Sidmouth Festival Diary [Saturday]

 I got a review!

Obviously I didn’t get straight off the train from Exeter and hop on a bus from Temple Meads to Wells to join some shanty-adjacent friends who were having a camping weekend / mini festival / birthday party in a field near Priddy. Because that would have been mad.

And equally obviously there was no difficulty in getting an Uber or a Taxi to come to a field in Priddy in Sunday morning to pick me up.

I definitely decided that I was NOT going to walk into my flat on Sunday afternoon and take a nap. So I sat down in my book nook chair to catch up on emails and the Guardian. And instantly fell asleep for three hours. 

[And equally obviously, I am not going to canteen shanties on Monday evening, and definitely not going to hear Pressgang Mutiny in the Folk House on Tuesday. Because that would be silly.]

I suppose the festival beard will have to be shaved off. The lockdown beard was not a good look. The hair on my head has kindly gone from brown to light brown, receded slightly, and regained some curls since the trendy and expensive barber started to sell me expensive moroccan hair oils. But the hair on my chinny chin chin has absurd streaks of white in it.

I have a holiday diary I kept just after I had started school. The last page says “after excitement of these, we are glad to be back at Number 3.” (Number 3 being the house number I grew up in.)

I am certainly looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed, using an actual toilet, showering alone, etc etc.

I wonder what would happen if I carried on writing and publishing diaries in weeks when I am not festivalling?

Got up, drank coffee, wrote, listened to Radio 4.
Got up, drank coffee, wrote, listened to Radio 4.
Got up, drank coffee, wrote, listened to Radio 4.
Got up, drank coffee, wrote, listened to Radio 4.