Camping de-luxe

Camping de-luxe............. more in-tent tales of the unexpected!

Packed and ready for an adventure me, My Man and Jack the Dog were looking forward to our first camping holiday. Never mind that My Man hadn't organised the borrowing of a decent tent as he said he would, so he had to rush to his step-dad's and borrow his one and a half man fishing tent instead.  Nothing was going to spoil our fun. We were off to join No1 Daughter and her bloke of the time and their two friends and toddler in the New Forest. We'd already planned what we would do as soon as we arrived so while My Man blew up the mattress I was began to prepare that traditional camping grub of egg, bacon and beans. We were so looking forward to our grub, it being a treat because I don't do fry ups at home (actually, don’t do anything) the smell as I’m cooking always makes me want to throw up.

Anyway, up went the tent, in went the mattress. Only just though, the tent being somewhat on the small size you will remember and the mattress on the large. Whew, lucky. Now it needed blowing up. So as My Man began The Big Puff, I had the bacon sizzling and......oops-a-daisy, someone had forgotten the eggs. ' Oh ha ha ha. Aren't we silly billies?' Beans and bacon it is, then.

The mattress was proving to be difficult. My Man blew and blew and yes, he huffed and puffed. He blew with his mouth. He blew with the foot pump, he blew with an electric pump. I saw him look at me, I knew he what he was thinking. A windy fart, that’s what. All the others had arrived, eaten and settled down for an evening’s socialising but Mark was still blowing. Three hours after his first puff and swearing like a trooper, exhausted but still smiling bless ‘im, he threw himself on to the mattress in exasperation when out of one corner he heard a hiss. A big hiissssss. Oh yes, a hole!

Hey, not a problem as everyone rallied round donating foam mats, rugs, blankets and whatever else could be found to make us comfortable. Ha ha ha. How we all laughed.

And time for bed. I opened the car boot for my pj’s (can’t go au natural in a tent!). No night clothes. No day clothes. No clothes at all. NO BLOODY CASE!

 

'My Man, come here, deeeaaarrr'.

'What's up?'

‘Where’s the case’, I whispered feeling very, very, silly.

'What case?'

'The case with the clothes in?'

The case with the clothes was sat on the bedroom floor back in Knutsford.  Blame is not being apportioned here (yeh, right). Suffice to say I’d done the packing he should have done the carrying. But, oh how we all laughed. Ha ha ha. So much fun! It was a classic and all part of the carry-on-camping adventure. We said. At least we had our wash bags and the clothes we stood in. No1 Daughter promised to buy us knickers and underpants the next day, which she did. My Man’s were Woolies best. Serve him right. Mine were New Look. Laahvly.

I couldn’t get pictures of My Man in his Woolie's keks out of my mind, oh boy, so I wasn't paying heed to where I was walking and tripped up the kerb, breaking the strap on my best and most loved, most expensive of all time, Red or Dead sandals. I had nothing else to wear so borrowed No1 Daughter's spare rubber flip-flops -  she’s a size 8 and I’m a 5. So what, flip-flops won’t be a problem, will they? Not like they’ve got sides or backs just a post for me toes and that can’t make a difference can it? Might look daft but heh, we were camping so anything goes. Well it didn't matter, that is until I grew big fat juicy blisters between my toes. I didn't complain though, even when they burst and blood poured forth. I was strong, I was a woman and it was another experience. Off we went to the chemist, bought a huge box of plasters and wrapped me trotters up before travelling far and wide to buy a new pair of sandals. Camping was turning out to be quite an expensive adventure. But we still laughed.

Jack the Dog wasn't enjoying himself quite as much as everyone else. The toddler in the company was quite naughty and kept insisting on ramming his trike up Jack the Dog's bum. Not surprisingly, Jack the Dog didn’t take to kindly to this. A trike for cryin’ out loud? Unfortunately, the toddler was also called Jack and frequent shouts of ' Jack. Stop it' and 'Jack. Leave him alone' put poor Jack the Dog in a state of total bewilderment. Eventually, his tail between his legs (better than a trike) and with a heart-rending look of great sadness he went to hide in No1 Daughter’s tent.

  

The last night of camping was party night. It was No1Daughter’s birthday. Happy Birthday Daughter!  I devised what I thought a clever game of ‘drink badminton’. A plastic beaker full of wine had to be held between the teeth when a shot was being played. The aim was not to spill any. It didn't matter whether a goal was scored. It was a brilliant way to exercise and we ran around for all we were worth. Eventually, in various states of collapse, everyone was declared a winner because everyone spilt wine and nobody had not!

Six o'clock the following morning and I was in need of a wee. Getting dressed in the so-called tent was not easy, even with a helping hand from My Man. I'd well overdone it playing badminton (not the wine as some would say, that was mostly on the floor) and was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. Halfway to the loo-house I, realising I would never make it, swung a leg round and stumbled back towards the tent. Focusing all my energy on reaching the car, I rocked, like both legs were peg-legs, along the path, even managing a ‘good-morning’, to one daft, healthy’ proper walking camper. Getting to the car I stood up straight and with one last lurch, I fell, naye reader, I crashed, right across it, stomach first, arms stretched over the roof, hanging on with all my might. I sized up the situation and thought if I was very slow and very, very careful I could edge my way around the car boot to the tent. Bravely, I let go and promptly fell flat on my back. I couldn’t move and there was My man, all folded up in the one- man tent, watching this performance with sheer joy before eventually coming out to drag me back in. What to do? What to do? Aarrgh, stop the bus! I still hadn’t been for a wee and was getting close to wetting me knickers! There was nothing else that could be done. Emergency! Emergency! I sent My Man to get the catering size mayonnaise bucket (with lid, empty, thank god, and washed),his mother, against his remonstrations of, ‘she can’t use that!’, had thoughtfully provided. It certainly wasn't easy in that tiny space but being a goer and desperate I proved him wrong, quite admirably really. I then, with the dexterous movements only a lady such as myself can manage and without spilling a drop, handed the full bucket, not clean and without lid to My Man. He took it off me and actually asked what I wanted him to do with it. I told him. Nicely. He wondered if his mother wanted the bucket back and he wasn’t joking!

We went for a day to Lyme Regis where a seagull kept teasing Jack the Dog. I wanted a photo, so camera in hand I positioned myself into what I thought would be the best angle. Yer know, all arty farty, I thought. Ready to shoot, as they say, I sat back on my haunches leaning so far back I hit the floor, arms and legs akimbo and looking for all to see - and there were many -  like a dying hippo.

The last days of our adventure were spent at No1 Daughter’s bloke’s parents. It was the first and only time we met them. We were all sitting outside under the stars, drinking wine, chatting quietly and enjoying the peace of the evening when suddenly all hell broke loose. Jack the Dog raced across the lawn chasing the cats. I chased after Jack the Dog. The cats jumped on the fence, Jack tried to jump on the fence, I, unknowingly jumped on a plank of wood. The plank was only half balanced on some steps. I went flying, feet first, landing a couple of inches away from the greenhouse.

    

What an adventure and what a laugh!