My ‘Right, that’s it. I’m going home’ moment came at exactly 4.58am on the Thursday morning of our week-long camper-vanning trip. After retiring to the upper bunk the night before, with just a few inches of headroom for manoeuvre, I had just performed a very contorted limbo over my husband Anthony’s sleeping body to try and get to the loo.
But the ladder had shifted. So as I made my way down, it slipped onto my 18-year-old daughter Lily on the bunk below, who was sleeping next to her 15-year-old sister Clio. Cue shouts of: “Ow, that hurt!,’ from Lily, ‘What’s going on?’ from Anthony and ‘That’s it I’ve had, enough,’ from me.
This was now the fifth day of feeling cramped and trekking to the shower block and it was all getting too real.