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A head butt t'will be alright. Stories from my studio.

Updated: Oct 10, 2021

There are about 120 vans in various degrees of decay, Just like their occupants. None of the vans are new, they have all seen better days.

The vans are sited in a coastal meadow with a Site of Special Scientific Interest, between us and the sea .

There are a few people who are in residence from March to December but most are weekenders, which makes this is a quiet sleepy place, usually, except from the occasional male dropping his pants or unzipping his fly, displaying his wares to the caravans in the valley below. It is akinned to being in a bird hide unseen to the passing flocks.

Our van is called Herbert, not many people know this because they don't bother to look . It's on the front in little black letters. The story of Herbert is for another time.

We had an empty plot to the right side of our for over a year, then all hell broke loose !

A very unusual family arrived, kids, cars, grandparents and the cutest designer dog. Oh, and a little caravan of people and a flat bed tuck to bring the dog kennel. Apparently the dog's a labradoodle, all black and curly with fluffy feet. I thought the dogs name was Scotty but no, its Sooty; pronounced Sht’ty The family speak a strange and antient form of English that is basically formed by combining grunts and constants. If Neanderthal man had a dictionary, these people would be the anthologists. I'm starting to interpret language. I love all the dialects of old English, like Cornish and Geordie and Norfolk, such a shame they're becoming lost in the melee of posh. Our neighbours do have a Sunday English for when there are strangers about who want to communicate.

They are interesting people, they just grunt a lot and carry around heavy implements.

No, seriously They keep a heavy mallet under their van, its used to fix lots of problems, The clothes line, the wind breaks (3 of) kids (3 of) toys, repairing the bike and installing a television antenna. On their first weekend they managed to put a dent in our Herbert, just under the kitchen window. It was not an evil deed, the favourite grandson, Grrr (potato head), fell over one of those ball on a pole toys and head butted into the side of the van, Thwack! Grandad shouted “R’N !” at the befuddled kid as he kinda waddled off and hid behind grandads car. We didn’t call for an ambulance, we just got Tony the odd job man to have a look at both van and child. He said the van would be O.K. but the child and his family were beyond rehabilitation.

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