‘Weather’ turns as new caravan gets test drive - Kevin Page

Kevin Page is having some difficulty manoeuvring his new caravan.

OPINION

The other day, as I sat in my car with a storm raging outside, I began to wonder how much a divorce lawyer might cost.

I agree, Dear Reader, it is rather a strange thing to be thinking about, particularly from within the confines of your shiny new ute. But there’s a story behind the thought, as always.

Let me explain.

As you may recall, Mrs P and I have taken the plunge in terms of future lifestyle and bought ourselves a ginormous caravan with all the whistles and bells.

It has been sitting on our lawn a mere 20 feet away from the front door of the house for a couple of months while we worked out how to, well, work it.

Naturally, the first thing we needed to do was find a vehicle solid enough to pull the beast. We eventually ticked that task off and the other day we decided to have a go at hitching up our new ute and moving the caravan.

We weren’t going far. Just a few yards forward so I could apply a bit of TLC to the spot on the lawn where the caravan was and then we’d move it back, position it on its levelling chocks and Bob’s your uncle.

I wish I had an Uncle Bob in my life. I’d have got him to move the caravan for me.

That’s because what seemed like an easy, straightforward task turned into anything but. It’s also the reason why I found myself sitting in the car thinking about divorce on a gloriously fine, sunny day as a storm raged outside.

I say storm. It was more of a hurricane. Hurricane Mrs P to be exact.

To be fair to my beloved, I had just reversed 3.2 tonnes of caravan over the part of her cottage garden she is particularly fond of and then, in trying to rectify the mistake, I’d taken out the letterbox.

That’s when the hurricane reached Force 10.

It had all started well enough an hour or so earlier.

For a brief moment, we were an excited young couple again, exuberant, confident of total success, staunch advocates of the renowned She’ll Be Right mentality. I mean what could possibly go wrong?

Quite a bit as it turned out.

For starters, we didn’t have any reversing mirrors. I couldn’t see the back of the caravan or where I was going.

No matter, we’d use our mobile phones. Mrs P would guide me and I’d respond from within the cab of the ute. We even gave ourselves cool names. She was Vixen and I was Kilo Alpha.

Even now it seems cool to say “Kilo Alpha to Vixen. Do you copy?”

But that plan fell apart when, due to some amazing coincidence, both our phones were dead at the precise time we wanted to undertake the manoeuvre.

No drama. We’d just call out to each other through the open window.

Big mistake.

For starters, I couldn’t hear her and she couldn’t hear me. And I couldn’t see her either.

The only noise I did hear was vegetation, aka prized cottage garden, being crunched up as I reversed.

That was basically around the start of the first pass.

We’d initially thought it would be a simple matter of driving forward a few metres in a straight line then reversing back into the same spot. However, to do so meant we would be briefly blocking the neighbour’s driveway.

I was aware of his daily routine enough to think he wouldn’t need to go out but, wouldn’t you know it, I’d just gone forward and he appeared in his car wanting to get out.

No problem - I go backwards a little, not quite straight, and he gets out.

So now I go forward again and start to line up for another go at reversing.

This time the neighbour’s son suddenly appears, needing to get out. I didn’t even know he had a car so to say I was getting a bit flustered by this point is probably a fair assessment.

This time, instead of going back, I take the plunge and haul the giant beast 20-odd metres out into the middle of our little cul-de-sac.

Now all I’ve got to do is reverse it back into the tight little spot it was delivered to (not by me obviously) and we’ll all be happy.

Remember, I’m doing this essentially blind and my helper is disappearing in and out of sight in my side mirrors, waving frantically a fair bit of the time. I eventually work out her waves are warning ones, basically telling me to stop rather than “you’re all good, keep going”.

Another matter for our debrief perhaps. Maybe some polytech does a course in Wife Waving Signals for Reversing Husbands.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours of toing and froing, we get the caravan into position and up on to its levelling chocks.

One side of the lawn and garden looks like a battlefield with deep ruts in the grass and crushed vegetation. A battered letterbox lies in the dirt as if it had made one last, heroic stand before eventually being overrun.

Thankfully, that vein in Mrs P’s forehead has stopped pumping and the fixed glare has been replaced by a resigned, glazed-over look. She’s even stopped questioning my parentage.

To cheer her up, I firstly accept total responsibility for the calamity, even keeping the word “but” out of my grovelling apology.

I shall make it all up to her by preparing the caravan so we can sleep in it that very night. Our first night in it no less.

This elicits a brief smile of enthusiasm so I know I’m on to a winner.

For the next few hours, I’m all over it.

The caravan is very posh so I make sure her first taste of it is going to be special.

I make up the big plush bed, dim the lights, get the heater cranked up so it’s nice and warm, position the telly just right so she can lie in bed and watch her favourite movie. I’ve even got some special supplies in and put them in the fridge so we can enjoy a nice breakfast too.

It was pretty hectic. And tiring. But when I pulled the caravan door closed behind me as darkness fell, I knew the tribulations of our first foray into caravanning would be forgotten in favour of a memorable first night inside it, albeit on our front lawn.

And I was right.

We had a good laugh. Watched a good movie. Slept soundly and enjoyed a nice breakfast the next morning as the day beckoned outside.

Unfortunately, we had to open the door at some stage and return to the outside world.

I wished I hadn’t.

It was then I discovered, as did Mrs P right behind me, I’d left the front door and ranch slider of the house completely open throughout the night in my haste to get into the caravan.

Groan. I think the “weather” might be about to turn again. Anyone know a good divorce lawyer?