I only went camping once, with the Scouts, and I hated it. I don’t remember sleeping at all. I just lay there for most of the night, staring at my mate in the sleeping bag next to me and wondering how anyone could look so cute while being comfortable sleeping on the ground. He was straight, of course. They always seemed to be back then, and you couldn’t exactly ask.
I also managed to lose my grandad’s penknife while I was there. My mum had given it to me to use, and I remember searching everywhere for it, getting more and more desperate as it became obvious I wasn’t going to find it. I felt awful having to tell her. It probably wasn’t worth much, but it had belonged to him, and that made it feel irreplaceable. Forty years later, I still feel guilty whenever I think about it.
So perhaps that one camping trip explains more than I realised. A lot of my writing seems to come back to the same things: longing for straight men, wanting what I can’t have, and carrying unresolved guilt around for decades. At least I’ve finally found a use for it all. 😂🤣😩