Col Drops His Dacks and We Drop the Hitch

Sometimes you have days where everything goes smoothly.

And then there are days when your husband drops his shorts in the middle of a caravan park because he believes there’s a huntsman living in them, and later finds himself on the side of a highway wrestling with a caravan hitch while slightly worse for wear.

This was one of those days.

Col and the Spider

We were packing up ready to leave and Col was doing his usual outside jobs — hoses, electrical cord and all the other bits and pieces that somehow seem to multiply every time we set up.

While he was packing everything away, he felt something brush against his leg.

He gave his leg a bit of a kick.

Nothing.

So he carried on.

Now, this is important.

He carried on for about twenty minutes.

Walking around.

Packing things up.

Going about his business.

Completely unaware that there was potentially an eight-legged passenger somewhere inside his shorts.

Eventually, Col wandered off to take some rubbish to the bin.

Meanwhile, I was chatting to the chap camped next to us. I was about to get into Shaun ready to reverse back when something caught our attention.

We both looked up.

And there was Col.

In the middle of the caravan park.

With his shorts around his ankles.

Not subtly adjusting them.

Not standing behind a tree.

Not attempting to preserve even the slightest bit of dignity.

No.

Shorts.

Around.

Ankles.

And he was brushing frantically at his legs while performing what I can only describe as a cross between an Irish jig and someone who had just discovered his pants were on fire.

The bloke beside me looked at Col.

Then he looked at me.

Then back at Col.

Then back at me.

There was a moment where I felt I probably should offer some sort of explanation.

Unfortunately, I didn't have one.

So we just stood there watching.

Apparently, after Col had felt the mystery tickle on his leg earlier, he'd forgotten all about it.

Until he felt it again.

Twenty minutes later.

Higher up his leg.

This time he decided to investigate.

He lifted the leg of his shorts, peered inside...

...and came face-to-face — or perhaps face-to-arse — with a huntsman spider the size of his hand.

Now, I have a well-documented relationship with huntsman spiders.

I hate the bastards.

So had this been me, the caravan park would probably have needed an ambulance, a priest and possibly a hazmat team.

Col, however, apparently went with the more practical approach.

He shit himself.

Then flicked it with his hand.

Yes.

WITH HIS HAND.

The spider disappeared.

And that's where things really went downhill.

Because Col couldn't find it.

Had it landed in the grass?

Was it still on him?

Had it crawled back up his shorts?

Was it now attached to some other part of his anatomy that he really didn't want a huntsman attached to?

There was only one way to be sure.

Hence why, when the neighbour and I looked up, we were witnessing Col's impromptu striptease in the middle of the caravan park.

By this stage the neighbour had clearly seen enough.

He walked off shaking his head.

As he passed Col, Col tried desperately to explain.

"There was a spider in my shorts!"

I'm not entirely sure this helped.

Col continued searching the grass for the huntsman.

Nothing.

Not a single sign of it.

Which left me with one very important question.

Did the spider ever actually exist?

Because let's examine the evidence.

Nobody else saw it.

No spider was found.

And the only witness was a man standing in the middle of a caravan park with his shorts around his ankles insisting he'd just had a huntsman the size of his hand crawling up his leg.

I have therefore continued to suggest that perhaps there never was a spider.

Col remains adamant.

Personally, I think the jury is still out.

The Great Hitch Debacle

Later, we'd parked Maximus and were ready to unhitch when I mentioned to Col that the front of the van seemed to be sitting a little nose-high.

Our hitch could be lowered another notch, so after a bit of discussion we decided that, while we were already unhitched, we may as well drop it down one and see how the van towed on the next leg.

With much effort, a fair amount of grunting and probably several swear words, Col managed to undo the bolts and lower the hitch.

Off we went.

And bloody hell.

It was better.

Maximus wasn't bouncing around nearly as much and seemed to sit on the road beautifully.

Excellent!

Which, of course, led us to the dangerous thought:

If one notch made it better... would another notch make it even better?

You can probably see where this is going.

At our next stop, before hitching up again, we dropped it another notch.

Then away we went.

We hadn't gone far when Col announced that something didn't feel right.

Now, in fairness, I should mention that Col had enjoyed himself somewhat the night before.

Quite a lot, actually.

He was adamant he was perfectly fine to drive — it was lunchtime after all — but I wasn't entirely convinced his finely tuned towing senses were operating at their usual level.

Nevertheless, something didn't feel right, so we decided we'd pull over at the next safe spot and put the hitch back up one notch.

Easy.

Except nothing with us is ever easy.

We pulled off the road.

Before getting out, I put my window down and opened the little window behind the back seat so Wally and Cheech had some fresh air.

We started unhitching when Col decided we weren't quite far enough off the road.

Right.

Back in the car.

Move forward.

Pull further off.

Get out again.

Except before we climbed back in, we looked towards Shaun...

And there was Cheech.

Standing proudly on the tonneau cover on the back of the ute.

Just surveying the world like he was the absolute bee's knees.

"CHEECH!"

I growled at him and he quickly scurried back inside.

Little shit.

This time, before getting out, I closed the back window.

We started again.

Unhitched Maximus.

And then realised we'd picked a particularly delightful place to do this because every time a truck flew past on the highway, the van swayed and moved.

Excellent.

Col was now working frantically to get the hitch lifted back up one notch.

And it turns out everything is just that little bit harder when you're slightly under the weather.

Eventually — hitch up.

But because Maximus had moved a little while we'd been unhitching, helped along by the trucks roaring past, Shaun was no longer lined up properly underneath it.

So...

Back in Shaun.

Pull forward.

Reverse again.

Line it up.

Gator down.

Hitch on.

All connected.

Chocks away.

Cheech safely on the back seat.

And finally...

WE WERE OFF.

The hitch was back where it should be.

Maximus was towing beautifully again.

Col was still recovering from the night before.

Cheech had lost his tonneau-cover privileges.

And somewhere back at the caravan park there was either a huntsman the size of a dinner plate...

...or absolutely no spider whatsoever.

We'll never know.

But somewhere, a bloke we camped next to now has a story about the day he watched a strange man drop his shorts in the middle of a caravan park.

This wasn't in the plan.