Those of you using feed readers may have picked up a post I disappeared a while back, one in which I explained the oddities of the caravan which lives in our garden at the moment. Well, to those of you who didn’t, the brief overview goes thusly: Lovely David, fixer-up of Citroëns and general all-round good chap, helped enormously on our extension self-build, and in the process he found us a caravan to use as a temporary kitchen, bathroom and general living space while chaos enveloped our house. The caravan belonged to a friend of his, J(o?)ules; we did him a favour in giving it a temporary home while he moved house, and he did us a favour in providing us with something which we’d otherwise have had to buy and then resell when the building work was done.

Hmm.

So far, so good.

Fast-forward six months, and it was the summer of last year. David had some odds and ends to finish on the wiring he’d done in our extension, wiring for which he’d been paid (and which he’d been able to do because, during the build, he’d gone on a course to become a certified electrical installer-type person, able to do Part P certification, a necessary part of building regulations in the UK; we paid about a third of the fee for this, which was quite a considerable wodge for us), and we’d arranged a time for him to come and do it. He didn’t appear, and since that last normal conversation back in the summer, we’ve not heard from him at all. Despite calls and emails and texts and messages and forum posts.

I’d just like to say, at this point, how upset I’ve been about it; we both have. We thought this man was our friend, and, while we’re both open to an explanation which contradicts our eventual, reluctant conclusion that not only was he not really our friend, but that he was being a bit of a swine too, we’ve no idea why he’s disappeared off our particular universe. Being me, and naturally prone to a particularly unlovely combination of guilt and incessant curiosity, I feel quite sad about it still, if I’m honest; it’s so rare to meet people with whom you really get on almost from the word ‘go’ that I feel you have to hang on to them wherever possible. Of course, to do so requires, generally, a little reciprocation on their part. That is where this one falters a bit.

And, while Lovely David may have beaten a hasty retreat, sadly, the caravan has stubbornly refused to do likewise. It sits, festering, at the end of the garden. It is eight feet wide and twenty feet long. It occupies the space we have got in mind for a woodshed, and it’s a pain in the arse, not least as it means we’re constantly parking in eight inches of Devon mud. Also, of course, it’s one of those “but it’s not even ours!” things. J(o)ules hasn’t got in touch with us, as, to the best of our knowledge, he hasn’t got our number or address (although my real name and general location on Google brings me up as hits numbers one to ten), and we haven’t got anything beyond his first name, and David doesn’t seem to want to give it to us.

So, yesterday, I finally managed to speak to the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, and they tell me that we must write to David, sending it by registered post so that he must sign to show he’s received it, and then wait two weeks. If he doesn’t reply, we’ll be selling the caravan, before hanging on to the proceeds for six years (!), in case J(o)ules should appear, wanting his wagon back. I don’t know if David will reply; to be honest, if you’d told me a year ago that we’d find ourselves in this situation, I simply wouldn’t have believed it, so little would this have fitted in with the image that we had of him at the time. But hey -here we are. I’m quietly depressed about the whole thing.

Two weeks and counting, eh?