Carole’s going camping this weekend with her sister, they’re heading up to the Lake District to faff around in the pouring rain and maybe go for a spin on their dad’s boat.
Part of the camping gear, then, is the sleeping bag. It, and its partner, have lived up in the loft for a while now – since we last camped, which is ages ago.
So Carole washed it in the bath. And tge discovered it was too heavy to move through the house, so she – eventually – threw it out of the bathroom window to land in a washing basket with an almighty splat, showering the washing that was already outside (and me) with water.
It basically lived on the washing line for two days as it dried and aired.
And yesterday I thought I would be kind and loving and roll it back up and put it in its little bag.
I, apparently, am a fool.
I spent a long time folding it, rolling it and general manhandling it to try and get it put away. I managed – on about the fifth or sixth attempt to get it into some semblance of a roll that might fit in the bag.
But therein lies the problem – it is next to impossible, even if you employ all your limbs, to hold a rolled up sleeping bag tight AND get it into the little bag it should fit in without the help of ten to fifteen other people. Or, at the very least, an octopuss.
But that is not to say I didb’t achieve the impossible.
Looking at a sleeping bag, you wouldn’t think it possible to throw it across the room in an expletive-ridden huff.
But let me tell you, it’s a damn sight easier than getting it in that little bastard bag.