By: Blonde Two

Do you remember dear Blondees and Blondettes, that I once told you that I didn’t like New Year’s resolutions? Do you remember also, that this year I promised that I would sleep out in my bivvy bag for one night of each month?

Well, I was right not to like resolutions, because it would appear that I have already broken my bivvy one. January’s bivvy happened on New Year’s eve, February’s on Valentine’s day and then March’s … well, March’s didn’t happen at all. I have spent a couple of nights in a tent during March, but the days galloped ahead of me; and before I knew it, I was in a bunkhouse on March 31st with Blonde One, James Blonde, a Welshman and lots of youngsters; debating the comparative merits of staying in by the coal fire and sleeping outside in a blue plastic bag.

I tried to find my moral fibre, and got as far as getting the bivvy bag out and going to look outside for a suitable spot. There were, I have to say, suitable spots a-plenty, plus some lovely stars and a moon so bright that I wouldn’t have needed a torch. I was very nearly persuaded, but in the end, there were two things that put me off:

One of them was this piece of equipment. It was a very windy night and the noise from it was so great that it sounded like it was preparing to take off and decapitate anyone within ten feet of it (I would have been).

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The other put-off factor, and I am ashamed to admit this, was the tales of Dartmoor ghosts and ghouls that had nearly been told. That’s right, folks, I wasn’t scared because someone was telling a ghost story, I was scared because someone might have been about to.

Of course, when the morning came and I saw the view from my possible bivvy spot, I was very cross with myself. I promise that I will be a better-bivvier in April!

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