To describe the job of packing our VW Golf for a camping trip a military exercise would be an understatement. Everything has to be carefully packed in, having been compressed down to its smallest possible size beforehand. Air pockets are strictly forbidden!
By the time we’re finished, well hubby’s finished; there is just enough space to squeeze babe into her car seat. I usually have to climb into the passenger seat and then have items packed around me. Getting a ‘dead leg’ from lack of circulation half way through the journey is standard practice. I have to keep telling myself to wiggle my toes, like it makes much of a difference when I’ve got a quarter of the camping kit on my lap and wedged around me. Hubby enjoys the roomy experience of the drivers seat; well I guess he has got to get us to the campsite safely.
Luckily I’m in charge of just packing the small stuff and babe’s things. If there is no cork screw to open up the wine, um, it’s my fault. Luckily most of the cheaper wine in our price range has screw tops these days. But the rest is down to hubby, who is super organized and regimented in this sense. Actually, so much so, that I’d call it anal. Sounds harsh, wait until you hear this. He has a spreadsheet that lists all the items (including the corkscrew) and a column for where they are in the house, where they go in the car or roof box, and get this – their weight (down to the gram). It’s so funny. In his defense (I like to try and give a rounded view of things on here – although often I fail miserably), we are near the max load limit of our car, so he wants to make sure that it does just bottom-out or die en-route. It’s not the kind of thing VW are likely to cover under warranty.
He does do a fine job though, if it was up to me I’d be resorting to strapping things to the wing mirrors and stowing stuff under the wheel arches.