Last time, the Judge ruled on a renovation ban, and previously debated whether bananas should be considered fruits. Preceding weeks saw an office kitchen dispute concerning coffee cups, and a series of domestic disputes involving shared finances, a husband’s precious car, unwanted weekend activities, and banning technology from the bedroom.
So far, I’ve been reasonable and objective in all of my cases. I’ve ruled in ways that both parties had to give in a little bit, and plaintiff nor defendant were fully met in their demands. I’ve tried to find the middle road and I’ve been a fair judge for all parties involved.
Until now.
This case is so clear that I do not even miss the absence of the defendant’s response. Whatever he would have to say, I can say with full confidence, would not impress me nor waver me in my judgement.
Because I’ve done my fair share of camping. I’ve done the low budget ‘adventurous’ thing. I’ve been in line, waiting to wash the dishes in a communal sink. I’ve hand washed my clothes in that same sink all the while having to accept small talk with people that upon saying so much as ‘hello’, think you are camping buddies and want to hang out with you every evening, as some sort of holiday BFF.
I’ve had to get dressed while being crouched on my knees, because the tent didn’t allow a person of 1,82 to stand up. In fact, most tents do not allow people of over 1,50 to stand up. Or had to deal with ants and other bugs crawling around and in the tent. I’ve experienced the whole ‘crossing-the-camp-site-with-a-toilet-role-under-my-arm, while some ‘funny’ co-camper felt the need to shout from half a block down how much toilet paper I thought I would be needing, and if I would have some left after a no. 2. I’ve even dealt with public diarrhoea. Yes, public, because everything you do on a campsite, including going to the toilet, or rather, especially going to the toilet, is public.
The ‘romance’ of hearing midnight rustling of sheets and heavy breathing of the people in the next tent are lost on me. Equally, I fail to understand what possesses people to spend their holidays, their much-needed moments of peace and rest on ten square meters with the neighbouring radio, or worse – television, screaming away at your relaxing evening under the stars.
Why would people choose small, uncomfortable, and void-of-privacy living quarters, for what are supposed to be weeks to recuperate from a year of hard work, family hectics and daily stress?
And all this is without even mentioning Rebecca’s arguments. Like ridiculous camping gear and men that are desperate to reconnect with their inner hunter-gatherer. We have evolved for a reason. We have washing machines and dish washers for a reason. Man has invented comfortable beds with a clear goal in mind: a good night’s rest. Why throw all that out the door at the one time in the year you actually should be pampering yourself?
The bottom line is: camping sucks. It involves more work than usual; it takes us backward instead of forward and did I mention the total lack of comfort?
My ruling will not come as a surprise. Rebecca has done the low-budget thing. She was fine doing that, but she now would like to upgrade a little bit. She wants something different. And I get it. Let her husband unleash his inner ‘Bear Grylls’ with a couple of his friends but the two of them, together with their son, deserve a bit of comfort.
So, Rebecca, find yourself a nice little hotel, book three seats on a flight, plant a few trees to compensate for your carbon footprint and enjoy. Enjoy your holiday in a fresh bed, with an actual roof that is high enough to stand up straight in and walls to keep out the bugs and ants. And of course, a private bathroom. You deserve it.
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