...in which our intrepid protagonist finds himself deep in Western Australia's unpopulated wilderness with only his wits, girlfriend, three dogs, a booked-out campsite of tourists and a car full of food and camping gear to survive.

I love fishing and camping. I'll freely admit that I am perhaps one of the least competent fishermen to ever associate himself with that tag - where some guys can readily associate the subtle signature of the yanks and tugs on their line with some specific fish species and weight (in pounds, no less,) I have difficulty recognising a fish when it's in my hands. And when Mark points out a hole to hit where he reckons hungry fish may be waiting to die, I'll often nod dumbly and yell with delight when my cast results in a wet sinker. If there's going to be a group picture taken at the end of a fishing day, I'll be the guy helping someone else hold up their prize catch. You get the idea...

That aside, I've often fancied myself a decent camper. Though I don't go often, I always enjoy it. My tents jump together so quickly they often get mistaken for Transformers (in my minds eye, at least,) and I don't mind eating with grotty hands, burning the soles of my thongs on the campfire, or sleeping in the cold on a hard floor.

Notable exceptions to my rugged facade include: an inability to tolerate mosquitoes in my tent, and my ardent fear of sleeping with dirty feet (I'll go to great lengths to ensure my feet are pristine in my cozy sleeping bag.) Other than these reasonable compromises, I'll generally feel comfortable telling people I'm a bit of the outdoorsy type. People who don't really know me, at any rate.

Recent events have shifted my perspective in this matter somewhat, however. A few weeks ago I went on a short camping trip with my girlfriend and some of her mates, and learned a bit about myself in the process...

My first lesson came with the realisation that my previous ideas of bare living involved a powered campsite, only one deli within walking distance, and moderate showering facilities with hot water (but I'm man enough to put up with those water-saving shower roses they often have.) And of course I never go camping without all the conveniences my mate Mark (and his Utility Vehicle of the GODS - aka the Uterus) could bring, including a pergola nearing circus tent proportions, all BBQ goods you could possibly want, all the fresh fish you could catch (and subsequently deep-fry or smoke,) and sometimes a full sized fridge stocked with a literal ute-tray-load of home brewed beer.

So it would be fair to say that I got a bit of a shock when I discovered my new campsite not only was absent of any showering facilities, but had only the long-drop toilets[1] and was completely unpowered. Life for the next two days would be tough, but not impossible.

However, my optimism begun wearing thin pretty quickly. I soon found myself despondent when my electric toothbrush began to show signs of a waning battery. Oh, I hid the fear well, but my gaze ever wandered disconsolately toward my leather toiletries bag.

Then came the realisation that I was a complete food snob! That's right, as far as I was concerned, I only brought the bare essentials - namely six porterhouse steaks, a kilo of bacon, a bag full of mushrooms, two tubs of butter (one mixed with freshly crushed garlic), a dozen eggs, sandwich ham and salami, and a bunch of bread, buns and hot-dog sausages. In other words, enough to see us through two nights and one day. Snacks, of course, included dips, salsas, and marinated stuffed olives.

It turns out everyone else brought cereal, bread and tinned minced meat things. Feeling bad for them, I cooked up plenty of extra stuff for each meal, but it turns out they all preferred their own 'food'.

Of course, we brought a separate tent for the dogs. Carla set that one up while I slept.

The entire second day was wasted on a sore neck and shoulder. I don't understand how I can be expected to sleep on a bare blow-up mattress like my cave-dwelling ancestors probably did - I now understand that evolution has removed from us the ability to sleep in such rude conditions.

Having been out-camped by a bunch of girls (did I forget to mention that?) I drove home quietly, my ego bruised. The next day I went out and did some work on my car (this always makes me feel better[2].)

OK, so when I say I worked on my car I mean I changed my tyre. Because it was flat. And my car was driving all wobbly.

So the nuts were on really tight, and while I was removing them I hardly even noticed that sweat was dripping on the ground. Barely worth mentioning really. Then when I'd finished I threw things about in the boot of my car.

I carefully left some grime on the bathroom sink when washing my hands so Scroop would know I've been doing some manual labour and couldn't be bothered cleaning the sink (it will probably just get dirty again when I do more car work anyway.)

On to another subject: I'm pretty sure that because programming is a completely male dominated area we can consider it a manly thing to do. Very much like coal mining, fist-fighting, football and such.

Footnotes:
[1] A long-drop toilet is basically a hole in the ground with chemicals way down out of sight. Fortunately being a guy means you can avoid approaching such facilities significantly longer.
[2] I've only ever really worked on my car this once, and I did feel better afterwards, so this statement is technically true.