Why camping is not for Crones

The house-warming cum birthday party invitation sounded lovely - 'come and celebrate Kathy's 40th, Gwillam's 21st and Bronwen's 18th' it said, and come and see our gorgeous new but very old house in the heart of leafy Suffolk. One slight downside - the gorgeous new (to them) but old (as in 17th century) house is slowly but lovingly being restored by the invitation senders, Kathy and Tom, and as most of the rooms are still uninhabitable we'd have to camp in the garden.

I can do that, I thought, as I laid out aforementioned new maxi dress, cropped denim jacket and silver Fitflops ('get a work out as you walk') on the bed. Have you tried Fitflops? I mean tried wearing them, as opposed to just saying 'Fitflops' which is in itself a bit of a challenge. They really do give your bum and legs a bit of a going over. How they do this is all rather scientific - or yet another big advertising con and as I work in advertising I'd better not say that - but in layman's terms, they are slanted so they make you stand up straight, and quite heavy too, so after a few steps it feels like you have a brick tied to each foot. But once you get used to them they are actually very cushiony and comfortable, so even if your bum doesn't suddenly spring back into it's rightful position somewhere above the back of your kneecaps as opposed to below (still waiting for this to happen), or your thighs do not instantly become able to crack a walnut with no effort at all (also still waiting for this to happen), you can congratulate yourself on money well spent because they a) look nice b) feel nice too and c) make you appear to be 'on trend'.

So anyway, I packed up my party gear along with all the obligatory paraphernalia we crones cannot be without - full make-up kit icl day cream, night cream, the pot of beauty serum that looks like sperm/mirror/tweezers/wash bag/hairbrush/toothbrush/contact lenses/contact lens cleaner/reading glasses/second pair of reading glasses just in case I put the first pair down and cannot find them/spare contact lenses just in case I put them in the wrong lens case as I did when I shared a room with my friend Gill - unfortunately I put my lenses into her lenses case thinking it was mine, which meant my -7.5 lenses merged together with hers (-1.5) into a big myopic blob of plastic and we both ended up flailing blindly about the next day. Luckily she had one of her eyes lasered years ago (I never did ask her why she only had one done - maybe to halve the risk in case it all went horribly wrong) so at least she was partially sighted. However she failed to see the positive side (probably due to being half blind). So ever since then I have taken a spare pair of lenses wherever I go. Getting back to the list, I also packed tampons because they are also something I can never now leave the house without. My periods were once so utterly boring in their regularity that I could time them to the second every month. Today it's a very different story - I can have weeks, nay months, of nothing followed by a flood of epic proportions resembling a glacial lake outburst. The worst though, is what I call my 'dry' period - where for days I can feel as if a claw is literally dragging itself around my insides and occasionally thumping my spine really hard for good measure - only to result in a dry, scanty specking of chocolate coloured gunge. Sorry to be so graphic, but it's a sad reminder that my once fertile womb is literally drying up and withering away, taking with it any semblance of femininity or youth. So, add to the tampons at least 6 pairs of knickers just in case aforesaid flood happens, and we're ready.

My packing done, I joined lovely Ben who had manfully thought of and packed what we really needed - ie tent, groundsheet, blow up mattress, bedding etc etc. I threw in my lot (big fat suitcase of just in case necessities) along with picnic hamper, good selection of wine and cider, plus corkscrew, and off we headed up the M25.

Four hours and many traffic jams later we arrived and joined the other happy campers pitching tents in Kathy and Tom's garden. I helped Ben pick out a suitable site, ie near enough to loo but far enough away from family with 2 noisy children and dogs.

This is getting quite long, so I will fast-track you through the party - which was wonderful and included highlights of a private concert by the local brass band/impromptu karaoke using silver spoons as microphones/Ben dancing with his head in the inglenook fireplace as he was too tall and the beamed ceilings were too low to dance anywhere else/delicious raspberry macaroons. There were some lows too, it has to be said - the swift disappearance of anyone under the age of 40 upstairs into the loft (teen lair) followed by the faint smell of whacky baccy (what happened to sharing?)/the loud family's snappy dogs pooing right next to our tent/the loud family's snappy dogs catching and almost killing an unsuspecting free-ranging chicken that strayed into the tent area/the woman who made the delicious raspberry macaroons getting very drunk and telling everyone she'd once shagged Tom, the host. But hey, it all makes for a good party.

So, 1am and time for bed. This is when I remembered why crones shouldn't camp. Firstly, it was pitch black and as the loud family's children were now sleeping soundly we were under strict instructions not to make any noise/light any lights. The loo had been occupied for so long by the same person (male) that I abandoned all hope and any desire of ever getting in there. Ben was already in bed - how easy it is for men - they just wee in the bushes and they're done. I on the other hand had to find my wash-bag and retrieve everything I needed to efficiently remove dance induced sweat/make-up/contact lenses, then successfully find water/have wee/stash my jewellery/clothes/Fitflops before retiring gracefully to bed. Stupidly, and no doubt because I had drunk far too much red wine, I took out my contact lenses before finding my glasses. Now almost totally blind, and unable to call to Ben for help because of no noise rule, I was left to feel haplessly for my make-up remover. Thinking I'd found the right bottle, it I smeared it all over my face, only to quickly realise it was in fact lemon-scented shower gel. My skin itching horribly, I grabbed blindly at what looked like a bottle of water and threw it into my face, where the sudden fizz and additional lemon aroma confirmed it was in fact lemonade - now dripping from my hair as well as my face. There was nothing more for it, I just rubbed it in and, being unable to find a anything resembling a towel, used the bottom of my new maxi-dress to clean it off. As I did so, I had the vague thought that if my skin was dewy soft the next morning I could market the shower gel/lemonade combo...

And so to bed, after a 5 minute bent-over wriggle out of the maxi-dress to remove it, I finally crawled in beside the gently snoring Ben to sleep - or so I thought.

I hate mosquito's/midges or any flying and biting insect - but they love me. And our tent was full of them. The trouble is, I react really badly. One little bite results in a red, itchy bump that quickly turns into a lozenge size blister, followed by a black, saucer-size bruise. On holiday in Turkey one year I made the mistake of eating marmite and applying lemon balm instead of my usual industrial-strength insect repellent. The next day I was covered from head to foot in bites. As I walked the village streets, people turned their heads in amazement to see the extraordinary exploding woman - whose giant blisters were popping with every step. I spent the next two weeks covered in calamine lotion and clothed from head to toe, being disowned by my two embarrassed sons.

So, what to do? With nothing to spray at them, I had to resign myself to the fact that my blood was tonight's dinner menu. So I cocooned myself under the covers and tried to sleep. That's when I discovered that I needed the loo.

You crones know what it's like. In the past I'd have just ignored the full-ish bladder feeling, knowing my uber-tight muscles could control any leakage until morning. Not now though. I can't trust my pelvic floor any more. Having once never let me down, now it lets everything down whenever it feels like it. I've reached the sad stage in my life when everything has to be planned around the loo, and whenI have to go, I really have to go.

So, out of the covers I crawled and struggled manfully back into my now soggy but lemony smelling dress. Off I blindly went, picking my way over the dog poo, wine corks and tent pegs and headed to the relative safety and quietness of the house. Or so I thought. I can only imagine what I must have looked like to the twenty or so teenagers now huddled in the dining room - a half-blind, dishevelled old biddy resplendent with shower gel/lemonade/make-up smeared face and dress, feeling her way to the loo. Luckily I couldn't see their faces, and for once thanked the fact that I am so horribly short-sighted. But I did hear the initial gasp, followed by a deadly silence and a few stifled giggles as I stumbled past. And that, dear readers, is why we crones should only stay 5 star.