Unusually I was putting my foot down as we were a little late in leaving. The kid's dad, with his interest in trench warfare, had decided that his son had needed some detailed instructions in how to use a trowel to divert any rainfall from his tent to neighbouring French pitches. 'I've checked his bag.' shouted his mum in her inside out spotted pyjamas 'He's got everything he needs'.
The trowel (pictured) was positioned in the boy's bag so he could reach for it in the dead of a French night in case there was a need of running repairs. The lad had already been reading 'The Great Escape' and had watched the film twice for visual reinforcement. He remembered his mum saying that any Tom Dick or Harry could manage the underground in Paris.
We had just tooted in support of the protesters objecting to the transportation of live sheep to France in conditions that Southern Rail passengers would die for when the missus asked the youngsters to get their passports ready. The silence of the lambs practising their bleating French best became deafening at that moment.
'Merde' is the translation of the only youthful utterance, repeated by the missus a dozen times as the teenager held on to his comfie rag that his dad had thoughtfully wrapped around the trowel.
The good news is that on receiving the phone call from the missus his mum didn't have time to change her pyjamas thereby scaring the sheep to make their own great escape from the docks and cutting the price of a lamb bhuna main meal by half in the Dover Indian restaurants.
Furthermore his dad was happy to have been able to bring a spirit level so that son fils could ensure a slope of three degrees incline. With le pere (sic) being somewhat more of a Francophile than he was earlier that morning he explained that he didn't want the water draining away at a speed that would disturb the French campers from their slumbers.
Unknown to us the mum slipped in a spare gas canister for the gas bbq and some torch batteries into his bag as she knew that the boys would be up all night fishing by the campsite lake.
With passports on view we waved bye-bye to Dad and the sleeping mum, sailed through British customs. With P&O ferries being like London buses we made up the time lost after wishing our boy's breakfast bon voyage as he threw it up as near as you can without actually reaching the toilet block.
With not even a sniff of Brexit in the offing we were unceremoniously siphoned off to a side garage by a Dwane or a Douane, according to his label who pointed to the boot. Without a word of a lie, this being a truelle story, Dwane carefully took out the trowel, the batteries, the gas canister, the jump leads that the dad had returned to me the day before together with a dead sheep and laid them out on a tarpaulin on the ground, adjusting the bbq using the spirit level until it was perfectly horizontal.
I turned to the missus and said "Which one of us will it sound better coming from when we say 'Je ne parle pas beaucoup de francais?'." In near perfect English he said 'You are very much in luck monsieur. If it wasn't for the fact that it is Bastille day with our Marine Le Pens full I would not be sending ewe on your way so quickly.'
Looking rather sheepish we drove off and stopped at the nearest Fresh Aire. 'It's okay' said our boy 'I've got some McDonald's vouchers.' I drove off listening to TMS with Jonathan Agneau on Long Wave and the boys tucking into to Giant Baby Bels. 'What are you eating?' I asked the missus.' Lambs Tongues biscuits' was the answer as she dunked one in the coffee.
I didn't reply and just concentrated on driving on the right. 'Cat got your tongue?' She asked.
