Campingninja Blog

It was brought on by a weekend morning moment of artistic inspiration.  The postman had weaved a Dulux colour chart leaflet in between my post before popping it through the door, my housemate Eric was watching the re-runs of Grand Designs on the TV, and I sat at the kitchen table eating my morning bowl of cornflakes staring through the door at the drab looking living room wall.  The cornflakes swirled around my cereal bowl, floating in the milk, creating a hypnotic state of bright yellow circling corn mush.  And as if a psychedelic 60s inspired switch had flicked on in my brain, my painting fest began.

There was no time for shuffling furniture into another room or to place dust sheets over important items.  The moment of creativity was now!  And as I warned my stubborn and verging on foolish housemate Eric, who refused to move from his spot in front of the TV, any stray splashes of paint would be down to my artistic creativity and as such, any freestyle paint patches that might end up on the sofa or on his face even, I would not be fully accountable for.

On one wall I painted a tranquil countryside scene, with a tent pitched in the middle of an oak tree lined field and with little fluffy clouds drifting in the sky.  On another wall, I opted for a plain colourwash of red.  The opposite wall I painted plain white and the far side I splashed with blue, filling the room with the colours of Team GB.  Add in the accidental red, white and blue trio splattered across the TV and we had a painted memento of the Olympic year ahead right in our own living room.

After a long day of painting I sat relaxing in the lounge in the early evening, admiring my brush work.  It wasn’t quite what you’d call real camping but it represented the dream and with snow on the ground outside, a painted indoor tent seemed like a good place to start. 

Then there was a surprise knock on the door.  I wondered who it would be.  And when I opened the door I deeply regretted it, for standing on the doorstep was every painter and decorators worst nightmare! 

There were only two situations that would spell disaster of this kind.  One would be for the landlady to turn up at the house uninvited, and the other would be for the landlady to turn up at the house uninvited!  And that’s precisely what happened. 

The landlady was doing the rounds for one of her spot check visits.  Unlucky day to paint it turned out.  She promptly invited herself into the house.  Eak!! I thought, as I tried to block off the entrance to the living room and redirect her into the garden.  But it was a cold, snowy evening and dark outside, so understandably, she wasn’t keen to see all the great work that had gone on in the garden vegetable patch over the summer months and she made her way tenaciously into the living room.

I waited in the kitchen by the back door for a quick getaway, just in case of any earth shattering bad mood when she was to see my painted tent on the wall…

My earthquake prediction was right on the mark and my now beetroot faced landlady, marched with all the power of point 7 on the Richter scale, back into the kitchen and completely flipped out like a pancake, and an angry pancake at that! 

I concluded that red might not be one of her favourite colours.  Or worse still, that red, white and blue might not be any of her favourite colours.  She snapped something unmentionable and ordered an immediate redecoration.

As an artist, I felt it slightly disappointing that my talents had been so unappreciated, but I wasn’t going to cut my own ear off over it.  63 Monkton Avenue was a great place to live, second only to my dream of taking up a permanent residence in a touring tent somewhere special.  So I rushed to paint over it and made a speedy ninja run back over to the paint shop to pick up some cover up paint.

Back at the house, moving the paint brush from side to side with the Olympic enthusiasm and athletic skill of Fatima Whitbread snorting a cockroach out from her nose, the repaint began.  A few hours later the living room walls returned to their original state, thanks to a can of uniform, one for all, magnolia.  Safe!

After a week of begging, ‘‘Please, no more raisins!’’ at the seemingly endless hoards of mince pies, mini stollen, slices of Christmas cake and helpings of Christmas pudding coming my way throughout the Christmas festivities – much to my delight (and relief!), raisin season had finally ended and a happy New Year had begun. And with just 2 days to go until the Camping At The Games priority booking opens, I simply could not wait to find out what campsites would be on offer during the Olympics. The excitement was almost too much to bear. In fact, to say I was excited was an understatement. I ninjatastically just couldn’t wait!

But until Thursday 5th January, all I could do was to wait. And sadly, there was only one thing for a waiting Camping Ninja to do to take my mind off it – eat more raisins!

Raisins in January was without a doubt, wrong, but I was sure it would be worth it, as then on Thursday, my 2012 Christmas would be sure to come early. Happy really early Christmas and Happy New Year! Here’s to a fantastic 2012 of camping, the Olympics and the following months less-raisined!

Give me a tent in a field away from the crowds any day, but needs must, so a day of Christmas Eve shopping it was to be.  There was a buzz of excitement and festive spirit filled the air, with everyone jigging about as they walked through the shopper filled streets.  By twisting about too fast, trying to make my way through the crowds and getting tangled in amongst somebody’s shopping bags, I was knocked backwards into the front row of a neighbouring choir of carol singers.
 
How festive, I thought, before I realised that there was going to be no easy way to get myself back out of the choir!  I was a camping ninja by nature, and not a carol singer by any means, but with it being Christmas I thought you know what, just go with it ninja.

I noticed a camera crew filming us.  Everyone else in the choir started upping their game, singing louder and dancing about with a fierce Christmas intent.  At that point I realised that swaying gently from side to side in time with the music would no longer be enough.  I felt like I really needed to sing along, but didn’t have a clue what the words were.  So I did what every camping ninja would do in that situation, and began singing the only song I could confidently say I knew every single word to – the Macarena - and totally got into the groove, dancing my much practised and perfected Thriller moves.

A little while later, all shopped out and full to the brim with mince pies given to me by the choir, I got back home and flumped on the sofa in front of the TV.  The doorbell rang its Christmas jingle and my Auntie Matilda and Uncle Gerald, and all their Christmas cheer, descended on number 63 Monkton Avenue.
 
We all sat down in the lounge with a glass of Auntie Matilda’s homemade mulled wine and watched TV.  The BBC News came on and to my Auntie Matilda’s delight, they had carol singers on.  She clapped her hands with joy and started singing along in a way that only my Auntie Matilda could.  Oh no, not more carol singers I thought, for I was all carolled out for one day.  Then I spotted a ninja, just like me on the TV.  Hang on a minute I thought… then it was me!  The ninja standing in the front row, who was clearly singing a completely different song to the rest of the choir, was me!  I watched as my mouth moved to the words of the Macarena, as everyone else sang their hearts out to Jingle Bells.  Primetime on the BBC News on Christmas Eve.  Now that was embarrassing!

‘‘Ho, ho, ho!’’ my Uncle Gerald laughed and laughed, like Father Christmas.  But in the Christmas spirit of things, it could all be forgotten.  Auntie Matilda sparked up a genuine conversation about whether she should make savoury Brussels sprout mince pies on Boxing Day, and before my embarrassed red cheeks knew it, my Macarena carol singing disaster had become merely a ghost of the Christmas minutes just passed.

A Christmas wish to all Secret Diary readers and camping fans, for a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Now, what would Father Christmas and his reindeers prefer us to leave out by the chimney for them tonight – traditional mince pies and sherry, or a selection of savoury Brussels sprout mince pies?  Hmmm...

Forget Movember.  It was all about Father Christmas beard December this month.  After weeks of fine grooming and snow sparkle colouring of my newly fashioned Santa style beard, I removed my ninja neck scarf to reveal my big, white Father Christmas beard at the office Christmas party. 

Everyone fell off their chairs with laughter, literally, which made me think that probably it had been a bad move to wear red today as well!  It wasn’t quite the reaction I expected, but it was a popular choice with the kids outside the office when I set up my tented grotto in the local park.  There were plenty of tent pegs to give away and lots of camping stories to tell (with added seasonal Christmas twists of course), and plenty of festive cheer to go around. 

Merry Christmas everyone! 

One particular hazard of this weekend’s camping trip was the kissing gate.  And if you count my Auntie Matilda as well, then that makes two hazards.  It wasn’t very often that the whole family got together for an entire weekend, and normally I would point blank refuse.  But this time there was camping involved and for that reason alone, I was happy to share the same camping ground with some of my weird and wonderful relatives for a pre-Christmas get together.

It was on the way back from our wintery walk along by the river, as the last glimpse of afternoon sunshine was radiating through the clouds before heading down to bed, when we came across the kissing gate. 

Supposedly it was customary to kiss the person on the other side of the gate, before passing through, but not for ninjas.  That would be ridiculous I thought, as I looked on at my Auntie Matilda waiting on the other side of the gate.
 
I was very tempted to quash that urban legend and jump straight over the fence to get over to the other side, but my Auntie Matilda was standing on the opposite side of the gate with her lips pursed and waiting for me to give her a kiss.  

There was no way I would do it.  Moreover, I just physically couldn’t do it.  In fact the very thought of it was making my eyes water.  So I waited patiently for her to move away…

And then I waited very impatiently for her to move out of the way...

I’d been waiting for a while.  Now night was closing in and it was beginning to get dark.  I was getting really hungry and from the way she was jigging around, it was becoming more and more obvious that my Auntie Matilda was getting quite desperate for the loo.  Yet still, neither of us would move.  You’ve probably heard the expression ‘as stubborn as a mule’, but perhaps one you haven’t heard is ‘as stubborn as a Camping Ninja’ or ‘as stubborn as Auntie Matilda’.  For we were two determined souls locked in a battle of wills. 

Finally the clock struck midnight and that was it.  I had resisted long enough but now the time had come to use my ninja powers and get myself out of this mess.  I hunted around by the riverside for an unsuspecting frog, picked him up and while my Auntie Matilda couldn’t see what was happening as it was dark, I put the unfortunate frog to her lips for the kiss she’d been waiting all those hours for. 

‘‘Sorry frog’’ I said to my new friend and slimy green saviour.  He didn’t turn into a prince as clearly my Auntie Matilda was not by any measure a princess, but it did mean that as she thought it had been me who gave her the kiss, that she would finally let me through the gate and back to the campsite. 

I didn’t dare to look back behind me but heard a squeal as my cousin Fifi met my Uncle Herbert at the same gate.  Then what I did see was my friend the frog, frog-legging it out of the way as quick as his jumpy legs could carry him!  And I didn't blame him.  Not for one second.

It was the long awaited stag weekend for one of my old friends named Johnny. We all gathered together in a minibus packed full of luggage and a surprise airline ticket was placed in each of our hands. Ooh, where would we be going I wondered? Then as if by magic, we were transported from a chilly November morning in the UK, to warmer climes and the hotel mecca and sunny beach resort of Benidorm in Spain.

We past hotel after hotel; weaving through streets laden with high rise buildings; passing endless hotel swimming pools; and traipsed along the long sandy beach. With my pop up tent placed keenly on the back of my ninja knapsack, I was on a mission to find a campsite to pop my tent up at.

We’d been walking around all day, all night even, and I was longing to see one of the brown camping and caravan signs with an arrow pointing in the direction of a quiet and peaceful campsite. Even with my ninja super sight I was finding it hard to see my way through the disco lights. Was hoping to find a campsite no more than a drunken dream I wondered? Perhaps a few too many drinks were causing me to see everything as one big blur, so I figured I’d need some local help to track the campsites down.

So I asked a friendly Spanish lady passing me on the street where I could find the nearest campsite around here, to which she very enthusiastically replied:

‘Viva la fiesta. Viva la noche. Viva los DJs.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! The people here are crazy, I thought to myself. So I called out to my friend Johnny who was walking along the street behind me, and I said to him:

‘Johnny, which way did she say for the campsite?...

The summer camping season was over and it was time to find a new camping friend, preferably one who didn’t mind the cold and was keen on winter camping.  So I made the decision to go in search of my winter camping princess online, in the dangerous world of internet dating.

I’d marketed myself as a camping ninja who loves camping, who is at home in the outdoors (but not a cave-ninja)… a prince in fact, a camping ninja prince!  Great at cooking a variety of dishes with space raiders and with the moves like Jagger.

Once my matchmaker profile was set up, the interest flooded in.  An unusual mix of 60 year olds pretending to be only half their years, and supposed celebrity lookalikes who simply, were not, all seemed to have a soft spot for a camping ninja.  Fortunately amid the madness, there was one hidden gem - a potential camping princess and eagerly, we arranged a date for Saturday night. 

What to wear?  I panicked.  I wanted to look dazzling, suave like James Bond even, so I went shopping online to buy a new ninja suit.  It didn’t take long before I found one that caught my eye.  It was a nice looking suit, but the description was a little ambiguous.  Smart yet casual, slim fit yet slouch, and classic yet modern.  Hmmm….  Surely it was either one or the other?!

Nevertheless, I clicked to add it to my basket.  Select size, it prompted.  I was half expecting options of small yet large, or medium yet extra-large, but amazingly there was only one size – one size fits all, although perhaps that was worse somehow.

Saturday evening arrived and I rocked up in my one size fits all, smart yet casual, classic yet… (you know the score) new suit.  Miraculously it was a perfect fit and was suitable to wear on any occasion and to any venue.  Maybe the best way to describe it was as a good egg of suits.

My date looked simply quite stunning.  Her sparkly dress was amazing.  So sparkly even, that when it caught the light it made twinkles in my eyes.  Mesmerized, I told her she looked ‘beautiful yet understated, informal yet business like, perfect yet… perfect yet… yet… no yet’.  There was no yet, she looked perfect and that was it, end of.  In hindsight perhaps it wasn’t the best chat up line but it seemed to do the trick.  We passed through the revolving doors and into the swanky restaurant where the waiter escorted us to our seats.    
  
We discussed all things camping and non-camping related as we ate.  Oddly enough, her main preoccupation was focussing on the great gerbil versus hamster debate.  Obviously this was a very interesting subject to anyone, but for me, camping was and will always be where it’s at.  However in spite of her slight camping aversion, the evening seemed to be going very well.

Our desserts arrived.  Then she pulled out a piece of paper from her bag - a list of questions that she would fire away at me.  If I passed these, then and only then, would I be allowed to invite her on another date.  It was very formal, like being on mastermind and the onslaught of questions began.  Number 1: had I ever gone away on a camping trip and forgotten to bring my girlfriend along?  ‘I can categorically state that the answer is no’, I replied.  Although strictly speaking, it was a complete lie.  For there had been 3… no, 4 times in the last year alone that I had left my girlfriend back at home by mistake.  I got the feeling that wasn’t the answer she would want to hear though, so I kept that one schtum.

Number 2: would I share my last space raider?  How did she know I liked space raiders?!  The answer to that one was definitely no!  ‘Of course’, I replied through gritted teeth though.  I remembered I had written about my love of space raiders on my matchmaker profile.  She liked them a lot too.  At first I thought it was a good thing that we had something so much in common, but then I realised that she was only interested in me for one thing – not to share camping together, but for my space raiders! 

I suspected that tonight would be the last time we would see each other.  I signalled to the waiter to get the bill, hailed a taxi for my date, and then walked back home by myself, stopping off at a late night shop along the way to pick up a packet of space raiders all of my own, before meandering along the high street, pausing at the windows of all the camping and outdoors shops.  Camping for one was way better than camping with a space raiders vampire, I decided!

Nothing could stop the Camping Ninja today, I thought to myself as I left the house in an exceptionally, exceptional good work day mood.   Although, as you can probably imagine, it was only a matter of time until the inevitable happened and a good day turned bad.

As a young ninja I was always taught that there were good monsters and bad monsters.  Some monsters were indeed very scary, and some, like the monster that lived whistling away inside the camping kettle, were not bad monsters at all and were simply a fear to be overcome.  As was the monster that would jump out of the caravan cupboard in an exploding fashion, viciously growling away trying to scare the living daylights out of me, who was in fact just one of my ninja cousins playing games.  But in all my days, until this very day today, I had never met a froth monster before.  That was until I arrived at the home of the froth monsters on my journey into work.

I was trying hard to keep my cool in the monster land and then I saw one hiding in the cup belonging to the lady standing next to me!

Although the monster had me on edge, I felt it part of my ninja duty to intervene and protect the lady from the frothy, beguiling monster.  So without hesitation, I flung the cup and the cowering froth monster onto the floor. 

‘’My coffee!’’ the lady shouted angrily at me.  Coffee?...  The shrouding monster dispersed into a puddle on the floor.  It looked like coffee.  Smelt like coffee.  And oh… it did seem that it was coffee. 

Whoops I thought, as I looked down at the frothy cappuccino lying all over the coffee shop floor, realising what I had actually just done.  The froth monster was not a real monster after all.  And to make matters worse, I had inadvertently managed to insult these friendly monsters in their own home – the universally renowned home of the froth monsters. 

I bought the lady another cup of coffee and scuttled away into the shop next door, not hanging around to wait and see if I’d be barred for life from the home of the froth monsters.  My exceptionally, exceptional good day had not got off to such a good start as I expected and it was only 8:29am.  Oh no.  I had a feeling it was going to be one of those monstrously frothy days.

Rugby world cup fever had taken hold at the train station this morning.  There was a full platform of people queuing up when the Haka began.  A New Zealand rugby team inspired booty shake on the platform edge to put fear into all the other commuters, before the mad rush through the train doors and competitive fighting to get a seat that would ensue. 

There is a fine line between imagination and reality, and at this early hour in the morning, I had to rub my eyes to check that this was what was really happening.  And yes it was.  Everyone around me was dancing and chanting the Haka.  It was much weirder than any kind of mirage and yet strangely, and almost unbelievably, it appeared to be the truth.

I wondered if so much aggression this early in the morning was really necessary, but from the angry facial expressions of the masses of people lining the platform, there was going to be some serious elbow jabbing going on once the train doors opened.  It seemed that this Monday morning, everyone was desperate to get a window seat. 

I didn’t join in with the rugby Haka madness, as for a start, I wasn’t really sure of the actual words and I had a totally different tune buzzing through my head, for when I woke up this morning, three little birds were sat on my doorstep.  So I had a good feeling that every little thing was going to be alright today. 

And it was.  You see it turns out that when you’re a ninja, even the people who do the Haka don’t want to mess with you, so there was a window seat all of my own waiting for me when I boarded the train.  Little did they know that I’m just a friendly Camping Ninja and not someone more fearsome.

Besides, there was too much busyness going on for my liking so I sat down in my seat serenely and gazed out of the window across the passing fields, day dreaming of my next camping trip… 

Halloween was not for another month yet, but freakily, I had just come across one of the biggest spiders I have ever seen, squatting in house just now.   

Its cheeky grin was doing nothing to reassure me of its innocence.  And in fact, they had all had cheeky grins on their faces.  There had been eight so far this September and an average of two per night in the last few days alone: scary September!

Not forgetting the saying ‘if you wish to live and thrive, let a spider run alive’, it was becoming apparent that there was only one thing for a lean, mean, killing machine (cough, cough) ninja to do: evacuate! 

It was way too scary to stay in the house.  There had been two spiders too many already tonight.  So it was time to pack up the tent and head outside for a night of camping out in the back garden. 

‘Right, you’re in charge of the house now’ I called out to the goldfish and cat, knowing all too well that left to their own devices, they would both happily eat any spiders that came their way (although technically speaking, in order to live and thrive, that wasn’t actually what I wanted to happen as it was bound to be unlucky).  I checked my tent bag for any eight-legged clingers on then clambered out into the garden with my camping gear, shutting the back door firmly behind me. 

Camping bugs were one thing; I could deal with those, but spiders in the house; uh-uh, no way!