Essex life.

Last night once I'd scrubbed all that paint dust from my pores we came down to deepest darkest Essex to our caravan. It used to be our rural idyl in a forgotten corner of a neglected caravan park down a dead end road. Perfect.
Last year some maniacs were plonked opposite us who proceeded to chop down and defile any and every bit of mother nature they could set their chainsaw on and make their own idyl, our Hell. So this weekend was about turning our backs on them...literally...with the help of 3 strange brutes from the top field.
They/we had no towing vehicle so brute force and ignorance were needed to shift three very ageing vans into new positions. (Our two vans and our mates). On the final heave my back went "ping" and now I can barely walk. Great. Wine and two years out of date neurofen help a bit but not much.
While we were reassembling our newly corralled caravans, Vics located the source of the strange smell that had been in the air all day. 83 year old Peter's pet corgi, who died at christmas, had been dug up, again, by foxes and it's soggy mass laid out beneath a willow tree. I was tempted to claim it's gleaming white skull for my collection but luckily wasn't able to bend down. We chucked a rotten pallet over it to stop Florence, Oli and Vics' 2 year old daughter from stumbling into it.
I've rambled on long enough now, must be the endorphins. The photo isn't of our vans, although there's not that much difference, but the caravan graveyard for vans that are too shit and decrepit even for here.
Have I painted a good picture?