Please I'm not a camper

'You need to be at school for the camp at 6 o'clock.' 'The what?' 'My school camp.' Hhon you know I don't do camping' Long pause, face starts to pucker. "okay, I'll do the camp, although I'm sure I didn't sign anything to say I would..." I don't get there until the kids are getting ready for bed. Its early yet and still time for a bit of fun - or so I think, until very nice teacher by day turns into big scary teacher by night. "Be quiet' she roars. ' you should be asleep.' OMG its still daylight. The parents stand around shuffling from one leg to the other. So what now? Wine? Beer? Scrabble? There's nothing for it but to retreat from the threat of mozzies and face a bedtime I usually only dream about. And it would be a dream except (Jaws theme music) I am surrounded by three eight year old boys. Can we tell ghost stories? Yeah, says I far too enthusiastically for a mature adult. 'Weeeeeeellll' Child one goes off on the longest, most tangential, unscary ghost story I have ever hear. Child two has dropped off to sleep with boredom. 'Be quiet' booms scary teacher, who has now transformed into Attila the Hun. We all jump bolt upright, including the sleeping child. 'Right,' says I, 'Here's my ghost story.' 'you can't talk about blood,' says one "Or ghosts,' says another. "or vampires.' My creativity is stunted. Child one and two start to drop off to sleep. 'What do we do now?" says child three (who happens to be mine). 'We could play with the torch.' "Be quiet," roars Attila. Sighing I use my number one method of trying to get to sleep - daydreaming in detail about the day I learn I have won Lotto. The night progresses. 'Caaaaaaass, I need to go to the toilet," 'Caaaaaaaass, I cant find a torch," "Caaaaaaaasssss, I can't unzip the tent," 'Caaaasss, my airbed has come down. "Caaaaasssssss, can I get in with you?" "Absolutely not,' says I emulating Attila the teacher. There IS a limit. The night drifts on. A roar comes from outside the tent. Someone is playing the DVD of 'Where the Wild Things Are." Or perhaps I've woken up in Wellington Zoo. No, it the children in the next door tent. Hee heee, haw haw, giggle, chortle,. Now its the kids on the other side. Its in stereo. And its pitch dark. The time is 5am. Where is Attila the teacher now? Seems like its a hanging offence to talk after 8pm but 5am is perfectly acceptable. I clamber out of bed. "Be quiet,' I demand. I clamber back into my bag, I try to sleep but I am livid with the injustice of the situation. Why are early birds so righteous and night owls condemned? 'Time to get dressed', I hear one of the parents say. It's only 6.30! I abandon ship, so angry I go home and pull weeds from the garden for half an hour to calm down. Finally shower and head to work for a strategic planning session with the board - a picnic in comparison with what I've been through. Next year Dad gets the job.

Ageing: the tipping point

There's been a bit of aging going on in our house lately. Boy and girl were counting off the days for weeks off the days for weeks until their birthday while man-child ad I hid for longer under the duvet as the anniversary of each of the days we were born ticked over. Boy and girl child planed their parties with intricate detail while we adults bought in extra food ad drink and invited only friends who were older than us as a support group. !' say I'm trying to remember the tipping point into old age. When I stopped looking forward to birthdays and began to fear them. When I stopped obthering to preen myself in front of the mirror like th children and instead scuttled away pulling the loosening skin up behind my ears. I remember a mild crisis when I was the ripe of age of 22, beig philisophical at 30 and leaving the country at 40. But this year was particularly cruel. Stupidly on my birthday I decided to reintroduce myself to the gym. I got on the arc trainer, I programmed in weight and age with a shudder and strode off on the spot to make up for all the chocolate I had ever eaten in my life. Suddenly lights began flashing 'slow down' and the machine announced ' your heart rate is too high.' "Pooh" say I and puffed harder on the weight loss, cardio, make yourself look fab programme. Then, to my horror, the machine announced it was switching to manual to 'manage' my heart rate before shutting down completely. I was so angry I kicked the inanimate object and set my arthritis off again. Striding home I caught sight of boy child joyfully playing with his newly acquired birthday toys. He was terribly sad that he would have to wait another whole year until his next birthday, but bursting with joy that he would be in 'double digits.' This will of course be followed closely by the joy of being old enough to drive, drink legally, marry, have a mortgage and somewhere, sometime, you'll reach the tipping point and your loving parents will be there with the presents of your choice: anti inflammatories, hair dye and a heart rate monitor.