The fear of tents

I have a fear of tents. There, I said it, and it is no small admission. For much of my life, I have projected an image of outdoorsy competence. I am not sure that I had much choice in the matter.

My father is a former infantryman, capable of rolling a sleeping bag up tighter than a geometric tortoise. On my mother’s side, I’m directly descended from the Edenburg trekkers. I’m to the manner born, as they say, except that my track record tells a very different story.

Once, I was eaten alive by sand fleas on an Eastern Cape beach because I failed to put down a groundsheet.