An average week in camp

Around the camp fire one evening a honeymoon couple asked D and I where we got married. We explained that we eloped to Europe with a few friends and got married in a 14th-century tower in Italy.

The couple looked aghast so D clarified, “We didn’t want to have a huge wedding or get married in a church as neither of us are even the slightest bit religious.”

I joined in adding, “…that would just have felt so hypocritical. It wouldn’t be right for us to have used a church just so it looks good in the wedding photographs.”

“Anyway, more importantly, where did you two get married?” D asks the happy couple.

“The Vatican.”

***

Earlier in the week some very nervous guests arrived. As I am a nervous flyer I try to be sympathetic to those with fears but after being asked a thousand panicked questions in the first ten minutes, my sympathy waned a little.

“I assure you that lions have no reason to come into your tent. Nor snakes. No, nor hyenas. Is the salad safe? Well, no-one’s ever had to use the emergency radio to complain that a lettuce has appeared in their tent uninvited – how the hell would it get in? Oh, you mean to eat, sorry.”

Lettuce with scissorsIt was a long time until nightfall but the looks on their faces would make the wait worthwhile.

***

Finally, lest you believe that I live a life entirely removed from showbiz, the following was overheard at the lunch table said by a young lady who clearly moves in different circles to I:

“…and so mummy simply had to tell Kanye West to fuck off.”

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