Wendyl Nissen: Caravan confessions

Ensure that you and your caravan have a clear understanding of each others' boundaries. Photo / Bay of Plenty Times

Neglect is such a horrible word. Especially when the person using it is your caravan. I know most caravans can't speak but mine manages to have an ongoing psychic connection with my head which presents itself as a running character evaluation most days. It speaks the way people did in the 60s when it was in its heyday, full of its shiny, faux wood laminates and wooden pelmets.

"Hey baby, where the hell are you?" has been its lament for most of this year. Closely followed by: "It's cool if you're not feeling the love, but the least you could do is let me in on the big secret."

My caravan has a man's voice in my head. I'm not sure why, possibly because caravans are quite manly things, with wheels and bits of strong metal. He's very laid back, stoned most of the time and quite pleasant to have around.

Until now, the caravan has been a pleasant companion who, for the past five years, has managed to encourage me to grab the dog, hop in the car and drive through the dawn to spend time with him.

I have never felt so relaxed, so far away from the city, and I wrote three books perched at the fold-out Formica table watching the sea roll in between paragraphs.

A quick search through my columns finds me in the grips of a mad love affair ...

"The lack of caustic wit and a certain edge has apparently been lacking ever since I developed a passion for an old caravan which lives by the sea and has frequent visits from me," I wrote charmingly. "There I slop around without a mirror doing my best impression of Keri Hulme collecting whitebait in my net, drinking wine and generally clocking out." Ah, that was at the height of our passion.

I would talk on the radio from the caravan, when cellphone reception permitted, sharing the love and regaling listeners with my adventures. Who could ever forget the night a frightened possum ran up me and sat on my head thinking I was a tree?

But like all good love affairs the honeymoon period wore off and we had a crisis involving my caravan's party lifestyle. No sooner would I arrive than he had me booked in for drinks here, a party there and insisted everyone pop over for endless cups of coffee and chat sessions. He had become the caravan equivalent of Rachel Glucina.

"I come here for peace and quiet," I tried to point out. "I need sea air, early nights and head space, not an endless round of socialising. Stop it now!"

"I can't believe you're copping out on me, man," he would moan. "I have a reputation to keep up in this camp, and I'll party whether you like it or not."

And so it continued. As I tried to sleep, drunken campers would hammer goodnight on the caravan as they stumbled past. He'd cry out "party on, dudes!" while I reached for my ear-plugs.

And so the visits slowed down as, back in the city, I now had a new passion with the three hens who had taken over my life. I had no book to write this year and therefore no peace and quiet to find, and I found a quick way to relax was to potter around in the garden.

"It's December 22 and I'm sorry to be uncool and uptight about this whole thing, but man, you have never not been here on the 22nd. I'm beginning to feel a little neglected. Actually, completely bloody neglected." I think he may have been close to sobbing when he said that.

My parents rang from their smart British caravan which lives conveniently close to mine and is the caravan equivalent of Coronation Street's Emily Bishop. She knows the meaning of a good early night and keeping things quiet.

"It's just sitting there looking really lonely. And a little battered, if the truth be told," said my Dad. "When did you last come down and air it out?"

"It was a cold winter, I've been very busy," I lied.

So today the car is packed and I'm heading back down to reignite my caravan passion. I'll do a big spring clean and then we'll settle in for a good chat about boundaries and respecting each other's space with the mad socialising and late hours. And then I'll simply clock out for the summer. Party off, dudes.