Wendyl Nissen: The grinches' getaway

Wendyl Nissen.

When I bought our 1968 vintage caravan, I had no idea that in five years' time I would be asking it to impersonate a luxury cruise liner. But needs must, and in a few weeks that is just what my caravan will be doing.

This extraordinary turn of events has come about due to the fact that we're saving money rather than spending it on travel this year, something we have been encouraged to do by our new accountant.

"You certainly enjoy your money, don't you?," he said. "No generic brands for you." I had wondered why he wanted our supermarket receipts. Now I knew it was to gloat.

Our finances are slowly returning to an even keel after 12 months of high-seas action, so I listened and shut up.

"Gosh, and you like to get away, don't you?"

He had a point. In the past five years we have travelled every year and I have managed to squeeze in a few extra trips of my own. The two weeks in Venice I spent writing my as-yet unpublished novel. The 10 days in Bali with my friend celebrating her 40th birthday.

In fact, we spend most of our money on travel. I live to travel. I would happily go without food and water if it meant I could get on a plane at the end of it.

When I'm stressed, I calm myself by imagining I'm walking down the departure tunnel. I pause at the end to catch a brief and intoxicating whiff of jet fuel in the brief rush of outside air before crossing over from reality into the humming, muffled interior of the aircraft. Finding my seat, getting all my bits and pieces arranged in the seat pocket, planning the movies I'll watch, taking the pills ... ah, travel.

But this year there will be no anticipatory sniff of jet fuel, despite my pleas.

"You know very well that in order to maintain a certain level of sanity it is vitally important that I have a three-week trip out of the country every year," I whined. "I'll work every hour God sends if I know I have that reward to look forward to."

"No," said the accountant.

"No," said the husband.

"I hate you both," I wanted to say, but just thought it instead, because I don't really.

"How are things going?" said a friend I hadn't talked to for a while.

"Terrible. We can't travel this year. No money," I moaned.

"Oh poor you," he said. "Still, unlike many people in this country, I'm guessing you have food on the table, good health and a roof over your head."

He works in current affairs - they get like that. But I was sounding very Marie Antoinette about my reduced circumstances.

And, if I was honest, we also couldn't travel because our new business couldn't be left for longer than a week.

"I want a cruise!" was my last-ditch effort to get overseas this year. "Just a little one."

Which is when my husband rather ingeniously came up with the idea of a pretend cruise. A week off which has all the elements of a cruise, yet is performed on land. At the caravan, to be precise.

"You have the sea to gaze at, I'll cook gourmet meals - within reason - and we'll turn off the phones and pretend we're on the high seas somewhere between Morocco and Gibraltar."

"Cocktails at sunset?" I demanded.

"As many as you like."

"Hot-tub soaks?"

"Just a short drive away in Rotorua."

"No looking after any child or pet or those damn feral hens?"

"We'll even leave the dog at home."

"Much energy spent avoiding loud Americans?"

"Consider it taken care of."

And so, in a few weeks, we will be packing our resortwear, stocking up on thrillers, leaving the computer and phones at home and going on a caravan cruise. (And if he thinks he's getting away with it next year, he's dreaming.)