We had booked the campsite for two reasons.
The first was that my wife tends to suffer when confronted with shared toilet facilities; whatever physical impulse desires immediate action fails when matched against the overwhelmingly powerful psychological one that says, “Not on your nelly.”
“I can’t use those loos that everybody else has used. It just won’t happen.”
And she is right. She is always right.
Between expensive visits to the pharmacists, copious drinking of tea, and a high-fibre diet lay the fallow patches of time when nothing, in the business sense, occurred. This has resulted in us having to book increasingly expensive mobile-homes as an alternative to enjoying constipation-fuelled vacations. That was why we booked that particular campsite at the side of the ridiculously attractive Lake Annecy which is found in the foot-mountains of the Alps.
The other reason was the waterslide.
I am not partial to a waterslide in the same way that I am not partial to a shared swimming-pool. Give me a private pool and you may struggle to get me out. No, that’s not fully true as I like to read books and drink wine and they can often be spoiled when placed in close contact to chlorine filled swimming pools. I also don’t like the giggling and the splashing and the water-bombing and the absolute decree that only budgie-smugglers are to be worn when swimming in a French pool.
As far as I am concerned, my budgie is my business and I don’t want the entire world gazing at it.