No more shit...

Life really does delight in biting you in the bum sometimes. So be careful. Don’t tempt fate. J

You know how the other day I was saying that you really should never ever ever share a bathroom when you’re detoxing?  Well.  I was due to head off to check out another detox in a few days’ time – this time not so far from home, in Somerset even. And it looked great.  A week of juice fasting – you know, just my game. Lots of yoga and Pilates and meditation. Yum.  Conveniently forgetting the twice-daily colonics bit.

And then, I get back and the PR gives me a call. It's kinda hard to concentrate cos Asbo is barking in my ear and wafting foul breath over me so I'm twisting in some kind of yogic contortion to get away from his sphere of influence.

But eventually I made out this:

‘Umm, we’ve been having feedback from journalists about this and, I should warn you…’ 

Er, yes? 

‘Well, you’ll have your own room of course…;

Er, yes?  Oh what?  WHAT? No! You know what’s coming, right?

‘But, see, you’ll be sharing a cottage.’

‘So, cutting to the chase, I’ll be sharing a bathroom with a stranger?’

‘Er, yes, basically.’

‘And this is the place where you’re supposed to do colonics on yourself twice a day, right?’ 

See, I can’t get away from the shit.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that; you’ll have your own board.’ 

Er, right. Just like I had my own rectal nozzle. Life is generous.

‘You’ll make a schedule. It’ll be fine.’

Well, I fear, to my shame, that I had a bit of a prima donna moment.  I mean, it’s one thing sharing a bathroom if you’re going to a budget b&b or camping or wotnot. But at a place that charges around a grand for a week?  Er, I don’t think so.  And, when you’re supposed to be toddling off every morning and afternoon to crap?  Great.

So I came off the phone and fired off an email to the organizers saying basically WTF?  And, hey ho, they got back to me and said… ‘Well, we were hoping to upgrade you but, as it happens, it’s all off now anyhow as the owners of the property have decided they don’t want any more journalists coming.’

So, that’s that. No more shit.  And at first I thought, there you go Jane – all your own fault for being such a fecking spoilt bitch.  For putting on airs and acting the big I Am.  Cos really, I never do that assertion stuff.  Ever.  Usually I’m just bloody grateful for whatever I get given.

But then again, who knows, maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe it’s for the best. The idea of twice-daily colonics was doing my, er, head in.  But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.  Cos, no matter how much you tell yourself you can do the juicing at home, and the yoga and Pilates and meditation too, no problem – when it comes to it, you don’t, do you?  Not properly.  The dog barks, the phone rings, you have to work and clean the house and wash the clothes and so on, and then you fart around on the Internet and before you know it, your child’s home from school and priorities shift all over.  Then again, maybe that’s the challenge, huh?  

In my Pedlars-fuelled dreams...

I don’t know about you but I have these alternative fantasy lifestyles that play out inside my head.  And one pokes its nose out every time the Pedlars catalogue lands on my mat.

I browse through it and off I go again.  In this particular fantasy I am the kind of woman who goes off camping in wild beautiful places.  I have a VW camper or a large Landrover (can’t quite decide) with tent, canoe, guitar, surf boards in the back and we just drive around in a relaxed manner (windows down, music pouring out) and find somewhere lovely (not some scuzzy campsite of course) with nobody else around and pitch the tent and light a fire and lie down and catch the rays and watch the stars. 

How cool is that?

Okay, so I can’t surf but hey… In my head I can, right?  Just like I can swim like a mermaid and play slide guitar like Ry Cooder.  But, actually, you may be surprised to learn that I do have some outdoor skills.  I lay a mean fire. I can construct an emergency shelter. And…er…that’s about it.  Mind you, let's be really honest here, in my fantasy I am also twenty years younger, have pert tits and the kind of skin that tans to a soft glow (rather than trying to make up its mind whether to burn or go in for extreme freckling). 

Anyhow. I love Pedlars.  And no, they aren’t paying me. In fact they have no idea I’m writing this post.  I love them cos they are a small (well, not so very small now) company who have high standards, great principles, a fabulous sense of design and a brilliant sense of humour. I used to buy quite a bit from them back in the day (when I wasn’t broke) and their service was (and I suspect still is) just awesome.  Truly, if you want to go into business, you could do far worse than use them as your template.  

And yes, I'm plugging them because...

a) I figure a lot of you lot will love their stuff.

b) I feel ethical authentic businesses should get a shout-out from time to time.

c) Their catalogue says 'Everything's going to be alright' at the bottom of every other page.

d) They have a Dog of the Week page and app. 

e) Occasionally they have wildly brilliant little practical products like the Corkcicle (keeps white wine cool without having to dunk it in a river) and the Bheestie Bag (which allegedly dries out mobiles, iPods etc that have been dropped in water). Seriously. 

Yes, some of their stuff is expensive but that’s cos they are picky and for some bits of kit (like tents and so on), they hunt out the best.  I just love that they can make me yearn for things like a Swedish firesteel (developed by the Swedish Defence Department), a hurricane lamp and an axe.  Of course, in this alternative life of mine, I also live in a cool warehouse apartment kitted out with their posters, lights, plates and so on. 

And there is music, always music. I have lost track (ho ho) of the number of brilliant artists I’ve discovered through their music club.  To give you an idea, their current playlist includes Nick Drake, Pink Floyd, Air, Fleet Foxes, Nicholas Jaar, Beach House and Lanterns on the Lake. They mix up the old with the very new.  I don’t always agree but I always check out their recommendations cos sometimes they suggest real gems. 

So, if you don't already know them, check 'em out and say 'hi' from me.  

And now, on this wet soggy morning, let me leave you with a few of my favourites from their 'songs for a sultry summer's evening'… Sympathetic magic, huh?  

And this one isn’t on their playlist…but I figure it should be. My favourite camp-fire song…  Now if I could only play guitar like that…

Oh, and they have a blog too: http://charlieandcaroline-pedlars.blogspot.co.uk/

Why perfect holidays don't involve men

‘We need fairy lights,’ said Jools firmly.
We were having a summit meeting at the Bonkers House to discuss our forthcoming camping trip to Croyde in North Devon.
‘Fairy lights?’ I said weakly, pouring out more wine and breaking into another packet of hula hoops (Adrian away so low on shopping).
‘Absolutely. And parasols and pretty bowls. I’m thinking pink and orange as our theme. Have you got a pink flowery tablecloth?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
‘Good. Bring that. And that silvery tray with the tea lights on it. Don’t suppose you’ve got bunting?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Shame.’

Last time I went camping I was sixteen and madly in love with some nerd called Peter. A crowd of us went to the Yorkshire Dales and it was mighty minimal. Everything had to fit in or on or dangling from our rucksacks (including the tents). It rained the whole time and we spent the entire week trying to persuade the local landlords that we really were eighteen in order to get into the pub and get warm. I developed chilblains, flu and a taste for Theakstons Old Peculiar. I never did get off with Peter which, in retrospect, is probably a very good thing.

‘Help,’ I wailed to my friend Rachel later on the phone. ‘I think camping has changed since I last went. They said I need blow-up beds – and chairs – and fairy lights.’
‘I’ve got all that – come and get ‘em.’

So the next day James and I picked up Adrian from Tiverton Parkway (en route home from the Great British Beer Festival and surprisingly not as slaughtered as usual) and headed over to Rachel’s. I wish I could be as calm as Rachel (and she’s not even taking the happy pills). She was in the middle of supper, with three children AND guests but was she fazed? Not remotely. She plonked a glass of wine in my hand, sent James off to see the new piglets and went to rummage in the barn.
‘Do you need three mattresses?’
‘Nope, just two.’
‘What? Ron’s not going?’ She always calls Adrian Ron. Don’t ask.
‘Don’t be silly. He’s allergic to camping.’
He insists, of course, that he’s not. It’s just that, were he to camp, it would be deeply macho, halfway up a mountain, battling the elements camping. Modern camping is, he insists, too consumerist, too suburban, too middle-class, too irritatingly smug. I suggest this might be projection and he has the grace to look sheepish.

Anyhow, we left Rachel’s loaded with ‘essential’ gear – camping chairs, tables, solar powered lanterns and fairy lights, strap-on head torches, glo-sticks….
‘We seriously need all this?’
‘Absolutely.’

We departed Dulverton in convoy with the Killers blaring out. Four middle-aged women, two teenage girls and two ten year-old boys.
‘Rick doesn’t believe we’ll get the tents up,’ said Tracey.
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Jools.
It took an hour to pitch two huge tents (with a few breaks for tea and brownies) and then another hour to embellish our campsite to Jools’ satisfaction. Fairy lights festooned the wind-breaks, pink raffia parasols kept out the sun, the jugs and bowls and glasses were all perfectly colour-coordinated. And, yup, the sun was shining.

Someone handed me a glass of wine. Ah but this was fun. This wasn’t the tough hard trudge I remembered.

We wandered down to the beach and the waves were huge. We set up our pop-up tent and everyone (bar Tracey and I who felt we ought to look after base camp) plunged into the sea with body boards and surfboards.
As the sun sunk lower, the waves came in. A sense of warm satisfaction broke over me.
‘Time for sundowners,’ said Jools, dripping happily. And we cracked open another bottle.

A barbecue back at the campsite plus a huge jug of Pimms. The sun set red and rich over the sea and, as the moon rose huge and full over the hills, the fairy lights twinkled into action.

It was perfect. Just perfect. In fact, so perfect that it was worrisome. What was it? Ah yes. Nobody had moaned. Nobody had disagreed. Nobody had demanded we do things differently or ‘my way’.
‘What a fabulous day,’ said Maggie with a sigh.
‘So peaceful,’ said Tracey.
‘Why is that?’ I asked, still puzzled.
‘You really haven't figured it out?' said Jools.

'No men,’ said Maggie.

Just then James and Jack came hurtling back down the hill and tumbled into camp.
‘I’m faster than you are,’
‘No you’re not. I am.’

'Not.'

Jools raised an eyebrow in an 'I rest my case' sort of way. We smiled indulgently, leant back in our chairs and poured another Pimms.