I am staring at the glare of my screen. Words don't want to come. Yesterday, I astounded all with my vocabulary. Today, the verbosity is vacant.
Meeting people, chatting to random strangers, that's the best part of Glastonbury. We spend hours talking with Brexiteers in the Avalon field. Maxim, a 74 year old man, is at his first festival.; he drinks wine and loves Bojo but somehow we manage to bridge the gap.
Tom, the Christian from the Iona community shares water and chat with us. He probably wants to party but his strict moral code denounces such extravagance. He doesn't approve of homosexuals either.
The medical tents are fabulous here. First hand experience and weeping eyes leads me to such conclusions. I'll be much more careful with my liberal dousing of dry shampoo today.The pollen count is stupidly high.
There's music here as well. Lots of it. Hobo Jones and his clan are all sorts of wonderful. It might not be the only time that we hear Friday I'm in love this weekend but it is day-appropriate. I pretend that it's Robert Smith on stage and giggle to myself.
Idles do what Idles do best up on the Park stage. Joe, gobby and extreme, doesn't shirk away from his responsibility. These boys are future pyramid headliners and they know it. Urgent punk has never sounded better.
We start again in a bit with the Proclaimers on the pyramid. The brothers will go down a storm. But there's no storm here, only heat. I'll walk a couple of miles to see them but not 500.
note: photo is from Glastonbury 2017.
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