Camping, why?

Never being one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, let's say that we returned to Go Outdoors to purchase another headtorch and returned with a new tent. Steve had decided that our current tent was too small and we should have one with more living space. I was, of course, hoping that we would pitch the little tent, realise we couldn't put all the beds down and come home.

This is one of the downsides of being married to an engineer; he has heightened spatial awareness. He therefore knows whether the sideboard one's wife is about to buy will fit in the sitting room. He also never leaves the house without a tape measure.

Anyway, with new tent (which shall henceforth be referred to as the Marquee de Sade) duly stuffed in the back of the car, along with anything else we might possibly need for the next three nights (and a few things I could have probably lived without, like the viral infection that hitched a ride on our 2 year old) we set off. I nearly did a runner waiting for the ferry to take us over to Studland Bay, but decided against it on the grounds that I might just get a good story out of it.

MdS went up relatively easily - very easily as far as I am concerned because I hid and drank tea whilst the manly component of our youth group assisted Steve. It nearly fell down on Saturday night, however, due to the storm that was raging outside. I confess at this point I sat in MdS weeping, wallowing in self-pity and sending text messages to anyone I thought I might be able to elicit a bit of sympathy from (it worked, the suggestions for improving the situation included singing jolly songs, going to a B&B and drinking gin - how I wish I could have summoned the energy to do even one of those). I should have picked up on the subliminal messages Go Outdoors was sending me - it is more waterproofs and wellies than sunglasses and swim suits. Oh, who am I kidding, I had even bought a cagoul (ooooh I am not even sure I can spell that word) and a pair of wellingtons. I KNEW it would be awful.

There is much, much more I could say. I can already think of a few chapter titles for my book entitled 'Why camping is just wrong'. At least the experience is over for another year and MdS is safely back in the shed (I might just pay a few passing rats to take a nibble). But take it from me, if your nearest and dearest suggest a trip to Go Outdoors, JUST SAY NO!

ENOUGH about the head torch

Last weekend, in an attempt to make our camping holiday more bearable we spent a jolly afternoon at Go Outdoors. Having added the planned airbed and sleeping bag to our trolley, Steve could not resist the impulse purchase of a head torch. Now, I know that boys have to have their toys, but this one is taking on a life of its own. On more than one occasion this week, I have found myself plunged into darkness as S has experimented with doing things by torchlight. Comments are along the line of, 'It's magic, it's like it's attached to my brain, it knows exactly where I want to look.' He was somewhat crestfallen when, with compost bucket in hand, the realisation that in his enthusiasm for all things Head Torch, he had lent it to SBF, struck.

Now, I can normally count on SBF to side with me when Steve tries to convince me of the merits of his latest purchase, but this is definitely a male/female thing. I would NEVER wear a head torch, but apparently for yomping across the fields after a few too many beers in the Fleur, nothing compares....

I just KNOW where we are going to end up this afternoon; we can't possibly risk not getting the torch back in time for our holiday.

So, if you think that aliens have invaded the poorly lit villages of South Oxfordshire, be more afraid - it's the boys and their torches, and they are probably en route from the pub.