Friday 6th August 2027
The entrance sign for the campsite reads Sunnywell Holiday Park. I only know this because Eggo showed me the website before we left and told me the address so I could put it into Google Maps. The sign itself isn’t visible. Rain lashes soferociously against the windscreen that I only catch glimpses of it between wiper swishes.
Eggo’s booked a “premium” caravan for the weekend for himself, his son, and me in a beachside camping ground in Weymouth, two counties over. In this case, “premium” translates to two hundred pounds extra on the price tag for proximity to the site facilities, the recently refurbished—2022—two-bed interior, and only partially spoilt views out over the cliffs to the never-ending expanse of sea.
Which, if the weather continues in this fashion, we won’t see anyway.
Logan waits in the car with me while Eggo runs into the check-in building to pick up our keys.
“Are you a shark?” Logan asks.
“No. You already asked me that one,” I reply.
We’ve been playing “what animal am I?” for the last fifteen minutes. I don’t know what’s taking Eggs so long, but so far I’ve been a koala, a kangaroo, and a quokka, since Logan has limited me to Australian animals only. Unsurprisingly, he has chosen three types of spider.
“Do you live in England?” he asks.
“Obviously not.”
“South America?”
“Did you forget the rules you imposed on me?”
“So you live in Australia?”
“Yes, I’m native to Australia.”
“What does native mean?”
“It means I originate from there.”
“What does originate mean?”
I close my eyes. I am a beacon of patience. There’s no such thing as a stupid question. I can handle this almost-eight-year-old child.
“It means that’s where they’re originally from.”
“Oh.” Logan thinks a bit. “What does impose mean?”
Save me, Eggo!
“Your dad sure is taking a long time.”
“Can you fly?”
“Yes!” I shout, excited that we might finally be getting somewhere.
“Are you a bird?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“So, you’re a bird, and you’re a flying bird, and you live in Australia and not England . . . Are you . . .” Logan wipes the condensation off the window with his sleeve. “Nah, I give up.”
“You can’t give up. You almost had it.”
Logan simply shrugs. “Can you open this? I’m hot.”
“No, I can’t control it from this side. Anyway, I was a bin chicken.”
