It’s May and still chilly. We’re taking what Dad calls our early summer holiday. A weekend at the seaside in an ancient caravan.
We’ve stayed here each year since I was born, 13 years ago. Four of us squeezed into a cramped space. It has a chemical toilet, peeling paintwork and seats that form narrow, squeaky beds at night.
I long to ride the roller coaster or drive a dodgem car, but the amusement park isn’t open yet.
