Creature comforts

"This time it will be different," intoned Richard.

I put down my cup of tea. Greg swung round from whatever fiendish thing it was he'd been doing to a spreadsheet. There was expectation in the air. Richard continued.

"We faffed around on the LEJOG last year. All that nonsense with Travel Lodges and the like. Quite apart from the cost, they took us off the route a little bit. So I think we should keep it simple this year. Who's for camping?"

There was a pause.

Ever since a week in North Wales in the early 80s, sitting in a rain-lashed ex-army tent in what was apparently an open-air wind-tunnel, I have proudly avoided the alleged delights of camping. Greg, veteran of several music festivals, was perhaps marginally more enthusiastic but was still hardly bubbling over with delight.

There was another pause.

Richard sensed the tension. Employing the diplomatic skills for which he is universally famed, he went on.

"Well, I think it's a good idea...."