Under the stars ... with the werewolves

August 5, 2004

When a man tells you he needs to answer the call of the wild, book into a five-star hotel instead, advises Harriet Veitch.

I don't do camping. I told him that at the beginning. Five-star hotels exist so we don't have to sleep on the ground, I told him every time he asked.

But he kept turning his puppy-dog eyes on me and I finally agreed to one weekend. I wanted Centennial Park. It's bigger than some European countries, after all, and close to decent coffee.

He put me in the car, with cubic metres of camping stuff. I don't know where we went, but the stars were in different places when we got there.

It was very dark, and it was very cold. Why hadn't I said yes in summer? This was not looking good. In fact there was nothing to look at at all.

He got the tent up quickly and lit a fire (all right, that was impressive in a caveman sort of way) and heated up some dinner. Thank heavens he didn't expect me to prepare a small furry animal.

But the night was cold and getting colder and I wanted a shower - and a hair dryer and linen sheets and a man to bring me a cup of tea in the morning. He gave me a torch and took me to the amenities block.

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I'm not fussy about spiders, but this was ridiculous, and the water was not very warm. By the time I'd scrambled back to the tent I was freezing again and it was difficult to sleep with vampires and werewolves making merry in the bush outside.

The night grew colder still and eventually I was wearing all my clothes and all his, and it still wasn't enough, so I poked him with an icy finger until he got up and made tea. He kept cheerfully carrying on about how fresh and clean the air was.

I pointed out, in quite a reasonable tone, considering, that I could go to a department store for that.

After what he called breakfast and I called a late supper, he suggested a walk through the trees to meet the night-time scary things. Then to see a view of lots of other trees, and then come back.

He went alone, of course, with a jaunty wave, carrying enough lunch for the whole tribe of tree-dwelling ghouls.

I stayed behind and stared at the tent. I tidied up. Then I stared at the tent.

I sat in a meagre patch of sun with my book and moved with it as the hours passed. Birds and insects made noises in the bush, yet none of them knew a bar of Beethoven. By mid-afternoon I would have welcomed a vampire and offered an artery.

My darling companion finally returned, still cheerful about the wonders of nature. I would have killed him there and then but I was too cold to lift the axe, and I didn't know how to get home. So it was another grubby, freezing night before I could return to civilisation.

Next time we're going to the opera.

Readers are invited to apply wit to anything that makes the blood boil. Send 500 words, with day and evening phone numbers, to heckler@smh.com.au. Submissions may be edited and published on the internet.