Steamy windows

No, not steamy in that sense, you smutty lot! What's happened is that, while we were putting up our tent at Cropredy (the usual camping field is flooded, so we're now next to the main railway line - this is going to be fun) there was a thunderstorm. So we busied ourselves pegging out the groundsheet and all that sort of stuff during the heaviest of the downburst (or cloudpour, I'm not sure which Ned called it). I was overjoyed (you may detect a note of irony here) to get back to the car to discover that Ned had left all the doors and windows open, so everything was sodden. The equipment, the seats, the contents of my handbag - everything. So I decided that, when Ned was having his post-nightshift sleep, I would go to Tesco, get the rest of the food supplies, pop home to see how the Boy was getting on, feed the dogs, then come back, when hopefully the heat of the car might have dried things out a bit. Which is where the 'steamy windows' reference comes in. I have successfully transformed the car into a mobile sauna.

Off I set. To wait in a queue to leave the campsite. The field is down a single-track lane and the police, in their wisdom and because of the hundreds of cars arriving, were refusing to let vehicles leave the site unless they were in a convoy. Three-quarters of an hour I waited there. I asked what would happen in an emergency, and was told "It'll have to wait, madam". I think that's appalling.

I'm off back there in a minute. I have got the shopping and returned for umbrellas and the camping potty, because I'm wombatted if I'm going to walk the half-mile to the portaloos (they're not near the railway line) in the middle of the night.

It's got to get better, surely?