Playing out

I think that we are going to have a holiday.

The children come home in the next couple of days. Oliver will be back tomorrow, and Lucy on Saturday.

This gives us a little crevice of time and space into which we might squeeze a holiday before all of the other schools in the world break up.

This is good for two reasons. Firstly, obviously, because nowhere will yet be packed to the seams with squabbling hot families, and secondly because one of the first places to become thus packed is the Lake District, and then we will need to be at work.

Mark agreed about this, because agreeing is one of his talents when he knows that I have set my mind on something. 

I had set my mind on having a holiday, but had got no further than that. Where we might go was a complete haze of daydreams and impractical ideas.

Mark said that I should look at the computer this morning and see if anything seemed inspiring, so I did.

Obviously the thing that inspired me instantly, and to the core of my very soul, was a trip to Disneyland, at which I looked longingly for quite some time, but did not book, for obvious economic reasons.

I am not really all that excited by Disneyland itself, I am indifferent at best to riding on things, and Mickey Mouse leaves me cold. The thing is that I am continually overwhelmed by the massive creativity of the place. It has been painstakingly built to feel safe, and beautiful, and thrilling all at once, and succeeds magnificently. 

This intrigues me. Since we painted the camper van we have often been struck by the fact that everybody who looks at it makes the blithe assumption that we will be friendly. Of course we are friendly, even when we don’t feel like it. We have to be, because there is something about the colour, and the paintings, that make people feel very comfortable about approaching us and being warm and open. People drop their guard. They relax and tell us things, deeply personal, intimate stories, sometimes, because they believe, somehow, that they will be safe.

Disneyland does this to people, which I think is what I like so very much. 

Also I like the wonderful hotel and the excellent wine and the swimming pool and the sunshine.

I spent far too much time calculating the cost of going to Disneyland, even though I knew perfectly well that we would not be able to afford it. I looked and wondered and screwed my eyes up and eventually gave up.

This was just as well, because we don’t owe anything to our credit cards at the moment, and I could easily have made us very penniless at the click of a Mouse.

I didn’t.

I looked at Blackpool and at York and at London and at Alton Towers and could not find anything.

Blackpool doesn’t allow dogs in the summer, and York doesn’t have anywhere to swim, and London won’t even consider letting the camper van in, because of its gaseous emissions, as if it were an elderly collie dog, and I don’t know where Alton Towers actually is. 

I rang Mark up and told him about this, and he grunted sagely, and suggested that we go up to the Duddon Valley and swim in the rock pools there, which might not cover all the wish list, because of being short of excellent wine and superb restaurants, but would have the immeasurable benefit of being extremely cheap.

So far this is looking at least a bit likely.

I stopped looking at Disneyland on the computer, and went to the camper van, where I spent the rest of the day painting pictures on the wardrobe until it was time to go to work.

Number Two Daughter is not working today. She and Mrs. Number Two Daughter, and Number Three Daughter, and some of their friends, have gone off to camp on Wild Cat Island. They have rowed across Coniston and are having a happy night being teenagers again.

I think that I might like to do things like that with my holiday.

Perhaps I don’t mind not going to Disneyland. The Lake District is quite nice as well.

The picture is Number Three Daughter, playing out.