To warm you up at the start of the long, miserable slog through to spring, here’s a story from last summer. I started writing it at the end of August, like a traditional back-to-school “What I did on my summer holidays” kind of post. Not exactly the kind I would have dared write when I was at school though!
So, against my better judgement, I got talked into going camping. It’s never been something that appealed to me – when I go on holiday I like little home comforts like beds, toilets, floors, that kind of thing. This summer, though, my cousin Marianne convinced me to go and spend a week in a tent with her and her kids. We were never really that close when we were younger, but Marianne split up with her long-term partner around the same time I moved back up to Scotland, so we bonded over our individual personal problems. One evening she came round to my place for tea1 and sympathy, and ended up convincing me to go camping with her. I agreed partly out of sympathy, as otherwise she and the girls wouldn’t have had a holiday this year and I felt they deserved one; and partly out of guilt as it was Marianne’s daughter Eilidh who I nearly killed in the black ice incident before Christmas. And, I suppose, partly out of relief and gratitude that they still trusted me to drive them anywhere.
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