‘I’m wondering if Center Parcs might actually be Heaven,’ I’m sleepily telling my fellow travellers. ‘Everything has this timeless feel, like it could just as easily be 1984 as 2012. The air feels so much fresher and, like…everyone just seems happy.’ Of course, a couple of facts stop me getting too close to quoting Kurt Vonnegut Jr (‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.’), like the occasional petulent child crying and stamping their feet, and the odd scribble on toilet doors letting you know that the vandal h8s Centa Parks. Oh, and the fact that the chapel has recently been converted into a Starbucks.

Since this is (or at least pretends to be most of the time…) a fashion blog, I should probably pass comment on some of the fashion crimes committed at Center Parcs. And there are plenty of them. From the ‘pea coat and trackie bottoms combo’…

…to thirteen year old boys wearing weird matching Smurf onesies…

…Center Parcs has it all.

But all snark aside, I confess that I have completely fallen in love with the place. One of the reasons? It encouraged me to take a break from who I usually am. This revelation hit me as I sat drinking lukewarm tinnies in a bowling alley, playing (make that annihilating…) an eight year old at Mario Kart, and humming along to Tulisa’s latest single. All the while, dressed like this:

Despite not actually being in a Hunger Games-esque bubble (as vague memories of adverts recalled from my childhood seemed to suggest), which is probably a good thing as I found out on Saturday that I SUCK at archery, it still has this feel of being a self-sustaining commune. Why this led me to start dressing like a chav, I’m not sure. One theory is that what started out as practicality (tucking your socks in prevents tick bites…that’s right, I read my wildlife handbook, fools) turned into a desire for out and out comfort. And comfort is kind of what Center Parcs is all about – the accommodation is comfortable; I challenge any of you to find an unwelcoming chair in the whole place. The dining is comfortable. Even the staff are comforting – they remind you of diner waitresses offering solace (and caffeine) to lonely truckers, or dinnerladies who give you a bigger portion because ‘you look like you need fattening up’.

The difference between people who have just arrived and people who are leaving is massive – new arrivals still sport Topshop pleather jackets with dip dyed t-shirts and heels, while the veterans have long since resorted to waterproof jackets and tracksuit bottoms. Not to mention the fact that anyone who’s been there for more than a couple of days looks like an deflated balloon, or a Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man on a still day, due to ARE (activity related exhausation) and/or acute relaxation. I just got home, and I already want to go back. It’s no secret that I have something of a love-hate relationship with London, and it’s definitely good to know there’s another bubble out there where I can escape from the noise and frenzy of it all. Except next time, I’m angling for one of the deluxe treehouses…