Short story
A convoy of vans, cars and caravans trickled towards the ferry terminal.
Marci clutched the passports, fighting the wave of dread already rising in her stomach. A week in a motorhome with her husband. Could she really do it?
Overhead, a circus of seagulls screamed as if in reply.
Sean screwed up the tinfoil from his egg sandwich and fired it in the not-very-general direction of the birds. He missed, and it ricocheted off the side of the yellow and white camper van in front of them.
A door opened and the driver climbed out. He was wearing orange flip-flops and a pair of pink shorts that didn’t quite cover his bottom.
‘Hey, man!’ called the surf dude. He retrieved the scrunched-up foil and sauntered over to the nearest bin, flicking the silver ball inside.
‘You might want to work on that aim,’ he said.
The corner of Sean’s mouth twitched as he searched for a riposte.
‘You shouldn’t be driving in flip-flops!’ he fired back. ‘It’s dangerous.’
‘So’s littering,’ smiled the man, disappearing inside his van.
‘Bloomin’ nerve!’ Sean seethed, jabbing at the automatic window button.
Marci turned up the radio, and the motorhome crawled forwards until they reached the front of the queue.
At the check-in point, Sean handed over the passports with an air of ‘is this really necessary?’ The officer glanced at the documents.
‘Any animals on
