I should be on my way to Glastonbury festival right now.
Waking up at 3am, taking a final long shower, packing up the car, triple checking the dry shampoo supply, listening to early morning radio, watching the sunrise, catching a glimpse of Stonehenge, making our way through Frome, hitting local traffic, passing Castle Cary and remembering that one time we took the train and it took forever, crawling into the field to park, crossing our fingers that the queue isn’t too long, palming responsibility for carrying the tent onto whoever I’m with, queuing, singing, queuing, singing, getting the wristband, finding our pitch, greeting old friends, pitching the tent, a celebratory tin of cider.
Two days of quiet Glastonbury before the madness and mayhem begins on Friday. That first walk alone in front of the Pyramid stage before it’s fully constructed. That special feeling I’ve only ever experienced at Glastonbury. It’s a magical place.
Instead I broke my leg and had to give my ticket back – but thank goodness for excessive coverage on the BBC. You’ll find me camped out in front of the TV this weekend in a homemade den this weekend. Bring on Blondie.