Carping: Day 1

Woke up surprisingly late, given the copious amounts of sleep from the two days previous. Today is the day, I thought to myself. Today I do something that’s as simple as folding out a plastic sheet and knocking some pegs into the ground, but I have to say it all feels rather poignant. It’s one of those things that you – and everyone else – don’t quite believe will actually happen until it does. But, here I am, writing this from my very own outdoor desk come dining table, (whichever it’s referred to as first depends on the order of the day, I suppose). It’s got everything a desk needs: legs, a top and a thesaurus. Dining table too, in fact. Complete with citronella candle (x4) and a handy gallon of water –for the thirstiest of guests.

To show some appreciation for the flexibility of my hosts Hoon and Lizzy, I jogged down to the high street and found the most artisanal coffee I could, spent more money on it than I would spend on a cafetiere for myself, and had a nice, slow breakfast with them where we discussed the affectionate lilt of the northern accent. After what we called in retrospect ‘brunch’, I grabbed an IKEA bag and managed to buy two things: a fleece-y jumper and a picnic blanket, neither of which were on my list. Here’s said list:

Solar charging system

Table – Hoon sorting

Chair

Pillow (x2?)

Washing up tub

Sponge

Pan with lid

Teatowel

Parafin lamp

Something to display CDs                               Got priorities straight

Speaker (solar?)

More gas

Awning

Ground sheet

Long lighter                                             There must be a name for this

Chopping board

Mountain bike

Trailer?

It’s now I realise that one of the boxes that I planted in H’s shed contains all my coats. And all my bags. I’d thought these things were excessive until a) I carted my valuables around B&Q in basket with holes big enough for a key to slip through and b) I sauntered out after the sun went down. (Coat and handbag now scrawled to bottom of list.)

Like others who're now lounging outside pub in short sleeves, I’ve been lulled into a false sense of summer by the post-equinox light. A cold shower doesn’t help one to feel cosier. It was a good excuse to ring the ‘Campsite Manager’, though, something I’d been putting off for two days as to not get all rigid with the arrangements. There’s an honesty box at the reception door with a laminate sign that dictates the prices. And a couple of hours ago I’d run into the guy that runs the onsite café – can’t remember his name but he looks like a Dave – who told me to pitch my tent anywhere I wanted, handed me a small square piece of paper with the illustration of a tractor on it and said, Call Marilyn if you have any questions. I asked him if I could make a fire and he pointed to the number on the white square in my hand. Marilyn.

If laying my head anywhere I pleased was something I could do, I’d take that liberty, at least for one night. There aren’t many places in the world that you can turn up to and sleep at without even introducing yourself. Except in a Yurt Corner, of course.

By the time I called Marilyn about the shower system that must predate at least one world war if not both, I thought it was too late in the day to talk logistics. She told me to press the ‘on’ switch and that she’d look forward to meeting me in the morning to discuss my stay. Well, the shower did come on, but it was freezing. The brevity of this whole task wasn’t an entirely bad thing, though, as my stomach was beginning to make itself known.

When one has the majority of non-meat canned goods that Asda supplies what does one make? The answer: a new E.Hibbs delicacy: creamed corn with tuna and (canned) spinach, which is actually worse than it sounds. BUT, the good news is that the stove works and I have an excuse to eat the soda bread given to me by Lizzy. (As it’s one of the only foods in my car made from natural ingredients, I was quite keen on it). I eat the concoction with a spoon, naturally, and listen to Damien Jurado’s sweet voice sing songs like ‘Follow Me’ and yes, ‘Sweetness’.

Later in the evening…

It’s all settling in now – the thoughts that I had in the supermarket. Isles and isles of stuff that people think they need. There’s just so much of it. Why do we buy a new version of something when thousands of that very thing already exist? Half of which are probably being crushed in a landfill as I write this. We are fooled by advertising to think that we need so much when really we need so little, and we can make use of what’s already there or what someone else doesn’t want anymore. It shouldn’t be preferable for something to be new. Buying new shouldn’t be condoned.

I also read the introduction to Plato’s Gorgias. Here he argues against rhetoric, i.e. persuasive talk -- the language of politicians and the advertising world. Being good at rhetoric isn’t a tecknè; it isn’t a skill; no product is made as a result of it therefore it should not be considered as successful. But, because money is attached it to it, it is. This really resonates with me. Writing for an ad agency isn’t the decent knowledge of something, other than the way that people think. And one only uses this in order to manipulate people, so even if it’s an honest thing to know, it isn’t used to their benefit but to the benefit of a company making a product. Pretending we understand something wholly in order to sell when, really, the only thing we understand how to do is to persuade. That is rhetoric.

On the stereo: You guessed it, Damien Jurado.