Sat here at home typing this, cotton wool and antiseptic cream have become my new best friends. It turns out that they have mosquitoes in Wales. Not the malarial sort, thankfully, but the bites still itch like mad. This is just one of the many things that I didn’t expect to come back from school summer camp with. Others include a new favourite song [Icarus – Bastille], a very basic smattering of the welsh language, and a significant dent in my fear of heights.
I wonder if you’ve seen one of those “Summer camp” films that seem to populate the genre of things-that-are-designed-to-be-suitable-for-13-year-olds. The one that springs to my mind is “The Parent Trap”, so I’m not exactly talking about the creme-de-la-creme of hollywood talent. Well, for some reason, that was what I was expecting. It never occurred to me that I’d be bivvying out in woodland with instructors barely older than my own age, discussing theology as if between close friends, not like a student and a teacher. The Welsh coast is also not somewhere I thought I’d learn to ski (there is a possibility of me elaborating at a later date), discover the art of avoiding gendered pronouns, or get a tan. It’s a pitiful tan by everyone else’s standards, but I’m the normally the one that burns. (I did burn as well, but that’s besides the point).
In short, I think that as well as telling you about the point I was trying to make was something about the weight of expectation. This also seems like it’s about to turn into some form of advice, which I am notoriously bad at giving. But yeah, if you get the opportunity to go on school summer camp, take it. Because everyone wants to see their maths teacher capsize a kayak.
P.S: It turns out that if you want the antiseptic cream to work, it should be slightly less than 16 years old.