Pissing in a bucket not especially romantic, finds camper.
It was 3am, pitch black and achingly cold when Gemma Harris, damp with the steam of her own urine, came to the conclusion that she might not be a natural camper.
The day had begun badly with an overladen car, grumpy children and a stressed husband and had ended worse, with rain, warm wine and distant toilet facilities.
As her wee drummed into the bucket and splashed on to her sleeping bag she listened to the tent strain and flap in the gentle hurricane and considered where she might have flown for the price of her tent and its expensive accessories.
With thighs tired from squatting, Gemma gave a half-hearted shake and dragged up her knickers.
She looked around for water to discover there was none. She ran her tongue around her mouth, now drier than Ghandi’s flip flop, and began to panic. Gemma considered the half drunk can of cider laying on its side but instead opted to stick her head outside the tent and lick the rain off the tarpaulin.
Crawling back into her sleeping bag with an empty bladder and slaked thirst Gemma felt renewed and decided to give the next day a chance.
After half an hour she managed to settle on the unyielding zeppelin that was her blow-up mattress and began to drift off. Moments later she was rudely awoken by her son dragging up her eyelids and shining a torch with the strength of forty suns into her pupils.
Gemma felt a little part of herself die as he uttered the words: “I need a poo.”