My wife is from a camping family. I am not. We compromise by holidaying in cabins at caravans parks (or holiday parks, as they are quaintly known).
She gets to maintain a family tradition of roughing it (no 5 star resorts for her). I get the creature comforts I am accustomed to (like plumbing, and a bed with a mattress, and hot water for showers and cups of tea).
But Sherrie got her wish of roughing it these holidays. We shared our bed with at least one large brown cockroach.
It was bad enough that on our first night in the cabin we got up to the kids three times between 11pm and 3am, but when I returned to bed for the third time, I spied a cockroach scampering gaily about in the sheets.
I swooshed at it ineffectually several times, only succeeding in chasing it under the bed. I briefly turned on the lamp, in the vain hope I may be able to crush the life from it with my bare foot. But it was quick, and I was sleepy.
Sherrie muttered something that sounded like “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” I replied, quickly turning off the lamp. The cockroach was still on the loose.
While She Who Likes to Camp lay dreaming sweet dreams of bush latrines and camp ovens, He Who Dislikes Discomfort lay waiting for a cockroach to scamper across his face.
The next evening, She Who Likes to Camp retired to the bathroom for a relaxing spa bath, but emerged a few short minutes later, damp and still looking tense.
“The spa’s too noisy – I couldn’t relax.”
Like I said, roughing it.
Later the same evening I killed that brown cockroach as it came charging out of the bathroom. Clearly the spa bath is also too noisy for coackroaches.
Civilisation 1, Bush 1.
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