constanttrek

The Sleeping Bag War

November 9th, 2004

For some time now it has been obvious that the Great Sleeping Bag War was due for it’s ultimate battle.  Since our departure from Chateaudun, we have been spending a greater portion of our time in the tent in an effort to re-channel our funds toward truly essential purchases, such as wine and food.  However, as the weather has been rather less than tropical recently, the whole camping experience has become rather more Shackleton Arctic expedition than Robinson Crusoe.  Bedtime has thus become something of an adventure in itself – one which requires diligent planning and a military approach in execution.

On the night that the War was decided, I was clad in my customary glamorous evening attire, a daringly risqué ensemble of thick socks, double layer of thermal underwear, neck warmer, gloves, and woolly hat (complete with pom pom for that additional X factor).   I slipped between the slinky nylon coverings and battered my eyelashes becomingly at my beloved, who seemed strangely unwilling to succumb to my considerable charms.  Undeterred, I set about my usual evening routine of pillow arranging and pummelling, tucking in of thermal blanket, and general thrashing about in order to find a square inch of ground which was lump free and semi-comfortable.  All perfectly understandable by any normal, empathetic person, as I am sure you would agree.

But apparently not.

After what must have been only a short time – an hour or so maximum – of my various contortions, Gary

suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, woolly hat askew and eyes glittering

with an oddly manic light.  “I really think,” he said, in a very slow and

controlled tone, “that you would be happier if we slept in our own

bags.”

I slipped my neck warmer down a fold to reveal a sliver of goosepimpled flesh and gave him my best Marilyn Monroe. “But darling, my sweetheart,” I purred, “I would miss you so terribly if I were on my own.  Don’t you think it’s so much better that we sleep together?” This last with a heavy emphasis and much eyelash fluttering.

But he was not to be moved.  “I just think,” he said, in the same steady tone, “that if you slept in your bag, you could thrash about as much as you like, and-“  here his voice began to quiver in quite an odd manner, as if he were actually a little disturbed-“ and I wouldn’t get cold air down my back every single time you shake the covers.” 

“But gorgeous, love of my life,” I persisted, “I’m so cold on my own…and you are so warm…and I promise not to move.  Much.”  To show the strength of my new resolve I lay down flat on my back and was perfectly still.  An eternity later – at least three minutes – I said in a small voice: “Perhaps I could just move the pillow a little bit?  It is sort of lumpy at this end and I thought if I just thumped it a little bit, like this, it would really be so much better, and then I wouldn’t need to move anymore.  Promise.”

But by the time I had reached the end of my sentence, he was already unzipping the bags.  He actually seemed close to tears.  I don’t know why.

The next thing I knew, he was happily ensconced in his little nylon sarcophagus, and curled up immobile on his side snoring peacefully.  It all happened so fast I barely had time to complain, which is entirely unsportsmanlike in my opinion.

And so the War was decided, and my own private hell begun.

When this walk is over – and I like to use the word “when” – I am going to look up the name and number of the man (I know it was a man) who designed my sleeping bag.  I am going to find this man.  And when I find him, I am going to kill him.  I am going to kill him slowly, in the hellishly evil instrument of torture of his own design.

I will stick him out in the woods of rural

France,in November, without chocolate, and I will drink hot coffee and

laugh my arse off as I ask him whether he still believes his imbecilic

claim that his sleeping bag remains warm down to –5 degrees.  I shall

shake and roll with great rollicking hysteria as he tries to stretch out

in what is claimed to be a bag for people up to six feet, but which is,

in reality, a condom for midgets.  And just when he is getting frantic,

and begins to beg to be released, in one final act of pure malice, I

shall pull hard on the drawstring in the hood, so that it closes over

his face and suffocates him to death.  I will do all of these things

with a glad heart and be quite content to fry in prison for the rest of

my days, for by God it will have been worth it.

As you may have deduced, the sleeping bag and I do not get along. 

The routine goes something like this.

I ease my way in from the top, until I am lying in the recommended position, with the hood at the back of my head, and my feet snugly cradled in the tiny end.  I draw the string of the hood in tight – this supposedly being the crucial high-tec thingie which stops the cold air from getting in.  Approximately three minutes after this not inconsiderable achievement, two things happen.  The first is that I become aware of the cold on my body wherever it is actually touching the nylon.  The second is that I get cramp. 

Now, let me just say this, that if you have spent the day walking over 25km, stopped, thrown the tent up, swallowed some bread and chocolate and dived straight into bed for fear of freezing, your muscles tend to be just slightly on the sore side.  Which lends itself to cramp.

So.  Firstly I reach for the thermal blanket, and begin trying to stuff it into the bag, over the places which are feeling the cold.  Obviously the second I move, the blanket slips, which means that in order to stay warm I have to remain utterly still.  Which means that I can’t deal with the muscle cramp.  If I want to deal with the cramp, I have to try to actually reach inside the bag to rub it – but since Mr Bastard Sleeping Bag designer made my bag all of 30cm wide, this is virtually impossible – which means I have to remove my entire frame from the bag’s confines, into the frigid below zero temperature of the tent, to address the problem.  By the time I have recovered and gone back in, I am freezing again and the whole thing starts over.  If I decide – heaven forbid! – that I would like to change position and sleep on my side, I have to be sure to drag the entire thing with me, or else I find myself lying with the hood flat on my face, suffocating me, and cold air blowing down my back.  If I try to raise one leg and not the other, my movement is arrested with all the power of an iron vice by the unnaturally small confines of my little prison.  And finally, if I choose to actually lie fully extended, my toes hit the bottom and the hood presses down on my head.  The result is that I have a night of sheer hell interspersed by merciful bouts of unconsiousness.

Contrast this with my sainted husband. 

Garysimply gets into the bag, rolls onto his side, raises both knees,

and starts snoring.  That’s it.  Do not pass go, do not collect 100

dollars.  Not a word to be heard.  He does not move until 6.00am

the following morning when he stretches and says in a contented

voice, “ah, that’s better!  Now, where are we going today?”  He rolls

over and always seems quite surprised to be confronted by a wild

banshee, eyes rolling and teeth gnashing madly, gibbering nonsense

and gesticulating frantically in an effort to convey the torture of the

night before. 

So there you have it.  Apparantly I will get used to it.  For now, I merely content myself with the thought of what I will do when I finally find The Inventor.  I am also toying with the thought of phoning up Osama, and letting him know that there is a new WMD on the market, if he’s interested.   

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