Escapees

So, the car needs packing, we have to water the goldfish and feed the plants. Then there's the fifteen newly opened packets of perishables in the fridge to be dealt with, and all of that's before we even begin on the negotiations over which toys are chosen to rattle around everyone's ankles on the drive before being left in a service station just outside Calais. Which will, no doubt, cause a major emotional crisis defused only by the hasty purchase of a large bag of luridly coloured and peculiarly shaped lumps of congealed cow-hoof called something like Pumtwats or Bappyteds...

Yes, we're off on holiday. A week of camping just outside Chartres (sadly no connection to Green Chartreuse, so a reduced risk of peculiar, lurid-liqueur-fuelled halucinations). This means that I shall be abstaining from any keyboard activity for a while. It also means that we will be eyeball-deep in mud, huddled in the wind-shredded remains of our tent, trying to hear the World Service to get updates on the worst summer storms in living memory. Or not.

But then, that's half the fun of camping. You can never be totally sure that you are going to have a great time or a miserable one. The other half of the fun is usually made up with table-tennis (25%) and watching some of the strangest people on the planet stride purposefully to and from the 'amenities' block dressed in speedos, socks and sandals, carrying a washbag the size of the Graf Zeppelin under one arm, and whistling Rosanna by the band Toto.

So, into the fray. Wish us Bon Chance, and keep that Michael Fish away from the weather map for the next seven days. Please.

Normal service shall be resumed thereafter.