Bacon and eggs

Never volunteer. In the land of Cub Scouts, even the faintest hint that you might possibly be less than 100% averse to helping out is roughly akin to jumping up and down, waving your hands in the air and shouting 'Me!! Pick me!".

So there I was, at 6.30am on Saturday morning, struggling to light the urn in a damp marquee in Marlow while hoards of grubby Cubs stuck their heads through the tent flap to enquire whether the bacon was on yet. Friday had seen me trundling around Sainsbury's with a trolley full of 300 bread rolls, having already loaded the first two trolley-loads of groceries into the capacious boot of our Volvo estate. And that didn't even include the meat and veg, which were coming direct from the farm shop.

Although I spent most of the weekend in a tent, slaving over a hot camping stove, I must confess that I love Cub Camp. It's the combination of enthusiastic kids, just as happy to muck in with making packed lunches as they are to grapple with raft building, and hard-working parents, whose sense of humour never seems to fail them in the most trying of circumstances.

Not, of course, that I'd ever consider doing the catering again. At all. Ever. So don't go getting any ideas if you're reading this, Akela...