I am a lady of leisure and pleasure. I value comfort, convenience and warmth above all things. If these things are accompanied by 5 star luxury, egyptian cotton sheets and a deathly cocktail bar, then I am complete, replete, happy.

It came as some shock to me, and many of my friends, that I married a man who likes to camp. A man that will happily wander off into the wilderness for forty days with little more than a tweed jacket, an axe and a box of matches for company. My husband sneers at running water and openly scorns any clothing (usually gortex) that hasn't been hand woven by ageing crofters and pissed on by their wives. His idea of comfort is a bubbling stream and newspaper to wipe his arse. We couldn't be any more different: that's love for you.

Compromise is the name of our holiday game. We spent years with our tents getting bigger and bigger, to accommodate my princess and the pea air bed, pillows and duvets, carpets, camping capsule wardrobe and various, useless heaters. My husband always insists on proper campsites with views of rugged nature and rolling hail storms; so we have lost more tents than I care to remember. To meet both our camping needs, two years ago we upped the comfort/sturdy ante. We bought a 1981 Rapido Comformatic. This magic French caravan folds neatly into a trailer, which means he can still access the most ridiculously remote sites and I get to sleep in a real bed. 

That, my friends, is how you make a marriage work. And though I've warmed to camping over the years, I haven't completely capitulated. Herewith my rules for five star camping. Read and learn:

Rule Number 1: Whatever your husband says never, ever agree to camp in the middle of October in the wettest valley in Cumbria. Trust me, no amount of fur coats, eiderdowns, open fires and booze can compensate for the discomfort of having to pee outside whilst holding your six layers of clothes in a contortion like grip from the gale force backlash.  

Remember that the joy of all your closest friends singing happy birthday to you (with beautiful cake) around a roaring campfire is soon forgotten when you are lying rain soaked and star shaped on your tent while it is being pegged back into shape and you ugly-cry that you just want to go home.

Also, note that October brings out the weirdest of camping folk. The man camping alone with only a machete for a friend is indeed a grade one nut. He is not 'sweet' for giving you a bobble hat when he realises it's your birthday, or 'broodingly handsome' with his downcast eyes and habit of flicking his swiss army knife in his pocket. He is alone because he has killed all his family and is on the run from the authorities. With this in mind, try not to invite him to share your fire, stoke his crazy with hard liquor and listen to his tales of bare handed genocide. 

Rule Number 2: Make sure it's understood from early on in your camping career that you do not move: you cannot make fires, pitch tents, light a barbecue or collect wood. It should be clear from the outset that - contrary to common wisdom - the only way you keep warm is in a seated position, with a lap rug and clutching a mug of something warm with a nip. Stress that movement doesn't work for your metabolism.

Make an unspoken deal that you will allow his morning lie-ins, make him coffees, heat his stew and regularly throw kit kats at his kids, on the proviso that you never have to hammer a tent peg.

(It is handy to have married a man with ants-in-his-pants, who seems to come to life outdoors. Then he won't notice that you are actually surplus to requirements. It's also handy if your husband is myopic, afterall you will be the dictionary definition of ugly by day two. 'Neither Use Nor Ornament' will be emblazoned on your forehead. Let's hope he can't see it.)

Rule Number 3: Do not think that just because you are camping your usual standards of dress need slide. There is absolutely no need to become Lakeland Gortex Girl. Think Queen: head scarves, tea dresses, long johns, pearls and fine knit jumpers, all layered together. Couple Balmoral-chic with good walking boots, wellies and your dad's old barbour jacket.

There is no more satisfying pastime than mocking the swish-swish of unforgiving waterproof trousers from the comfort of your fireside chair. For further amusement, feel free to flick lit matches at passing lycra and nylon to test combustibility and teach the poorly dressed a lesson they will never forget.

Rule Number 4: Booze is your friend. A mean Bloody Mary first thing numbs the backache from sleeping on the air bed that suddenly developed a puncture in the middle of the night and overcomes the dawning realisation that you pitched your tent on a rocky outcrop. A constant supply of Irish coffees throughout the day deadens the noise of children, who can find nothing better to do than beating each other with rocks. By sunset you will be ready to face a chilly evening gazing at the stars. Fortify further with wine. Please note that by this stage, leaning backwards in your chair to obnoxiously identify the constellations will not only make you feel sick, but will also cause you to topple into the fire/down the sheer cliff that your husband pitched next to for ' the stunning vistas'.

(Shoot yourself and your husband if he ever uses the word 'vista'.)

Rule Number 5: Chairs with drink holders seem like the greatest invention of modern times. They are not. Any drink placed in this handy holder will at some point in the evening - usually when you have run out of firewood and dry clothes - fall into your lap and chair. This will make you look like you have mis-aimed whilst peeing and smell like a tramp for the rest of your trip. You look like a hobo already, let's try not to make it worse.

Rule Number 6: Tie a distinctive flag to your tent. This supposedly helps your children identify your location. It probably does, but more importantly it stops you from drunkenly getting into bed with your straight-laced camping neighbours (the ones that get up at dawn to sprint up the fells in lycra and have been tutting at your boozy renditions of gin gan goolie for the past two nights). 

Rule Number 7: I cannot stress enough the importance of a torch for every member of your party; preferably one that can hang around your neck. Come night-time you will need this to negotiate guy ropes and find the toilets. As night time darkens, you will have grown bored with herculian journey to the loos. Your torch will help you find a secluded spot for alfresco-peeing and help you arrange your clothing from the inevitable spray. (Remember to turn your torch off before commencing, otherwise your back-lit arse will be visible in Keswick.) 

Without the torch you are likely to pick up a hedgehog confusing it as your daughter's missing glove. This hurts. Remember your torch and don't share it, ever, with unprepared novice campers. Let them learn the hard way; you are now Ray Mears and it IS survival of the fittest.

Rule Number 8:  It goes without saying that you should pick your campsite with care. Ideally you want somewhere tolerant of open fires and within a 10 minute walk of a pretty pub. These are our current favourites: Stonethwaite, Duddon Valley and Silverdale.

Rule Number 9: Choose your camping buddies wisely, now is the time to make strategic alliances. Avoid at all costs anyone like me, who is useless with a sheet of tarpaulin and is paralysed in their chair. Ditch the dross.

Ideally you need: a chef, a musician, a children's entertainer and someone that owns a yurt/camper/awning. We have managed to collect all these essentials in our camping group. 

The chef will keep you fed with constant supplies of curry, Moroccan stews and peg-abs (kebabs made on tent pegs).

The musician will entertain you with a folksy-indie mix of campfire favourites on otherwise dismally cold evenings. He will also make you popular with other campers. Having a (good) musician ups your tent-cred, making it easier to scrounge beer, fags and bacon when you inevitably run out.

The children's entertainer will occupy the kids with endless juggling antics and magic tricks. Be warned that although your own children are kept constantly occupied, juggling fire tends to attract all the other kids on the campsite to your area. Suddenly your manageable brood of four has multiplied like gremlins to 60, all of whom will be beating each other with rocks, for no obvious reason. Be warned camping makes kids feral. Counter this by turning your alcohol intake up to 11.  

Anyone with a yurt/camper/awning gains automatic promotion to camping HQ. It is here that you can move your chair when the weather becomes unbearable, you run out of firewood or you are so pissed you can no longer identify the sky, never mind the stars.

Rule Number 10: Your camper should never be rocking. By bedtime you will have consumed enough alcohol to sink Quint and your husband will see this as an opportunity to get back to nature. Layer up your clothing and never, ever remove the bottom layer (long johns). If he won't pay for Egyptian cotton and room service, then don't give him any. Ever.

You're welcome.

Read previous post: a losing game. 

I've been a bit quiet. Had you noticed? 

I can't really explain the silence. We've been busy, but not so much that I couldn't share with you. I've done a lot of sitting (I'm good at that) and a lot of other stuff too.

This week I can just about manage a list for you. Here you go.

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