So, I am back from Glastonbury. Having spent the previous weekend in the 1950s, and this last one in a field, I am feeling more than a little disorientated as I look out from my window and see high-rise buildings, chimney pots and the elegant necks of cranes. I had written a long blog entry on the back of the Observer on Sunday, but then rather fittingly burnt it in an attempt to keep warm whilst sitting near the Stone Circle at 2.30am yesterday morning.
I seem to remember musing about the lifestyles Glasto not only encompasses but seems to suggest are actually possible, and toying with the idea of being a rock chick banging a tambourine in a band, a hippy mother sitting with her children under a tent hung with lanterns and flowers, or one of the hipster types who seem to emerge from the mud bespoiling their (non-skinny, and held together with duct tape) jeans. The latter rather uncannily tied in with the latest chapter of the Bohemian book I have previously enthused about, which describes the Bohemian's rejection of bourgeois routines of house-cleaning and personal hygiene for dirt and creativity (apparently one creates the other). However I gave up at least on this option, as I found myself reading said book with a torch alone in my tent on Saturday night, listening to the revellers outside and feeling very, very uncool.
Still, I am back, with Jay-Z (brilliant) still ringing in my ears, mud under my fingernails and a massive inexplicable bruise on my thigh. The tomato plant has grown to the size of a small tree and has little yellow flowers. I am feeling creative and it is beautifully sunny outside. The real world isn't too bad.
