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My memories of childhood seem to be peppered with stories of my dad being a bit of an idiot and getting stuff wrong (probably unfairly, but it's fun to remember the failures) like asking for quatre litres of petrol and leaving all the passports and credit cars on the roof of the car and then driving off or hiring a rowing boat and taking us out into what felt like a tempest on the isle of Arran.
Luckily for my kids, their childhood will be filled with fatherly incompetence for them to remember me by. I think they'll remember today for sure.
We went to Blenheim Palace to meet up with friends and see all the Christmas lights. It was a pretty good afternoon and the walk through the gardens with the light and music show was impressive, if a bit cold and muddy and the large entrance free seemed justified. Phoebe was in a bit of a funny mood and finding me embarrassing already (something I hoped we were three or four years away from, though it's pretty much been there since she was 1 to be fair), but Ernie loved all the magic and it was hard to drag him away from the fountain music show.
We had some food and then trudged back to our cars. We were 90 minutes from home and it was getting late but we should be back by 8pm. The ground was slushy and even where there was walkways there was water underneath which would shoot up through the gaps and soaked my shoes. I'd missed the memo to wear wellies. My Paul Smith trainers were getting soggy and dirty.
We ate our takeaway in the car and then got on our way. The driveway was narrow and I assumed it must be one way and so headed off in the opposite direction to the one we'd arrived. But it didn't come to the exit as I'd expected or to a place where I could turn around. We were in the big car and it's a bugger to manoeuvre in tight spaces and I didn't fancy reversing. And there was another paved area just a short drive across the grass. I could see from the tyre tracks that lots of other cars had done the same. It should be OK. Progress was a bit slow as we made our way through the surprisingly boggy area and we made it three quarters of the way before we were no longer moving at all. We were stuck in the mud.
It was embarrassing and annoying immediately, of course, though my main thought was wondering how late this was going to make us get home. Would we get home at all tonight? Would Catie ever speak to me again?
I got out of the car and the mud was right over my shoes - it was certainly a lot more of a quagmire than it had looked. I went on the hunt for someone to help us. Crossing over the squelchy path, getting further soaked. The first staff member I met eyed me with disdain before I'd even told her what had happened. She called for help on her walkie talkie pointedly remarking that the gentlemen concerned was with her and would be able to hear the reply - which was code for not calling me a fucking bellend. I wouldn't have minded though. I was one. This was my own foolish fault. She told me I had to head up to the palace to ask for help there - maybe the duke or lord or whatever cunt who lives in this massive pile of riches was going to get me out himself.
The people at the box office were much more sympathetic, saying it had happened before - one of them had experienced it too (not here) and they found a much nicer staff member to help me, who didn't openly treat me like a fucking idiot. He came to have a look at the car, helped me look for the thing we had to screw into the car so it could be towed and radioed for tow ropes and a vehicle.
The family were all stuck in the mud for this of course and time was ticking by.
As we waited another car came on to the grass and tried to go round us. Luckily for him we had taken the boggier path and so he was forced out on to unploughed grass and just about made it round. He struggled a bit on the last bit and nearly got stuck in front of us, but just made it back on to the proper paved bit. It made me feel a lot better about my stupidity. I wasn't the only person to try this. And this guy had done it even though someone was very clearly stuck in the mud ahead of him.
After maybe 45 minutes we'd got everything in place and some proper men were instructing me and the man in the car that was towing us, what to do. They made a lot of assumptions that either of us knew what we were doing and then got annoyed when both of us fucked up. "You've got to turn the steering wheel all the way to the right!" he told me after saying all I needed to so was put the car in drive and gently press the accelerator. He was very annoyed by my incompetence, but I'd never been in this situation so had no idea what to do and the pressure made me unsure of which pedal was which or where my steering wheel was. Suddenly with a lurch that felt like it might pull the car apart we were out of the mud and I was trying to straighten up so we could get out of there. Which we did, with a few more disgruntled shouts from the man telling us what to do (I don't know why he didn't drive the towing vehicle as he was as critical of the guy in there as he was of me).
It had been a humiliating hour and I had to drive home in ruined trainers and damp socks and the kids didn't get to bed til about 10pm, but at least we hadn't had to stay in Oxfordshire. Or live in our car from now on.
The kids had been excited and frightened by the experience, just the combo required to ensure that it is never forgotten and so this will be added to the list of terrible stories that will be told at my funeral (just as I will only talk about my dad eating lip balm or falling in the pond at his).
Thanks very much to the proper men though for getting us on the raod and sorry about my idiocy. I think you enjoyed feeling superior though, so it's not all bad. Get on your walkie talkies and tell everyone what a muddy nob I am.
