My wife is worried about some dental work she faces later in the afternoon, and her apprehension is colouring the discussion we’re having about the upcoming weekend. We’re meant to be going to a big party in the country, and we will need to spend a night in our tent.
“I hate camping,” she says. “Why don’t we just sleep in the car?”
“Have you ever slept in a car?” I say. “We have a really nice tent.”
“I’ll probably still be in pain,” she says.
“Let’s just massively overpack,” I say. “Bring everything – duvet, pillows, rugs – and see how it goes.”
“Ugh,” she says.
“When is your appointment?” I say.
“Two-thirty,” she says.
“Ha!” I say.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she says.
“I’m not laughing at you, it’s just that…”
“You have a tooth pulled and see how funny it is,” she says.
“It’s a joke,” I say.
“Not to me!” she says, touching the side of her face.
“It’s famous,” I say. “Two-thirty.”
“Shut up,” she says.
Two days later, I find myself in a field in Devon, standing over a pile of stuff – pillows, bags, an air mattress, a pump, the dog and the as-yet-unerected tent.
“Do you need help?” my wife says.
“No,” I say. “Just motivation.”
“I need painkillers,” she says. “I’m off to find water.”
Our tent is not suitable for most forms of camping, because it’s heavy and has the footprint of a bouncy castle. It’s made of canvas, and will allegedly accommodate seven people. If you saw it standing among a load of other tents at a festival, you would probably think: I’ll bet the person who owns that is an arsehole.
But I am good at putting it up. I’ve had a lot of practice over many years, and I can now manage it by myself, without fuss. When my wife returns 15 minutes later, I’m basically done.
“Wow,” she says.
“See?” I say. “It’s fun.”
I lose track of my wife at the party. Some time after midnight I go to check if she’s in the tent, but when I get halfway there I realise I won’t be coming back, either way: my limbs and eyelids are heavy, and my slightly damp duvet is calling. As I climb a small rise I catch sight of the pointed canvas peak silhouetted against the night sky, and I instinctively think: I’ll bet the person who owns that is an arsehole.
My wife is in the tent, snoring lightly. The air mattress is partially deflated. There is some residual buoyancy – enough to send an undulating wave beneath her as I sit, causing her to swear at me in her sleep – but when I lie down all my joints make contact with the ground.
When I wake up the next morning, my wife is gone and the mattress is flat. I’m so stiff I can’t figure out how to sit up. Why, I think, did I even bother putting up the tent? I might as well have slept face down on the grass. That’s when I hear the first drops hitting the canvas.
It’s raining steadily by the time my wife returns.
“What do we do?” she says.
“We pack it up wet, shove it in the car, and deal with it later,” I say.
The traffic is terrible, and we don’t arrive home until 5pm.
“Let’s never camp again,” I say, pulling the tent from its bag.
“You’re doing that now?” my wife says.
“When else?” I say. I drag the sodden tent into the garden and spread it out on the dry grass. As soon as I do, it starts raining. I decide to leave it where it is until summer comes.
That evening the oldest one and his friend come round for a takeaway. My wife goes to bed early, leaving the three of us to watch the football. I ache all over, but I am tremendously grateful to be indoors.
“Is that a corner?” the oldest one says.
“It should have been,” his friend says.
“And so I was like, ‘When’s your appointment?’” I say. “And she said, ‘Two-thirty.’”
“Ha!” the oldest one says.
“That’s hilarious,” his friend says.
“I know, right?” I say.
