Rarely has there been cause for two pages per day and never before a Special Appendix, but on this occasion, circumstances compel: last night we camped on the Antarctic mainland. Better judgement was suppressed severely in the interests of experience, despite previous dissuasive history of living with tents. After a hearty meal, the prisoners were taken through high seas (therefore wet kit) to the beach from which British Antarctic parties habitually started. It is indeed a propitious spot – no overhanging glaciers, a smooth rocky shore, a narrow spit leading to a penguin-adorned inlet and curious seal ski-runs. Why they plug to the top of snowy slopes on their stubbly little flippers is impenetrable, unless to toboggan down on their substantial bellies. On the down side was the wind, and the fact that we had to put up our tents. First pick your spot – anywhere smooth? No. Stomp around. Do battle with a three man tent. Initially, I cursed the fact that they’d given us an unwieldy monster, but don’t know how we’d’ve got into a two person version. Much cursing and yellow polyester later, the hemispherical pod was erected, then we bartered for a shovel to bury the flappy bits. As we clumped round Bill for a briefing, all the chaps had to raise their hands and swear: “I promise not to piss in the sea - or to make yellow snow.” This on account of Mr Yum-Yum, the blue provisions bin lined with a black bag hidden behind a rock that did service as the dunny. Dutch’s slogan: “There are no bathrooms in Antarctica” holds mostly true. Several women decided to risk the thigh-deep snow and trudged for an insurance policy. One South African insisted on having her photo taken with her knickers round her ankles to prove to her friends the worst loo in the world. Needless to say, the half hour we queued was a riot of sound-polluting hilarity as we exchanged mildly competitive examples of squalor we have known and reviled. To my consternation, at 1.57 I woke with the implacable knowledge that I needed to return. Although the snow had crisped up overnight, I still stole a pair of snow shoes from next door’s tent, stylishly stuffed vertically into the snow outside their airlock. Had they been awake, I feel certain they would have made no demur, because we had selflessly shared our plastic bottle of Jura Inspiration with them at midnight, taken suitable snaps and declared it the most welcome nightcap – ever – as we heralded Christmas Eve. Younger and more certifiable of our party, mostly those overheated on testosterone, had dug open graves and snuggled gamely into bivouac bags. How much more proof of insanity is required? The only sign that they did not intend to expire was the careful positioning of their wellington boots indicative of souls careful to avoid snowy-toe in the morning. Not consonant with one preparing to slough this mortal coil. Despite the surreal discomfort of perching on a provisions barrel in sub-zero temperatures, the midnight sun and utter tranquillity of the environs was made poignant by the sight of 70 fellow travellers zipped into quantities of nylon and down, innocently oblivious. And totally silent, but for the ssshh-crunch of my snow shoes.