I am a mean wife. Unlike many of my friends who cannot wait to don their thermal undies and wrap their heads in fly nets, who salivate over the thought of deep-breathing campfire smoke, I go into melt down the moment my husband even looks like he’s thinking camping.
No one could say I haven’t tried. I spent ten days on the Simpson Desert last year sleeping on the ground in a swag that cost the same as a trip to Bali with one eye open for dingoes and snakes. (Did you know snakes turn nocturnal in hot weather?)
And before that it was the Flinders Ranges. There we were forced to toss everything including the makeshift kitchen sink back into the car at lightning speed because the dry riverbed we had camped in became a tsunami overnight.
I’ve dug countless toilet holes in the sand dutifully torching the contents before burial for a reason I still don’t understand… swallowed enough flies to feed an Iguana for a lifetime… and smiled in the face of camp-savvy ‘sisters’ who gleefully cooked up gourmet feasts over burning sticks.
Do I feel guilty? No. I only need five stars –not five million.