Intents

Having nothing to do on the bank holiday weekend, I took some friends up on their offer to go with to the Hay festival in Wales. I had a quick (too quick as it happens) look at the weather and thought nothing of it, a bit of drizzle wont be a problem.

We were camping and witnessed a down pure the like of which hasn't been seen since Noah's days but that was Sunday, Saturday was a nice warm day. We got to the campsite and setup our tents, went to a few talks then lit a fire, opened a few bottles of wine and settled in for the night. It was past one in the morning and most people had gone to sleep when a lady of Australian decent descended on to us. She told us she arrived that afternoon, didn't know anyone there and could not remember where her tent was (did I mention she might have been a bit tipsy?).

My friend gave me a look that seemed to say “I ain't doing it!” so I picked up the torch and off we went. We spent the next half an hour walking around the field, trying not to wake anyone else up and I was asking her what, if anything, she remembered about the location of her tent.

Finally, we managed to narrow it down to a few tents, tried to knock on the first one, only to hear a groggy voice asking “who the f**k is that?” After crossing that one off the list we moved on to the next one, we knocked, nothing, opened the outer door, nothing, opened the inner door and joy! The inside of the tent contained no people (which could have been embarrassing), but did have her bags.

I wished her a good night and went back to a now waining fire and a glass of cold red wine with one question on my mind, “how on Earth can someone forget where they pitched their tent?”