We are both wiser.

I shall not elaborate.

After setting off, funny engine noises led me to stop and check the oil.

No oil.
Put in oil.
All well.

Trip to Barmouth, including driving up a mountain, which could be completed only in first gear.

Arrival and set-up in torrential rain.
Torrentially leaking window.
Discovery, purchase and application of bizarre vaseline-covered tape.
Unwashable vaseline hands for Jols.

I discovered I needed to rewire a non-standard plug to gain electricity.
Needed to purchase tools.
Needed explanation of how to rewire.
I was still unable to get the electricity working.
No heating.
No fridge.
Ruining of bacon and milk.

We drove off to a local eatery, which served the crappest microwave meal I could have imagined.
We decamped to another eatery for dessert, which was fractionally better.

We summoned up the courage to return to the cold caravan.
A leaking skylight had directed rain into the binbag containing our duvet.

It was at this point > < that I snapped, and Jols and I fell out over her ever more futile attempts to keep a cheery outlook, and my reference to a ‘ludicrous situation’ and a ‘piece of shit caravan’.

We went for a walk in abject silence, and entirely failed to find a path through to the sea, so had to turn on our heels and walk back.

Shortly before departure the owner of the site came over and explained how to connect the electricity, which required the pretence of cheeriness and gratitude.

We had to leave at 10am to get back to the caravan storage place, which closed at 1.

We had had no breakfast, and had no time to stop for anything.

Part-way home the right indicator stopped working on the back of the van.

We arrived at the caravan depot five minutes before 1, to find it shut.

We bumped into the owner, who opened it for us to quickly drop off the caravan.

Upon returning home, wearily unpacking the uneaten bacon, and undrunk pink champagne, I discovered the already warm milk had leaked on to the back seat of my car.

Agreement has been reached that a second outing will take place only after certain conditions have been met.

On Thursday Jols and I headed off to White Stuff’s new Worcester branch, where we were met by the very accommodating Georgie and co (up from London!), who were responsible for the whole ‘caravan’ promo. Georgie has, she told us with what you might classify an edgy laugh, carted the Princess from festival to festival, from Cornwall to the Isle of Wight, to Edinburgh and everywhere in between throughout the summer.

Life, she admitted, will be odd without the Princess. But Georgie’s made of strong stuff. After all, the White Stuff winter collection’s in, and she’s all about garden gnomes now. And it doesn’t stop there; apparently the campaign for summer 2010 is well under development, but no amount of prodding and pouting from Jols and me could tease a hint out of her as to what it’s all about – or what competitions they might be running.

What an odd job.

For all our don’t-know-what-to-do-with-a-caravan-ness, the White Stuff people have been very good to us; the Princess has been decked out inside and out by the woman who designs the stores, and so the wallpapered exterior has been matched by a wallpapered interior, a wallpapered picnic table, gilt-edged shelving and chintzy lampshades. Cushions have been specially made, a picnic hamper provided, but the pièce de résistance is an astroturfed step.

Quite against their Ts and Cs they carted the caravan from London to Worcester, and decked us out in White Stuff clobber so we would look the part for a few photos.

I shall do my best over the next few days to pen you a note about how all of this went.

The result of all this oddness is: the Princess is ours, and she now resides in a Secret Location in Deepest Shropshire.

Your pal

j

While working out the finer points, Georgie from White Stuff mentioned: “Of course, we’ll want you dressed head-to-toe in White Stuff clothes. Head off to the nearest store and get some ideas about what you’d like to wear…”

It will come as no surprise to you that it takes a situation of the gravest seriousness for me to hazard even a foot towards the changing rooms. I found myself in the Shrewsbury store, loaded up with a full five items to try on. Jols, for her part, flung herself into the task, and staggered up after me practically buckling under half a hundred-weight of White Stuff’s autumn collection.

“Oh my god,” the assistant actually muttered.

One quick explanation later, and by now ensconced in a packed-to-capacity changing room, Jols was subsequently referred to in hushed, reverential tones as “the caravan lady”.

It didn’t take me long to decide on my choice (by which I mean: I’m a man; we’re all the same shape; we’ll wear anything), and I settled into a nearby chair while Jols busied herself behind the curtain conjuring up some White Stuff magic.

We felt a bit bad departing the store having bought nothing, and leaving the staff to put the place back together – but the real work is yet to come: my wedding photos remind me it’ll take more than magic to wedge a comfortable smile into my face.

“Cheeeeeese…”

j