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WHEN HAVING A MATTRESS IS UPMARKET
JOHN LIDDIARD, WHAT SUBTLE FORM OF TORTURE HAVE YOU LINED UP FOR US NEXT? First the terrifying prospect of DIY regulator-servicing, now the joys of a dive trip spent huddled in a bivvy bag with DIY cylinder-filling! (More Splash for Your Cash, November 2000).
Of course, camping is great fun. For one night. If you're 8 years old.
For everyone else it's an ordeal - trying to keep warm, stay dry and not wander over the edge of a cliff, impale yourself on barbed wire, or walk into a cowpat while finding your way to the toilets after dark.
Let's face it, even Neanderthal man was bright enough to find himself somewhere indoors to live.
I say this with the experience of a four-day dive trip, staying on a Cornish caravan site, still fresh in my mind. I appreciate that for John L this was an upmarket option - heating, mattresses and running water - but believe me, this was the holiday from hell.
It rained the entire time: the site was a large mud puddle. The only acceptable form of footwear was wellington boots. Being from Islington and not having much call for wellies, I was forced to ruin 70 quid's worth of Nike Precision trainers and run the risk of trench foot.
But this was the least of my concerns. The real problem I have with the Great Outdoors is that it is already heavily inhabited. By insects.
As I put the kettle on, earwigs promenaded around the stove. Stray flies drowned themselves in pools of condensation on the inside of the windows. Clouds of gnats greeted me as I opened the caravan door.
The toilet block housed a collection of daddy long-legs the size of small dogs. Most of them were dead, but the early-morning sight of their crumpled corpses was enough to put me off my Cornflakes.
Diving involves getting wet, cold and salt-encrusted. At the end of the day I just want to jump into a nice hot shower and get clean.
Now if my branch is anything to go by, the first priority of many divers is BEER. A couple of drinks later, the prospect of taking a shower no longer appeals; they're only going to stuff themselves back into a whiffy old drysuit and get back in the water tomorrow, so why bother?
Hence the scarily neglected state of most shower facilities at dive sites. Every creepy-crawly and species of mould in creation prefers an inside environment, but as a veteran of Bovisand, I've refined my technique:
1. Chuck shower gel vigorously into cubicle to pre-scatter creatures.
2. Turn shower on hard, but avoid removing shoes until last minute, or escaping gribblies will crawl across feet.
3. Stow shoes within grabbing distance; you could need a weapon at short notice.
4. Avoid touching walls; that fungus has lived there longer than you.
5. Speed and towel placement are key: as you shampoo hair, water temperature will plummet and you'll have to leap clear to avoid hypothermia.
All was going well, but I hadn't anticipated the impact of someone opening the door. The blast of cold air sent a cascade of insect cadavers into the shower. It was like a remake of The Evil Dead. I spent the evening picking dried-up legs and wing fragments out of my hair. Gross.
So, John L, take a reality check. I want an enjoyable dive trip, not an outdoor assault course. For the likes of me, shopping and spending money is part of the fun.
If you must persist, how about an article on Rowing the RIB; far cheaper than fuelling and servicing an engine or hiring a hardboat. Or top tips on How to Make your Arse Look Bigger in a Drysuit.
If my experience is anything to go by, there's bound to be someone out there daft enough to give it a go.
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