It’s Official: I am a Dickhead

2009 has been a banner year for me in terms of disasters. I ruined the tent, crashed the car, earnt 42p a month, ordered my shopping at ASDA, went on holiday during monsoon season, choked on some slow-cooked turkey and a million things that haven’t even made these pages. But, ever mindful of the need to up the ante, I excelled myself at the weekend.

We arrived at the bed and breakfast place in Windermere after a two and a half hour journey across the savage moors of Northern England, lashed by rain and wind and fog throughout and straining to hear updates about the flooding on the radio. Tired and cramped, we went in, had the usual “breakfast is at 8 and there’s a Co-op across the road” introduction from the owner and slumped in our room while the kids bounded around and enjoyed a bit of freedom.

Eventually, I volunteered to go downstairs and start unloading the car. As I stepped outside, I froze. Surely that latch on the front of the topbox shouldn’t be hanging open like that? With a chill in my bones, I opened the box, peering between my fingers.

Oh fucking bastarding hell.

“Oh nononono,” said my brain. “Oh yesyesyesyesyes,” said my eyes. In the space where mere hours ago there was my wife’s winter coat, a blanket, my flat cap and my son’s woollen winter jacket was… err… just space. Somehow, through incompetence, inattentiveness or (my fervent desire and hope) a faulty latch, I’d been driving for two hours with much of holiday accoutrements spraying out happily behind me as I went.

Now, you’re thinking: “Hey – nobody died, and what’s a coat between friends?” but listen: for our trip was in celebration of my son’s 4th birthday. And in the topbox were two bags of presents. Now there was just one.

Shit. I went inside to face my wife.

Naturally, she was just relieved that we were all OK and pointed out that these things happen and that really, possessions are but fleeting expressions of self and are as easily replaced as they are lost. Oh hang on – I just took a sojourn in an alternative reality. In fact, I was subject to a richly deserved 2 hour harangue about my general incompetence, unsuitability for marriage and fatherhood and I’m pretty sure there was talk about recipes where my testicles might feature as an ingredient.

So it was that I found myself on the long, lonely stretch of road between Windermere and Kirby Lonsdale (the A591, fact fans) stopping the car on perilous roadside verges to trudge through the mud in the forlorn hope that I’d just seen a coat or a present in a hedgerow and not – as it inevitably turned out – a bit of old carpet or an empty lager multipack.

What did I return with? A single, solitary GoGo. Don’t ask. 5op’s worth of plastic. Amidst the roadside muck and carnage, the odd piece of cardboard bearing the word ‘Hotwheels’ and the occasional shower of red plastic indicated where the presents had gone back to the great Chinese sweatshop in the sky.

But, from such unpromising beginnings, and despite a near incessant deluge wafting in over the Irish Sea, we spent a joyous couple of days. And a friendly toyshop in Bowness managed to replace the missing toys.

I still need to replace my wife’s coat though. So if anyone needs a Frank Spencer style handyman to come round and sort out their plumbing…

Gallery (not pictured: dickheadedness)

Your typical Carpenter family holiday destination

Replacing presents: £70. Josh's expression: Priceless

Megs rushing to take advantage of this weeks' special offer

Josh dancing in a *very* understanding Italian restaurant!

A more successful moment at South Lakes Animal Park

Mum: slightly more scared of emus than her 1 year old daughter