A carry on camping

CAMPING never appealed, even when I was little. Too many creepy crawlies, too cold, too wet. As a grown-up, it is considerably less attractive.

When our first-born announced he wanted a camping party for his tenth birthday, all eyes were on me. (Equality is all very well unless it involves any discomfort).

After weeks of disorganisation, I found myself erecting a borrowed tent in the garden. Thankfully, I had the help of a brother-in-law with 20 years' experience in the Army, otherwise I'd still be erecting it now.

The birthday boy had invited two pals to join the adventure. He'd also agreed, reluctantly, that his little brother could camp out too.

Between them, they'd made a long list of essentials: pillows, sleeping bags, torches, spare batteries, saucepan, beans, sausages, marshmallows, giant bar of chocolate, Bart Simpson book, bug repellent, drinks, Game-Boys, cake, midnight snacks, junk food, more junk food, even more junk food, mugs, warm clothes, pyjamas, waterproofs, plastic bags, newspaper, rope, safety pins, Sellotape, scissors, and - get this one - an old tin bucket for "emergency wees in the night".

Once the tent was up, the next task was to build a campfire to cook the grub.

Again with Army advice, a turf was cut out of the garden, cooking foil laid in the hole, barbecue charcoal poured in, and fire-lighters lit. Before long, it had a healthy glow in the descending gloom.

That's when the rain started. Luckily, we had a large Army-issue umbrella on hand to cover the fire. The sausages cooked a treat, the beans warmed nicely, the eggs fried enthusiastically, and the raindrops slithered off the umbrella and trickled down my back.

Naturally, I'd have slept in the tent with the kids if it hadn't been for my bad back (I'd been in agony all day and, no, it wasn't psychosomatic whatever my wife says about "excuses, excuses").

Instead, I slept within earshot, on cushions on the lounge floor, with the patio doors open. My wife had thoughtfully popped her head in to say: "I'm just going up to my nice, warm, soft, very big bed now."

I hardly slept a wink. I listened to the chatter drifting from the tent. I watched the torches flashing on and off like a mini disco.

1.27am: little brother stumbled noisily over a guyrope and fell into the - mercifully still empty - emergency wee bucket.

2.25am: one of the pals wandered over to ask if everyone in the house was asleep. "Sadly not," I replied.

2.54am: birthday boy emerged to ask for a drink, or was it reassurance.

3.15am: pal number two came across to ask "Is it midnight yet?"

And all the time my back ached.

I woke at 4.30am to find birthday boy peering at me: "Dad, emergency - there's a wasp and a red ant in the tent."

The others were all standing in the garden and it was still raining.

My back wouldn't bend far enough for me to put my shoes on so I splodged barefoot across the sodden grass. "They won't hurt," I promised.

"But Dad, we can't sleep with them in there. We'll get stung," birthday boy replied.

"Why not call it a night and come into the house?" I suggested, hopefully.

Birthday boy hesitated before saying defiantly: "No Dad, I don't want to be a quitter." "You're not a quitter. It's nearly five o'clock - you've done really well to stay out all night," I insisted.

They needed no further persuasion. All four had rushed past me into the house and were leaping into whatever bed they could find before I had time to say "Survival Special".

"Thank God that's over," I thought to myself, as I climbed the stairs and found the bottom bunk going spare.

Outside, a waking bird uttered a cry that sounded suspiciously like mocking laughter.

My back didn't half ache.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

I'd gone for a bike ride with our three-year-old sitting behind me, enjoying the sights from his baby seat.

"Look Dad, there's a cow, there's a sheep, there's a train. . . there's a dog poo in the road."It wasn't a dog poo, it was a pile of horse manure and I told him so.

"No Dad, it's a dog poo," he insisted.

"It's a horsey poo," I shouted.

"No, it's a dog poo - and the dog has an eno-o-o-o-o-rmous bottom."