Dear Philippa,

 

I had an Auntie Hilda once, gathered in many years ago, from whose words and actions it was easy to deduce the social values and aspirations of the neighbourhood in which I grew up – “respectable” working class. Her core values were clean net curtains, dipped every spring, and television soaps. She also had a big thing going for caravans – not trailers, but fixed-site jobs preferably located at Scarborough (at a pinch, Withernsea would do). She once spoke highly of a young man who was courting a young woman in the family, and after listing all his personal qualities topped it off by saying, “And he’s got his own caravan”. A high-flyer indeed.

 

Her devotion to Scarborough above all Yorkshire seaside resorts was single-minded. The East Yorkshire bus company used to offer during the summer months, perhaps still does, Mystery Trips where the destination was unknown to all except the driver; could be the moors, Pickering, York, even - or Scarborough. Every Sunday off she would go, and if the destination turned out to be anywhere other than Scarborough she would be bitterly disappointed and unreasonably critical of the bus company, implying that they had taken her money under false pretences. When I asked once her why she didn’t take a scheduled bus to Scarborough, a sure thing, she looked at me as if I were unhinged and said, “Why, then it wouldn’t be a mystery, now would it?” She was straight out of a Peter Tinniswood novel, related to Uncle Mort.

 

Now, I don’t have nets and I have never seen the appeal of caravans of any sort, particularly the trailers that clog the roads in the summer and whose owners are insufferably smug in their belief that they are Knights of the Road. Imagine my surprise when Fiona said the other day that she would like us to buy a Winnebago, which is after all only a caravan with an engine that’s allowed to do seventy in Devon. Auntie Hilda could never have imagined such a vehicle, but had they been invented then she would have liked to have one. I felt myself slipping back – just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in. I had terrible visions of rolling onto a Morrison’s car park in Dawlish, spreading out over two bays like to fat guy who always has the seat next to me on ‘planes, and clipping coupons from the Mirror before grabbing a trolley.

 

I’m not sure where this is will go. I think I’ve parlayed it down to renting one for a week and “seeing how it feels”, but I fear the worst and am praying for rain.

 

Best wishes

Howard