The Night I Slept In A Field

Nothing about the situation I found myself in was what I’d describe as satisfactory. Zipping shut our ‘bedroom’ door so that the insects congregating outside could have their own room, I stepped over the candles which illuminated the shortcomings of the evening’s accommodation. I descended with caution toward the only air bed I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting and the husband who lay curled on top, snoring like a cat worn out from his day’s adventures.

The unexpected buoyancy of the mattress sent me lurching backwards, waking Accountant who cushioned my fall. His smug ‘camping’ smile returned immediately. It had arrived around the same time he’d successfully pitched our borrowed tent in a sheltered spot at the far end of the finest field the Sheep Farm had to offer, and coincided with the last time I’d managed a smile.

Burrowing under the covers for comfort, I did a final inspection. Vest tucked into knickers – check. Trousers tucked into socks –check. Jumper tucked into trousers – check. And finally, the ear plugs, the benefits of which I now realised were to be threefold.

1.To keep wee beasties, whose country home I’d been forced to share, from moving into the only fully insulated orifice not covered by my ‘tucking in’ scheme.
2.To block out Accountant’s persistent beer induced snorts
3.To mute the “BANG BANG BANGs!!!” of the Cowboys and Indians who had our tent surrounded.

On returning from our trip to the beach earlier in the day, we had glanced at each other in dismay. The terraced tent I’d been only too happy to leave behind was now part of a canvas housing estate. Five more tents and a camper van had formed a semi-circular barricade between our tent and potential escape. The fifteen hyperactive children that accompanied were a delightful addition, as were their relentless machine gun imitations.

Lying in the dark on the stone cold airbed, which was now vibrating from the force of Accountant’s snoring, I wiped my nose again and swallowed painfully. My second cold of the month, compliments of Chickie, was reaching it’s peak. As the chill from the mattress penetrated my multi-layers and spread down my body, I wondered what pneumonia would be like and whether next weekend’s romantic weekend away at Worthing Hospital would be better than this. At least I wouldn’t have to pay £1 for a shower.

When my Sister had offered to have Chickie for the weekend so we could have a weekend away, I wasted no time. Paris, Bruges, New York? I’d been to them all in another life and how sweet it would be to return.

Then the oven broke - £71. Then Accountant’s exhaust fell off - £200. Then some oik stole the radiator grill off my car - £100. Replacement fridge filters £62. Rubbish clearance from my gardening exploits - £110.

For eight years, I’ve consistently declined 99% of Accountant’s suggestions on the grounds of being completely stupid. This included repeated requests to go camping. It’s taken two years of full-time motherhood and the associated financial forfeit to break me.

On arrival home, I unpacked the wellies and kagool I never thought I’d own, and put them away, hoping not to see them again for a long time. Then a sticky Chickie was collected from a Sister, weary from her impending illness and from spending two days mopping up the endless thick, yellow goop being produced by the little germ factory up Chick’s nose.

“How nice is it to be in a proper bed?” I asked Accountant that night, taking a long, snotty sniff of my soft, freshly laundered pillow. “Mmmm, it is lovely” Accountant agreed, the novelty of camping having worn off after sampling the toilet facilities the following morning. “I don’t think I’ll be going camping again sweetheart” I said. “No, me neither” replied Accountant.

Relieved, I snuggled down, never more appreciative of each and every one of the 400 threads in my Egyptian cotton sheets and grateful that my night of disrupted sleep and backache had not been in vain. I never had to go camping again!

"I know" chirped Accountant suddenly, interrupting my moment, “we should go caravanning instead”.