Brain Salad Surgery - courtesy of the DWP

"Benny was a bouncer at the Palais de Dance"

Now that I have officially joined the ranks of the unemployed, I thought I'd better make it truly official and sign on at my local job centre. When we were told that redundancy was on the cards, my employers arranged for a member of the local Job Centre team to come in and talk to us about the process. 

It was an interesting presentation, to say the least. The speaker spoke eloquently from the PowerPointless presentation, occasionally telling us things that we couldn't read for ourselves.  Her care and attention, given the sensitive and, for some, traumatic situation that many of the audience faced, was startlingly exhibited when, a few minutes into the presentation, her phone rang.  Hardly missing a beat she  apologised, she thought her phone was on silent, and then, proving that she could multi-task, proceeded to fiddle with her phone controls whist still delivering her well rehearsed lines. We felt so important!

So, when the time came last week, I made the trip into Winchester to begin the process of 'signing on'.  I was considerate of creating the right image and so chose to take the bus into the city, rather than drive a shiny Land Rover. I even thought about taking Inca with me on a piece of string with a bandana around his neck, but thought better of conforming to stereotype. 

On arriving at the Job Centre, I was greeted by a bouncer, 'Benny', in a G4S uniform - that's why they couldn't find enough staff for the Olympics! They are too busy guarding DWP buildings against the great unwashed. He was about 60 years old, six foot square and built like the proverbial brick house for the purpose of defecation. As I approached, he stood in front of me in a well trained, non-verbal signal of passive offensive. Looking me up and down, I expected him to say 'ugg', but instead was met with 'can I 'elp you?', in his best attempt at Wintonian.

I looked at the empty reception desk and quickly realised that this was going to be my first challenge. 

"He'd slash your granny's face up given half a chance"

'Yes. Well, I don't have a job and would like to register for Job Seekers Allowance.' I said, in my smartest Essex.

'You will 'ave to go on the inter web and fill in a form. Or you can phone, using your telephone, and speak to...someone.'

'Can't I speak with...someone now?'

'No! I will give you this 'ere bit of paper that 'as the netweb had-dress and telephone number. You has to do it that way ferse.'

I thought about taking issue, but, as my neck was already aching from looking up, I thought better of it and left Benny to his guard post.

"He'd sell you back the pieces, all for les than half a quid"

At home, I duly logged on and completed the application form. In fairness, it was quick and simple enough. A few days later I received a text inviting me to attend an interview at the aforementioned Job Centre. 

On the assigned day, clean shaven and in smart(ish) clothes, I arrived back at the Job Centre. Benny is again guarding the foyer. Even though there is now a very smiley looking woman sitting at reception, Benny intercepts me before I am able to start any dialogue with her. 

'Can we 'elps you, sir?' at least I get a 'sir' this time.

'Yes, thank you, I have an appointment.'

'Name?'

'I'm sorry I wasn't given a name, just a time.'

'No, your name!' Opps! I tell him my name.

He runs a rather large finger down the list on his clipboard.

'You're not on the list'

'I am quite early'

Again he scans the list, lips moving to the rhythm of each new line!

'Ah! Yes 'ere you are. I'll go tell 'im you're 'ere.'

Benny heads off in search of ''im' - sparks emanating from his knuckles as they drag along the nylon carpet.

Seconds later he returns and invites me to take a seat.

 "He thought he was the meanest - until he met with Savage Sid"

While I'm waiting, Benny's twin brother, Sid, turns up. They have symmetrical broken noses and so, standing next to each other, look like they are avoiding the odour of anyone standing in front of them. After about 15 minutes, a voice behind me calls

'Mister...Moon?'

 "Now Sidney was a greaser with some nasty roots"

'Yes! That's me'

'Please take a seat'. I sit in front of the young man's desk.

'My name is Derek. I'm not conducting your interview. I'm just going to check your identity.' 

I freeze, I've just realised, I left my passport at home. I have no positive ID.

'I'm really sorry, but I've brought all sorts of paperwork with me, but I left my passport at home'

'Do you have anything with your name and address?

'I have a print out of my Job Seekers Allowance application form.'

'That'll do.' First hurdle leapt like an Olympian!

 "He poured a pint of guinness over Benny's boots"

'I'll now take you to the staircase as you will have to go upstairs to have your interview.'

'Thank you.'

Derek then shows me to the staircase that is conveniently signed 'Stairs' with a further notice saying 'application interviews - first floor.' Thank god for Derek, I don't know how I would have managed on my own.

At the bottom of the staircase, Derek points to the door at the top and tells me 'you need to go up the stairs and through that door and ask for Alice' 

I am soooo tempted to ask the obvious question!

 "Benny looked at Sidney - Sidney stared right back in his eye."

On the other side of the door, I meet Benny again. I smile, thinking he will have recognised me. 

'Can I 'elp you?'

'Thank you. I have an appointment with Alice.'

'Alice? Who the...' no he didn't, but I was wishing he would.

'Take a seat and I'll tell 'er you're 'ere.' 

I sit.

When I eventually get to meet Alice, she is great! She asks me what I did, how much I earned, what I wanted to do and how much I would like to earn! She was straight forward, honest and helpful. At last! She obviously had to go through certain set procedures, but I was treated as an intelligent, professional person. The only let down, and not Alice's fault I'm sure, was when she handed me a form to sign and, after reading it, I instinctively found myself proofing it, circling three typos and changing an 'i.e.' to an 'e.g.' before scribbling my name at the bottom. Old habits die hard - dyslexic I may be, but I can still spot someone else's bad writing! (just not my own).

"Sidney chose a switchblade and Benny got a cold meat pie."

So, job (or jobless) done! The bizarre thing is, I probably won't be eligible for Job Seeker's allowance anyway! But, it gave me something to write about.

Special thanks to Emerson, Lake and Palmer for the inspirational lyrics - "Benny the Bouncer"! and apologies to the DWP for a slightly apocryphal blog!!

The things one does with spare time!

I've just spent an interesting couple of hours chiseling chewing gum from the underside of redundant school science bench worktops! You might ask 'why' was I doing this? But don't, that bit isn't in the least interesting.  Suffice it to say that it needed doing!


The 'interesting' bit was what I learnt, or re-learnt, by doing the activity!


Lesson One - Science


The adhesive properties of chewing gum are astounding. After only a few days being stacked, some of the worktops needed to be prised apart using a crowbar. The net result of this was that I rapped my knuckles on the brick wall behind the desks and simultaneously brused my ribs as the wooden worktop was thrust, under my own weight, into my chest - thus proving (I think) Newton's second law of physics!


These desks have been out of circulation for about a year and, I'm guessing, some of the gum was deposited many years before.  Although the gum appeared to have gone quite solid, it would seem that, with only a small amount of pressure, its chemical balance shifts so that it softens just enough to form a new bond with whatever is lent against it.


In an equally fascinating discovery, I found that solid gum, once removed from its adherent surface and allowed to fall onto a dry floor, regains its elastic state so that it can re-attach itself to, for example, a passing shoe with the same verve.  In fact, I began to suspect that this gum had at least semi-biological properties as it appeared to move itself into places that had been clear of stickiness when I had last looked.


Lesson Two - History


I understand that these worktops have probably been in the same school for maybe 40 years or more. Even a cursory glance at the engravings, writings and drawings, acid burns, scorch marks and pitted surfaces, begins to unveil a picture of the generations of children who have sat or stood by these desks over the decades. Each succession of pupils learning important lessons such as 'How high will an up-turned petri dish fly if you fill it with gas from the bunsen burner and then set light to it?' and 'Will a single drop of sulphuric acid burn its way through both my pencil case and Kevin's new digital calculator?'


One person seemed to be using the time to revise for their history test about King Cnut.


Lesson Three - English


There were several reminders of the english alphabet to be seen in working language.  One example contained all of the letters in the correct sequence, all 25 (?) - who ever uses 'Q' anyway! One subscriber had presumably spent much of a lesson refining his skill in spelling the 'C' word - only getting it right six times out of seven (unless he was referring the same history test - see above). Possibly this was the person called Tom, who had to practice writing his own name four times!


However, the most impressive was the conjugation of the verb 'F**k' in the past perfect! Who ever said a comprehensive education was a waste of time!!


There is also one nod to English Literature.  In a clear reference to William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies', someone has etched 'Save Piggy!'


Lesson Four - Geography


Obviously Peruvian Studies must have been a part of curriculum at some point.  This is evidenced by the Nazca like scoring across many of the work tops.  No doubt etched with head firmly placed in the crook of an elbow, laid on the table top, so as to gain an authentic 'ground level' view as would have been the case for the Nazca people.


Lesson Five - Social & Gender Studies and Communication


There were the usual and ubiquitous declarations of love, friendship and distain, as well as random messages and references.  The gender of the writer could often be guessed by the style of entry:
Kirsty [heart] Sebastian
Melissa [arrow through heart] Cam
Georgina [two arrows through red heart] Oliver Sebastian (poor Oly, luck Seb!)
Smiffys [sic] a twat
Louis like willys [sic]
You smell! Ha ha!
Science is ........ ( I can't work out if the number of dots relates to a specific word)


Lesson Six - Art


Ah yes! What is it about teenagers that they need to depict male genitalia at any and all opportunity? By far the most prevalent artistic image is the caricatured interpretation of a penis. Graphically obvious though somewhat anatomically incorrect, these drawings are frequently cunningly disguised as a wide-eyes smiley face!

There are some quite well draw cartoon images as well. Along with a couple of outlined hands, one depicting painted nails and sporting a ruby on the ring finger - Georgina perhaps? 


                ------------------------------------------------------------


So that was my morning! A snapshot of life in a Winchester comprehensive and a reminder of my own youth, to a degree, if I'm honest. 


In the interest of safety and security and to protect the innocent (Ha, yeah!) I won't mention which school these desks came from. But, thank you to Michael, they have made me laugh. Once sold, the proceeds will be making their way back into the state education system to support the next generation of little darling's learning experience.


Don't forget, one of them could end up as your Prime Minister!!  

Fifty Shades of Rose

Barbara and I sat drinking tea in her town house kitchen in the city's fashionable southern quarter.  Barbara is my best friend who I tell every thing to. We drink out of mugs.  You know the sort of ones that have straight sides and handles so that you can drink your Twinnings ($10 dollars please) breakfast tea without burning your hands on the sides.

But how can I tell her! How can I tell her about this new stage of my life that is starting to take over my every living, breathing moment. She would just flip if she even had an inkling of what was going on. Since I met Campervandunken Rose, my life has been turned inside out. I'd never even had an RUV before, so being introduced to the deeper world of VW was a shock to my senses that my inner god was still struggling to come to terms with.

My senses leap as I feel my Blackberry ($10 dollars please) vibrate in the front left pocket of my Levi ($10 dollars please) jeans. Has she dained to reply to my earlier e-mail. The one that I've spent the past 12 hours worrying over, thinking that I'd really blown it. Thinking that she would never want to see me again!

From: Campervandunken Rose

Subject: You are in my power!

Date: July 17 2012 11:55 BST

To: Ian Moon

Dear Mr Moon,

Still drinking Twinnings ($10 dollars please) tea, I see. I do hope that you have eaten today and that you are going to be ready to drive me to distraction when we meet!

Mrs Rose

Crap. Okay. Jeez. What's eating her? How can she possibly know that I am sitting drinking Twinnings ($10 dollars please) english breakfast tea.  Has she got a trace on our kettle.  She is so much of a control freak that she has to know exactly what I'm doing at any hour of the day.  I think about this and start to assemble together the jigsaw that she is handing me piece by piece.

From: Ian Moon

Subject: So you think so...four wheels!

Date: July 17 2012 11:58 BST

To: Campervandunken Rose

Dear Mrs Rose,

I thought that the idea was that you wanted to drive! So now, all of a sudden, I'm in control? I haven't signed the HP agreement yet and need to discuss some of the 'hard' rules. Even so, my wallet is already open to you when ever you ask!

Mr Moon

______________________________________________________________________________

From: Campervandunken Rose

Subject: Will you ever do as I tell you!

Date: July 17 2012 11:55 BST

To: Ian Moon

Dear Mr Moon

You must know that you drive me to places that I never thought I would go! I need you holding my wheel, with your hand on my gear stick! You are the only person that I have ever been happy to have treading on my pedals! What are you doing to me!!

Anyway, look out of the window!

Mrs Rose

Crap. Okay. Jeez. I walk across the small but nicely laid out dining room of Barbara's town house kitchen in the city's fashionable southern quarter and, drawing back the John Lewis ($10 Dollars please) curtains, look down and across, with my eyes, into the parking lot! Crap. Okay. Jeez. My heart is in my mouth.  Not literally as that would mean that I would probably be dead or something. There she is, looking up at me. Beckoning me to come down to her and satisfy her needs in a way that I still find hard to comprehend. She won't let me stroke her sensuous red and cream bodywork, but she demands that I submit my bank account to her seemingly insatiable desires.

Making a lame, but plausible, excuse to my best friend, Barbara, who I tell everything to, I walk down the stairs - there is no elevator - putting one foot in front of the other as if I were walking! As I step off the last stair, I look up and see Taylor, holding the door open for me. How did he get there, but, I should have guessed, he is in every chapter!

          "Hello Taylor."

          "Mr Moon." His greeting is as formal as it was in the last chapter. Although, as always there is that hint of a knowing smile as if he knows exactly what is coming next!

As I step into the parking lot, Rosie is there watching me with those watching eyes, watching me.  She never lets me call her 'Rosie' even though, by saying that one word, I feel like the biggest surfer dude in the whole world.

          "Why can't I call you 'Rosie'", I whisper. I look up into her glistening windscreen, longing for her to sweep me up and whisk me to so far away place where we can just be together.

          "I wish I could tell you. But, I'm a campervan and can't really speak." 

I run my hands tenderly across her bodywork.  Gently starting at her fenders and working back towards her soft and yealding quarter-lights. I feel that now familiar electric charge pulsing through my hand and can't hold back any longer. With one quick flick of the wrist, I wrench open her sliding door and all of a sudden, I'm inside! I sink into the oblivion of the driving seat and, as the pure unbridled passion of the moment releases, slip my key into the haven that is Rosie's ignition. Fighting the temptation to run and run and never come back, I give the key a sharp turn in that ever familiar clockwise direction and then, then...

Oh! F**k I forgot that we'd blown up the engine!!!

Well! What were you expecting??


P.S. Thanks for the idea Dawn!!

Rosie Rides Out (pt 2)

It is 12:00 noon and we are packed up and ready to leave Burnbake. We take a look around and see that most of our neighbours have fair'd better that us, but, even so the scene is one reminiscent of a cat that has fallen in a bath. Everything and everyone is wet, to some degree. One tent appears to have gained a moat, it is completely surrounded by water. At closer inspection, it is actually sitting in about 3" of the wet stuff!


Having taken down the sad remnants of our awning and, rather unceremoniously, stuffed them under the rear seats in Rosie - we will take them out and dry it all off when we get home! - we slowly drive through the campsite and out on to the main road. With hindsight - oh what a wonderful human affliction that is - Rosie didn't seem quite right.  As we drove along the main road that runs from Corfe to Studland and the chainferry to Sandbanks, I remember thinking that she had acquired a bit of a smokers growl.  


Leaving the campsite and joining the B3351, we head east on the road that by-passes the wonderful seaside town of Swanage to the north. I know Swanage well, having first visited when I was about 5 years old.  My parents introduced me to the wonders of camping at a young age and, until I was 12, this was our means of achieving a two week summer holiday. At 10, I came here on a school holiday for a week. Six years later, I returned to the same hotel for a Geology field trip - the Isle of Purbeck is renown for its abundance of fossils and is a living, breathing text book of geological features.  Known as the Jurassic Coast, the strand from Weymouth to Swanage is rich with Ammonites, Belemnites and other fossilised creatures. There have also been found amazing examples of dinosaur tracks, some measuring over a metre in width and the clay also lays claim to the largest Pliosaur skull - probably the biggest scariest sea creature ever to have lived on our plant...but I digress (all this is, perhaps, for another blog).

Vicky overlooking Lulworth - 1983

Vicky and I came here on our first holiday together in 1983, camping at a site on top of the cliff above Durdle Door, near Lulworth Cove, and have since visited the area on numerous occasions. After we moved to King's Worthy, we realised that the Isle was easily within day tripping distance and would often take a day out to visit and walk in the area, or simply sit and relax on the Studland beaches. We both fell in love with Corfe Castle, which sits in majestic ruin above the pass into Wessex from Swanage town.


Swanage itself is a testament to bygone days of holiday making and day tripping. With its Fish and Chip shops, amusement arcades and pier, it a stereotypical English seaside retreat. Swanage is quintessential of its type. I never tire of it and always love to visit because it reminds me of a world that exists less and less in our ever over marketed world. It is what it is - no more no less - and for all of that, it is an honest place.

I've scuba dived off Swanage pier a couple of times as well as in Kimmeridge Bay - where I had my first and only encounter with sea horses - and did my Advanced PADI not too far west of there, in Portland Harbour.  Only last year, we took Vicky's mum and dad on a boat trip from Poole harbour to Swanage and back as a birthday treat for Bim. The place holds so many happy memories.

But enough...we are passing Swanage to the north, across the saddle of Purbeck, towards Studland. As we pass the golf course, with an icecream van parked in the carpark, I jovially announce that, "I would buy you all an icecream, but, having just got enough momentum to get us up this hill, I'm b***red if I'm stopping now".  Rosie climbed the long incline across the back of the ridge that, to our right, climbs to the top of the cliffs above 'Old Harry Rocks' - a series of chalk stacks that step out into the English Channel and mark the eastern end of the Isle.  Bearing north, the road sweeps us onto the northern promontory, known as 'Little Isle', that encloses the south eastern side of Poole Harbour. To our right, divided by a half mile wide band of gorse and trees, are the gloriously sandy Studland beaches. Rosie trundles along the road until we reach the toll booths for the chain ferry that will carry us across the 300 yard breach, made by the sea, between Shell bay and Sandbanks, on the mainland.


This place has always fascinated me.  The chain ferry is an open steel platform that pulls itself from bank to bank by means of unrealistically thick, heavy chains attached to either shore. It does this, non-stop, day in, day out, all year round. The trip takes about 10 minutes, plus another ten minutes at either terminus to disgorge its contents and swallow a return journey's worth of travellers. However, this is also the only entrance to, what is claimed to be, at least, the second largest natural harbour in the world. Therefore, each time the chain ferry crosses the void between the two points, it is like someone playing one of those old computer tennis games - except that you don't really want anyone to make a hit - as there is a constant stream of small boats, yachts, ribs, etc. negotiating the  lateral passage into and out of the harbour.  Added to this, twice a day, one of the massive Condor Cats, will enter or leave the harbour, gliding effortlessly through the seemingly too narrow gap. If you have ever seen the opening credits of the first ever Star Wars film, you will understand what I mean when I say that, however impressive the boats are that you see whizzing in and out of the harbour, when the Condor Cat passes through you have that 'Holy F**k' moment as when the battle cruiser appears over your head in the cinema and just keeps on coming.


As is often the case, we have to wait for the ferry to take the earlier arrivals across to Sandbanks and then come back for us. Passing through the toll gate, the attendant points out that our front off-side tyre looks a bit low! The delay waiting for the turn-around affords us some time to consider this. The tyre is, indeed, rather deflated - indicative of our night at Burnbake perhaps.  Barbara and I look at this with concern! Realistically, how far will we get before the tyre is too low to drive on? How far from the other side of the ferry is the next garage? What happens if the tyre does not stay inflated until we get to a garage?  

Barbara and I do not need to discuss the implications! Another victim of the forget list...we forgot to buy a spare wheel!! Rosie only has four and they are already propping her up from the tarmac. Even if we did have a spare wheel, we don't have a jack. Do you know what...even as I type this I'm thinking 'you mindless prat!' How on earth can you drive off in a 40 year old vehicle without basic things like...a spare tyre...a jack...!! But!! being the gadget guru that I am, I triumphantly produce my box of magic tricks. My little grey box that is a phone charger, a fluorescent lamp, a 'jump start' and also...Da DAaaa...an air compressor. We have time on our hands, waiting for the ferry, and so I attach my trusty machine to the offending tyre and flick the switch. It leaps into action and, by the time we are due to embark, has pumped enough air into the tyre to alleviate our fears. Job done, the ferry awaits and the homeward journey should be one of routine.


Gaining the farther shore, we climb up and over Sandbanks and onto Banks road.  Leaving the wind and kite surfers in the bay, we turn right and head, parallel to the beach, to Branksome and then on to Bournemouth. The weather is, by now, in our favour and we are all in good humour. We make the Wessex Way, the main road out of Bournemouth, in good time and Rosie is fair eating the tarmac.  On the dual carriage way, we even manage to overtake a car or two and revel in our, or Rosie's, achievement.  All is going well and we are talking about the lunch that we might enjoy when we get back to Winchester. In no time at all, we are on the A31 heading east - this effectively means just two big roads 'till home, the M27 and the M3. Just as we pass by the New Forest town of Ringwood...Floomph..flooph, floph, floph! 


I quickly pulled in to a convenient turning and bring Rosie to a halt.  This sounds like the exhaust has blown. It's probably 20 years since I have done any serious car mechanics. But, in my favour, that was on old Mini's and my MG Midget.  Rosie's finer parts are probably of a similar make up, so I thought I ought to be able to, at least attempt a, repair. The last and most catastrophic element of the 'forget list' hit me square between my Rosie-tinted glass covered eyes! The tool box! The only 'tool' in the van was the one who had been driving it! I had broken just about every rule in the 'you're going out in a ridiculously old vehicle that no one else on this planet would drive unless they are half wit on a bad day' rule book! 


Could we limp on?  If it was just a blown exhaust, we should be able to make it home, albeit that nothing between here and Winchester will sleep for an hour. So I start to drive, steering us back onto the main road. It becomes obvious within a few yards that this just isn't going to work. Poor Rosie has no power, she is working her pistons to the bone but is barely able to get us up the first incline we come to. This just isn't going to happen.  I pull over again. I feel the eyes of my passengers looking to me for an answer - all six pairs, Barbara, Freya, Megan, Bizzi, Pepper and Inca. No one is saying anything.  Eventually though, Barbara and I agree that going on is no longer an option. We have stopped next to a garden center with the rather ungarden center name of 'In-Excess Gardens'. It takes 15 minutes to slowly reverse down the, now busy, dual carriage way enough that we can drive into the carpark.


Trying to pretend as though this is what we had meant to do all along, Barbara and the girls went into the garden centre for some retail therapy while I called and waited for the emergency services. In all credit to the RAC, they arrived within 40 minutes which, on a sunday afternoon in June, I though was pretty decent. A swift analysis from the expert confirmed that there was no way Rosie was going to get back home in assisted.

The choices, wait another 2 hours for a low loader, or be towed back to King's Worthy. I chose the latter. However, it then transpired that Rosie lacked the appropriate physical accoutrements to be able to use a tow bar, therefore, we would have to use a tow rope. Not I big deal, I thought, I've done this a few time before. Once hitched up, I then spent the next hour following the RAC van, on the M27 and M3, at about 50 miles per hour, suspended from piece of ribbon six feet long.


Rules of being towed: 

1/ use your brake to keep the rope taught. Never let the tow rope go slack - when it snaps tight again, it will probably break; 

2/ don't keep your foot on the brake - you will only be pulling the towing vehicle backwards and damaging its clutch, and you will burn out your own brake pads; 

3/ When approaching a stop - such as a junction - use your brake to slow the towing vehicle so that the rope remains taught;

4/ when pulling off from a stop, let the towing vehicle take up any slack and DON'T touch the frigging brake because the frigging rope will frigging snap!

5/ Don't blink - you will go into the back of the towing vehicle.

6/ Don't breath - air displacement might cause the vehicle to change direction

7/ DO NOT REVERSE POLARITY!!!!!

8/ We're all going to die!!!!!

After 60 minutes of staring at the rear bumper of the RAC recovery van, praying that Rosie's brakes will act, react and disengage appropriately, we make it to the relative safety of King's Worthy and, as agreed with the RAC man, head through the village and out again to the farm yard where my friendly car mechanic Mick Adams has his workshop. It is only at this point it dawns on me that we, and Rosie, are about to be towed past our local pub, the King Charles, on what is now a sunny Sunday afternoon. Everyone will see us! Oh, the ignominy!! I crouch my head down in the hope that no one will notice, knowing that anyone there that knows me will also know and recognise Rosie. As we reach the pub, my relief is palpable. Today is the day of the annual Go-Kart race, held in the farmer's fields opposite the pub. Whilst there are 3 or 4 times the number of people normally there on a sunday, their attention is conveniently and welcomely diverted.


We get to the farm and unhitch our sad and incapacitated charge. We are met by Megan's dad...yes, David - for it is he! - and, leaving Rosie for Mick to inspect the next day, we are taken back to his house for lunch and a much needed glass of Prosecco. Our weekend was coming to an end. We were tired and our adventure is nearly concluded. And, bless him, David never once said 'I told you so'!


Epilogue

So, Rosie has blown a hole in her engine casing. This means a re-build - possibly a new engine. We knew, when we got her, that looking after a 40 year old campervan was never going to be without incident. We had hoped the the incident wouldn't occur quite a soon as it did. However, in the (misquoted) word of Oscar Goldman...


"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic campervan. Rosie will be that van. Better than she was before. Better, stronger, faster."

Thank you for reading.