So here is the short story I was so passively bent on getting you all to vote for. The competition subjects change each week, and therefore, this is no longer in the current competition. 150 words, harder than you'd think. Bon appetit mon cheris!
We grew up in an old caravan; mum, dad, my older brother and myself.
It was a hardy thing, our caravan, so sturdy you could roll it down a hill, set it back on it's wheels and pull it across three states with nothing but a few scratches and some broken plates. Believe me, we tried.
We moved around all the time, a lot like modern-day gypsies. Dad was a barbeque salesman, always chanting, repeating the same pitch,
'This one, mate, this one's top o' the market, can't get nothin' better', he would say, day after day, week after week.
Every single afternoon, dad cooked dinner on our own rusty barbie, while mum would walk the distance from the east coast to the west on our second-hand treadmill, and us kids would run around making friends with the locals.
These days, I can't stand even the thought of barbequed meat.
It was a hardy thing, our caravan, so sturdy you could roll it down a hill, set it back on it's wheels and pull it across three states with nothing but a few scratches and some broken plates. Believe me, we tried.
We moved around all the time, a lot like modern-day gypsies. Dad was a barbeque salesman, always chanting, repeating the same pitch,
'This one, mate, this one's top o' the market, can't get nothin' better', he would say, day after day, week after week.
Every single afternoon, dad cooked dinner on our own rusty barbie, while mum would walk the distance from the east coast to the west on our second-hand treadmill, and us kids would run around making friends with the locals.
These days, I can't stand even the thought of barbequed meat.
(And yes, the picture is slightly irrelevant, but I needed something light-hearted to go with this. And I don't keep a back-catalogue of barbeques, caravans and treadmills, although some say I should)
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