pointed at some nice grass interspaced with trees and other families/couples having lovely picnics. 


"Oh good idea." So we grab the bags, the children and plod over to a nicely selected piece of grass.


I lay down the blanket and start to get organised. What this really means is a lot  unpacking.


"There's rabbit shit everywhere." Dan points at little black poops scattered all over the grass, I wash over it, a minor flaw and we are sitting on a blanket that is just big enough for both are backsides. Scazaaaah starts crying. Zack starts crying. 


"There's midgies all over the place." He's right, there are hundreds of them. 


"Right that's it get up we are all moving over to that other tree." This took a further ten minutes. 


The midgies follow us to the new spot five minutes after that.


There we where, each sitting in front of a child to shade them from the sun. Dan was trying to feed Scarlett and I was tube feeding Zack. All the while trying to eat a sandwich and a few pork snacks (hey, they were Marks and Spencer pork snacks).  We glanced over at another couple. They were sat on portable chairs, drinking a glass of wine. Bucket BBQ all set up, food in tupperware. Reading the broadsheets. Oh yes, all very bloody civilised, and no children either. 


A gust of wind suddenly lifted up the recently departed nappy from Scarlett I just grabbed it in time before it disappeared. In my head it had already landed firmly poo side up in the face of the wine drinking, broadsheet reading woman opposite. How's that for your posh picnic. Bitter, me? No of course not. 


As we sat there, now freezing because the sun had moved and being wind swept due to the intermittent gale force wind. Dan turned to me and said, "Well this is pleasant isn't it?"


Picnic, pleasant? Not unless you're middle aged and have no children. Next Bank Holiday I will be decidedly not eating alfresco.