Sometimes you need a post-holiday holiday after going away with kids.
Even just a weekend can make you feel like you’re about eighty.
So, once you accept that you are not going to feel well rested you might as well just suck it up and go fucking camping.
With eight other families.
And a combined total of thirteen children.
It will mean bringing more stuff that you think you actually own, with everyone being packed in the car so tightly that it’s impossible to even move your arms let alone turn around to see if anyone is suffocating on a disposable barbeque.
It will mean spending three hours on the first day unpacking and putting the tent up and three hours two days later trying to work out how the massive tent fits into the postage size bag.
It will mean your hair still smelling like a bonfire for anything up to two weeks later.
But, if you can get past all that, then what it really means is you get to have two consecutive nights out with a group of mates, where no-one has to sort out a babysitter.
The pressure on it being the best night ever isn’t there, because you all know what to expect- you’re getting pissed round a fire.
And the kids- I’d like to say they get to connect with the great outdoors.
Get back to basics.
Learn to identify different birds’ songs.
Follow animal tracks.
Actually what children want to do is ming around in their pyjamas eating peanut butter out of the jar.
Or all pile into an estate car on the hottest day of the year so far, that belonging to someone we don’t know and has leather interiors.
They want to shut the door for maximum heat.
And pretend to drive.
All thirteen of them.
But did you hear what I said?
You get to get pissed with your mates around a fire!
So that’s the future.
Communal camping / parenting/ drinking.
And if the owner of the brand new black Volvo would also like to come and lend his car to amuse the kids for two days, that would also be great.