Category: Holidays

For one, albeit brief, moment  you consider selling Aunt Mabel’s gift on eBay to raise funds but you remember last year when you tried to offload the shoe polishing kit she got you and the one bid you got was for 49p with the proviso you paid £6:20 for sending it to them recorded delivery. 

You are skint, you are always skint on St Dunandusted’s Day, don’t worry.

But you do worry, Dunandusted Day means Valentines is coming and you promised yourself you’d do flowers and chocolates (even Hotel du Chocchy Woccy ones) this year.
Mind you Easter Eggs are on the shelves now so maybe you could combine the two?

I was against it. I volunteered not to go. Not because I don’t like water slides, outdoor rapids and sitting on large rubber rings whilst zooming down oversized plastic tubes – in fact, I probably like these more than most people – just because I was against it. Just because. Plus, I knew I’d then have the cast-iron get-out clauses of ‘I told you so’ and ‘It wasn’t my idea’.

We had a nervous 24 hours between booking the ’sitter and speed-changing in a humid cubicle.

‘What if it’s a man?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a teenager?’ I said. ‘It won’t be,’ my wife replied, based on nothing whatsoever. ‘What if it’s a …’ I was interrupted by a complimentary guest magazine hurtling towards me.

To leave the single most precious thing in your life (complete Figurini Panini football sticker albums and chronological set of St Albans Beer Festival commemorative glasses excluded) with someone you’ve never even met before is unnerving.

We spent the whole preceding day not talking about it, save for my brilliant suggestion:

‘What would you prefer – me complaining all evening that I don’t trust her or me leaving before she arrives and you shouldering the responsibility as to whether she’s a fit and proper person to look after Bridget?’ (Bridget isn’t our daughter’s real name, but people always hide the identities of their children so I’m just following suit. Her name nearly was Bridget, though (or would it have been Bridgette, or even Brigid – we never got that far, thanks to the timely intervention of morphine – it’s a long story).

We came to a compromise: The ’sitter (I dislike that term, having now typed it twice. I want her to stand, walk around, sing, play games – be a mix of Mary Poppins and Nanny McPhee, perhaps with a sprinkling of Taylor Swift for my benefit, not slump in front of the TV watching TOWIE while my daughter cries) was due at 7.30pm so we agreed that I’d leave at 7.25 so as to absolve myself of all parental responsibility. A brilliant plan, I thought, and one guaranteed to ensure I had a conscience-clear evening of water slides and inflatable rings, followed by two swift pints in what passes for a ‘pub’ at Centrerere Parcs (CAMRA members and anyone with a sense of taste and a desire for quiet drink turn away and save your eyes – think Jarman Park meets Luton Airport bar).

Nothing could go wrong. Nothing.When the spotty teenager or middle-aged male babysitter arrived, I’d not be there. My wife would be armed with a toddler not called Bridget and a get-out-of-jail emergency plan. This pre-agreed escape route was that if the ‘vetted’ babysitter arrived looking like he/she had been vetted in the animal medicine sense of the word, my wife would promptly pay in cash and say ‘thanks, but no thanks’. Either away, my appointment with Tornado, Twister and Torpedo was assured.

Debbie was brilliant. Our friends had Jean, who was equally great, apparently. With names like Debbie and Jean, our children were in safe hands.

Now, I don’t know much about babysitters as we fortunately have relatives locally, but one of the things that concerned me most was the cost only being £6.50/hour. When you’ve precious little by way of advance information to go on, price can be an indicator of quality. Now, I use the term ‘only’ with real caution. But, remember, we were at Center Parckcks; a place where, despite being in a forest (of sorts), once inside the barrier the cost of living exceeds that of uptown Manhattan, with everything about 30% more than in the real world. So our £6.50 was really only about £4.90. Plus, we booked Debbie indirectly so I’m sure CP took a cut somewhere along the line. This means, very roughly, we’d probably paid the real world equivalent of £3.90 an hour for a top-notch babysitter. In advance this made me nervous. With hindsight, I now think it’s probably about the only flippin’ bargain available anywhere at a Parc Central. You live and learn.