Camping Bust Ups
So a while back R decided it might be nice to go camping.
I hate camping. I can’t see the sense in driving a distance to set up a temporary home to sleep on an uncomfy always deflatable blow up mattress when I have my own real home and real bed at home surrounded by a few acres of bushland. It makes no sense.
But…. anywho I agreed because I thought it may be a good idea. He tries to save us, our relationship on and off and this was an attempt, his attempt at bridging the canyon between us.
As usual I did everything. All he had to do was tag along.
I bought all the necessary camping food and alcohol, aired out all the stale camping equipment like the tent and sleeping bags. We had bought them all long ago and had never used them.
I packed food ensuring we would survive for four days even though we were only going for two and packed the boot of the car strategically as if I was jamming a five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle together on a small coffee table.
We were off….. or at least we were eventually off. R said we’d leave at nine sharp… I was up and ready to go as not to upset him with my tardiness.
He decided to surface around ten…. then took an hour to sort himself out and have one final joint before we would leave.
He was up most of the night working on one of his paintings. He’s an artist my husband R. A nocturnal artist…….
I filled my time waiting with a few tabacco sticks, four coffees and re-straightened my hair hoping it would last the distance of no electricity.
R insisted on driving and we took off down our little gravel road past the peppercorn trees to the end of the drive. We turned left and continued for about a kilometre when it started.
“What’s that fucking noise?” He asked.
“What noise?” I snapped back. I couldn’t hear any fucking noise.
“That rattle. Can’t you hear that? Are you deaf or something?”
He turned to me with rage as if I had created a rattle on purpose.
“It’s a little rattle. Big deal. It’s probably just the camping kettle or something.”
“Nah. It’s fucking pisssing me off and I’m not driving forty k’s with that noise.”
He pulled over in a skid on the side of the road. Like a madman he popped the hatch open and started pulling everything out throwing it everywhere.
“What the freak are you doing? It took me ages to fit all that in.” I tried to find some sense in his bizarre antics.
“Yeah well you should have made sure there was no fucking noise.”
I was deflated. I was angry at myself for letting him make me believe we could go anywhere together. He has always had a fear of venturing too far away from home and the thought to him having to spend one on one time with me away from it all was too much.
He near emptied the boot and then threw the keys toward me.
“I’m not doing this. I’m going home. You sort this out.”
And he walked off.
I looked ahead and contemplated the possibility of where the road would lead me but knew he had my key card in his wallet and being a Sunday I knew the banks would be closed… so I packed it all in the boot, back seat and front passenger seat as I had all this extra room to fit in all the crap strewn across the side of the road including the rattly camping kettle and drove home.
That was the story of our camping trip.
Have you had a disastrous trip with your partner??
Scroll down and let me know.