I love my brother dearly, but he did something to me once that I suspect I still haven't forgiven him for.
When we were kids we'd get very excited about holidays. Now, I'm not sure why because holidays actually = visiting relatives in distant parts of the UK. With sets of family in the exotic locales of Aberdeen and Newcastle you can imagine that sun sea and sand weren't very high up the agenda, unless you count the occasional trip to Bamburgh with a stick-in-the-sand wind-break and a couple of sweaters.
This may explain why we were both exciting at the possibility of heading to an activity holidays camp in Kent called Carroty Wood. Despite the fact that it sounds like a place inhabited by knitted mice, it was at least six-hundred miles south of Hazelhead Caravan Park and lacked the typical easterly wind bearing low temperatures and smell of fish.
However, this year we hit a major diplomatic incident. A box of chocolate orange Matchmakers (like Twiglets, only nice) went missing from the kitchen. All hell broke loose. After denials from both me and my brother, an ultimatum was issued. Either the Matchmakers were returned, or Carroty Wood would be left to the knitted mice.
The offending chocolates, very shortly afterwards, were found under my bed. Poorly hidden. Now, given that my bed had already been searched, it wasn't too much of s stretch for Mum to realise that even a six-year old wouldn't be quite stupid enough to move the booty from a perfect hiding place to somewhere easy to spot that incriminated him.
We got to go to Carroty Wood. I have no recollection of whether I enjoyed it, or spotted any knitted mice. But I remember being framed.
Trips to Aberdeen did have their upside. My Grandma used to buy vast quantities of Irn Bru and keep them under her sink, next to the drain unblocker. It was the start of a long, wonderful and tooth destroying relationship that is still going to this day. But I never ate another Matchmaker.
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