ANTICAMPINGITIS

[Karan]: Oh God, is it really that time again already?! Every year, when the weather starts warming up and the days start to last forever, the onset of Ian's camping itch begins, and so to with it, my annual headache.

Now, for the avoidance of doubt, let me be clear: I HATE CAMPING!  I see no reason to sleep on a gradually deflating bubble of air, when there are perfectly good pocket sprung super king beds available.  I'm not as young as I used to be, my back goes out more than I do and demands that I treat it with respect; or else.  Why, why, WHY would I also want to encase myself in a sweaty polyester bag to add to the ever increasing unpalatable bargain?!

 

Ian's modus operandi starts slowly and cautiously every year, hoping to remain uncovered for as long as possible, but we've been together nearly 21 years now, so I'm pretty clued up on how his mind works.  As soon as the temperature rises above -2 degrees, we have the sunny Sunday afternoon detours around camp shops, looking for anything that we don't already have.  This is ludicrous because over the years we have accumulated a vast array of stuff, that tends to every possible need imaginable: well, almost.

Here is a photograph from the Dennis-Towers archive, showing the enormous plot of planet Earth we inhabited for a long weekend last summer, on the south coast.  What you can't see from the photograph is the en suite facilites, the plunge pool or the butler's quarters, but you can see clearly how bloody big the tent is - we could be seen from space!  The benefits of such a large camping abode is obviously lots of space and freedom for the children to play in and around.  The downside however is that it takes a four man crew, working six eight hour shifts to put it up and then take it down again, so a quick weekend away camping is out of the question.  Pity that.

My idea of camping (but still not my idea of a perfect holiday) is one of those 40ft static caravans, complete with power showers, en suite bathrooms and full mod-cons.  During the early months of our relationship, Ian and I went camping during a heatwave, in a two-man tent from which we were duly sweated out of by 6.30am every morning.  We were also bitten to buggery by midges and I suffered from heat stroke, so it's easy to analyse why I'm not so fond of camping, but camping with children takes it into another league of you have got to be kidding me!

A tent this size absolutely needs at least two pairs of hands.  Okay, Ian + me = two pairs of hands.  So, how do you keep two very young children safe, entertained and within a mutually agreeable perimeter in the process?  It's my worst nightmare: both hands full holding up a magnificent erection, whilst the fruit of my loins totter off into the sunset!  Why, why, WHY would I willingly put myself through that again?  

It's started already.  The temperature has started to warm and Ian has been shaking the wintery cobwebs from the children's garden play tents and taking part in their campsite games.  In the meantime however, I have been rocking backwards and forwards in a darkened corner, desperately trying to conjour up a season long monsoon - because not even Ian would go camping in a monsoon.  Golf yes, camping no.

So there you have it, I suffer with anticampingitis, but I'm not alone.  A great many of my female friends share the same afflication, but none of my male friends do, interestingly enough.  If you're a man reading this, who hates camping too, please let me know, because I'm currently almost certain men have a hunter-gatherer thing going on.  For what other reason(s) do you have for sharing toilets and showers with 300+ other men (ewww!), allow yourself to be eaten alive by a varied assortment of critters, eat burnt food off a BBQ and drink warm beer for days on end? What is so wrong about super king size beds, Egyptian cotton sheets, beautifully prepared meals, room service, air conditioning and spa treatments?  I just don't get it...