doris threw up a tent last night - she'll eat anything.

she wanted a romantic night under the stars.
i said i didn't know dale winton was coming.
she said - no comment.

anyway, doris munched her way through a few billycans of baked beans, while i sat quietly, whittling me stick.
we had a slight drama when she accused me of forgetting to bring the chemical toilet.
i reminded her that we were only three paces from the outside khazi but she insisted on 'doing things properly'.
so i dragged out a bucket with a dishwasher tablet in the bottom and left her to it.

i made myself at home in the treble sleeping bag and waited patiently as doris shaved her legs with a saw blade and a dollop of chip fat, then winced as she tried to shave under her arms.  i offered to go and get the shears but she took that as an insult and told me to get the strimmer instead.

by the time she was jammed into the sleeping bag, it was all i could do to breathe, so my voice must have sounded like it was panting with anticipation as i said:  'could you take your knee out of my groin'. 

anyway, there was a flurry of arms and legs and a loud tearing sound, and within seconds the tent had collapsed and the earth really was moving.

to be more accurate, we were moving - trapped in the sleeping bag as we rolled down a gentle slop towards the duck pond.

doris wasn't too upset, thankfully.  within seconds she had caught a duck and was marching off to shove it in a pan for midnight supper.

time for me to go travelling again, i think ...