If I can remember the run, it began this year about February from looking at a picture of Damon Albarn winning an award with a genuine crying face on. He was beside Paul McCartney and google showed me their dinner table. Latitude wasn’t a festival I would have known about, though it said he was going to play there.
It finished last Sunday. By now most of it has left my wit. There was an easy overnight coach after another to catch, and I took a waterproof rucksack, a large umbrella, two pairs of socks, two dresses, four pants maybe five, suncream, a spoon, a cup, an australian canvas swag, a wear on pair of wellingtons, a sketchbook, a rack of paint, a camera, a tupperware box full of cashews, cranberries and pineapple cubes, a waterproof pair of orange dungarees, muesli, six tent pegs, an outer tent but not the inner, half a swimsuit top, a pashmina, a book to read which I’m not telling, a water bottle, nail varnish, a camping fabricated towel, a black and white skirt and a yellow sow wester. And the word traditional.
My plan was to visit Damon Albarn after the show. Though I knew it wouldn’t happen despite the way he cries about me. And that goes for some of those other performers, and the ones I haven’t got to yet.
It isn’t that my life isn’t complete. I’ve breakfasted out on hash browns without Sinead O’Connor. I’ve had lie ins, snoozes, and five mile walks. Last month I was self invited to the O2 to watch Monty Python. In my spare time I have decorated a two bedroom flat and put four new carpets down.
Also I have had time for watching Ralph Fiennes and have written him a postcard. If Damon isn’t divorced, I may play out as soap queen. In fact Michael Buble is quite encouraging and puts lots of energy into songs, but we can’t engage in friendship again unless I recall why I met him platonically on a boat or not.
If any of them want to talk to me, it has to be overseas.
I don’t know why.
Though maybe I do.
We all got to the festival a bit late after the coach driver considered a country lane. There wasn’t anything to be there for so it didn’t matter. Staff gave me a bracelet and the sun was out. The tent went up and that night I watched some very good jazz and a pompous brave french person singing about his niece and a rhyming german chancellor.
It was hot all day friday all day saturday,
rained saturday night, and
alright again on sunday monday.
Damon likes to include younger musicians in a way that would have been normal in the olden days. There was a cancellation on Friday’s main stage band, and out of the blue stepped a rhythmic Lilly Allen. She might be one of my daughters, and so might the man in blue trousers. He made sky out of newspaper.
There was also a Greenpeace man who had been freed as a 90% chance convict from a very important Russian Prison. He said the food was bad, but Vivienne Westwood had joined him on stage and he looked healthy for a 45 year old. The comedy tent was large, though I found it a day too late to watch Josh Widdecombe. The milky bar kid was there. His head once fell off putting yoghurts back.
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