Poo pumping

The cess pit next to the caravan is blocked. The men cannot pump out the poo. When we returned from the Dover Boat last night I wondered why there were three burly men, two in bright yellow vests, skulking about the bedroom window. That's my bedroom window, by the way. Not only is it east-facing so the light floods in at 4am, I now discover our caravan is located next to a cess pit.

The poo pumping is evidently a problem because the poo pumpers are back in the morning for a 7.30 start. Fortunately I've been awake for two hours thanks to the light and the trampolining magpie, so can listen in on the technicalities of poo pumping at close range. I can surmise that (a) the poo won't pump out and (b) a new poo pumping lorry is required. The second lorry turns up about 9 am, by which time we are all breakfasted and arguing about whether we are going down to the beach to be sandblasted by 40 mph winds or going over to Deal Castle to learn about Tudor defences.

In the middle of all our negotiations I wonder about the advisability of toileting but reckon there is nothing stopping Shark, so it's best not to say anything.

When we get back from Deal Castle in the evening the poo pumpers are walking across the only grassy patch of the caravan site in the direction of the bar. Clearly, it's been an all-day job. Suddenly, the experience of listening to 'Nincompoop baby! Nincompoop baby!' for two hours seems preferable to the experience of listening to poo-pump talk.