I’m going camping tomorrow. I guess to some this is a normal thing to do so is unremarkable. Not to me. I hate camping. I hate it. I find it mystifying that some people think it is fun. “What shall we do this weekend, dear?” “oooh, well this comfy house is getting a bit warm and cosy – shall we go and sleep in the middle of nowhere in the freezing cold, covered only by a thin layer of cloth?” “Sounds great! Tell you what, let’s treat ourselves and ensure the cloth we sleep under is only 3 feet high, that way we’ll have to break our backs by crawling on our hands and knees to get in and out of it. Hopefully it will rain so we have to kneel in the mud. Bonzer!”
I mean, really. Last time I went camping I was with an equally inexperienced camper. It was our friend’s wedding and the wedding was in a field, and in the spirit of joining in we – and I can’t believe this – said no when a friend who lived nearby offered us a bed for the night. We said no!! What on earth were we thinking?? Anyway, we didn’t realise that the little flap of canvas we’d left in the bag was actually the tent’s roof, oopsie. When the rain came we sighed and bemoaned our leaky tent, and instead of trying to fix it we just put a cup out to catch the water and opened a bottle of wine.
It was only later, staggering back to the tent to get a cardi, that I noticed our tent was very different looking to all the other tents and worked out what the problem was. As it turned out my camp buddy copped off with the bride’s brother and slept in a warm bed anyway, leaving me to sleep in the soggy thing alone.
So, I am not a camper and feel very out of my depth in trying to plan for this weekend. I haven’t a clue what we need, what to pack or what to buy, and will be following my general packing rule of ‘Not sure what i need, better take everything.’
Oh well, at least I’ve got a kagoule.