Drunk in tent

Did you hear that hail? It was bad enough pounding the top of my car roof this morning, but looked a bit grim for the row of tents at our local campsite.No tea brewing, by the looks of things. No sign of life at all, really.Maybe they`d gone for the double zipped sleeping bag option to beat today`s icy blast.

I`d never really believed you could have that much fun under canvas. The ground`s so damn hard. Then a neighbour, who by chance, owned a marquee company at the time, suggested we all bring in the new millennium in one of his. It was massive.The whole street got together; invited friends;shared the catering;booked the posh Portaloos;sorted the sounds--oh and the `in-tent heating` and a fantastic night was had by all. With many more new years eve celebrations to follow, in similar amazing marquees.

You have to get the tent pegs in tight, don`t you? I know this; because at a post party coffee and brandy session round ours at about 3 am one wintry January 1st, I realised to my complete horror that I`d left several untouched *chocolate* puddings on a table in the tent. It was dark. And snowy.The lane was full of potholes. And my skirt was tight and my high heels high. But, like I said, it was chocolate. So I walked--kind of sideways--down the lane, to find the marquee securely zipped up for the night. Like a canvas Fort Knox.There was only one thing for it. I burrowed under the bottom of the tent, and slithered in,like a commando. Not *commando*, you understand, but like one. Covered in mud (it had been a long night, and I was past caring...) I just managed to stand in my heels and locate my quarry.Well..one chocolate roulade and a banoffee pie, I think.Now.How to get them back out of the marquee....and home (in heels).

I checked (and confirmed) they were still good enough to eat; passed them under the gap I`d curved into the canvas until they rested on a low shelf of snow outside,then followed them through. This had taken about forty minutes. It was another fifteen or so, before I was standing upright, in the snowy field, in heels, with a plate in each hand--desperately trying to keep the chocolate on the china.

I staggered back down the lane, and with mudsmeared hands and face, (there may have been a little chocolate on my face too....my memory`s hazy....)...held my trophies aloft to my guests. As they climbed;waving maniacally at me, into their three, homebound taxis. They were pretty wasted; but believe me, the puddings weren`t.

The field where the marquees used to be has been turned into a plot for a lovely house now, for the same neighbour, so no more parties. But plenty of memories.And an enduring curiosity about life under canvas....