Men

Ok, today, I shall rant about men. Not men as such, not as individuals. In fact, I think what I am ranting about is the commonly spouted misconceptions about men, which are as insulting to men, as they are the source of problems for women.

These are particular choice quotes I have heard  in actual conversations about men- this week.

1) Men can’t really understand complex emotions.

2) Men cant really get to grips with what needs doing in the house, its best if I do it.

3) Men cant multi task

4) Men have ‘man panics’ when situations that are serious arise.

Now, I am not a fan of ‘what people really mean-when they say this’- but actually, in this case its appropriate. So here is what those statements mean.

1) Men cannot possibly be expected to exist in an adult relationship, and be sensitive to the needs and emotions of the other adult that lives with them and are to emotionally inept,  to be expected to treat their partner with anything resembling respect and sensitivity.

2) The ongoing battle that is exhausting me, trying to maintain my house, and our life- is far too trivial for the man who loves me- and it is acceptable that I take responsibility for every job that is apparently too trivial for him to consider-even though it combines to create a full time job on top of the job that I already do, in addition to parenting our children.

3) Men should not be expected to do more than 1 thing at once- and in order for this expectation to be adhered to, I will constantly juggle 76 things-even though I am not genetically predisposed to multi task either.

4) Should not rely on man in time of crisis.

If I was a man, I would be slightly pissed off with these general assumptions. In the same way as I would be pissed off with every article, advert, and programme, which portrayed men, as beings who manage to exist with the afflictions of being incompetent, emotionally inept,  and lazy.

The men I know and value in my life, are not like this. The blood diverted from the brain by the presence of a penis has not all of a sudden turned them into morons, who arent capable of understanding the emotions of another adult, treating them with respect, contributing to the maintenance of the lives they build with their partners, or effectively parenting their children.

If having a penis excuses fuckwit behaviour, and a complete lack of regard, or respect for those around you- then clearly next life, I am coming back with one of those.  It also means that I should avoid having relationships with anyone with a penis, if this type of behaviour is a natural by product of gender.

Having a penis does not give a reason for fuckwit behaviour. Men are not fuckwits. If a man is behaving like a fuckwit, he is doing so because he is a fuckwit. Just as being treated badly does not become acceptable just because you are a woman.

Tackle that behaviour- but you do men, and women, a great disservice by pretending that this is a natural by product of having a penis.

The cult of the princess

My daughter wants to be a princess, indeed her brothers, and certain friends encourage this by calling her a princess. Buying her ghastly clothes, with perky slogans like ‘daddies little princess’ emblazoned on the front. (ALWAYS sent to the charity shop as soon as received, and in the worst cases, chucked straight into the bin, or used as dusters- am not encouraging this in others).

Lets just clarify what a princess is. A princess is the daughter of someone, and in every fairy tale ever written- her entire value is either as that mans daughter, or as the potential wife of someone.

She has started requesting certain princess stories- Rapunzel for instance. I do tell her the story. Its just that in my version, Rapunzel realises waiting for some berk to come and use her hair as a ladder is pointless, and actually chops hair off, to a more manageable style, and makes her own rope ladder- leaving the tower a good 6 months before the  prince turns up. I tell her other fairytales with slight adjustments- you dont fall in love from a kiss, and certainly slightly more is required before committing to a relationship with the prince- never mind marriage. In my version of Rumplestiltzkin, the clever woman who guesses the mean midgets name, also gets to leave the mean old King, with the gold, and her child- and manages to live happily ever after on her own. In Cinderella, Cinders gets to keep the dress and the shoes, the Prince is told off for being so arrogant that he just assumes any damsel in the land will accept his hand, and eventually marries an ugly sister, realising that ugly and mean are not the same thing- while Cinderella and the Fairy Godmother set up their own design business. In my version, the eponymous heroines are not meek and mild, they are sharp, witty, and able to help themselves.

There are many theories about the origins of folklore, and certainly when the origins of some of our more well loved fairytales are investigated- they all contain quite disturbing themes of sexual repression, of terrible things happening when the young woman is awakened sexually(note for reader- spindle is ALWAYS symbol for penis-small penis probably, but penis nonetheless).

Yes, I hear you say- but these are just stories. But these are not stories. THese stories are so powerful, that I dont even have to explain the tales I am referring to- they are so deeply ingrained on our collective psyche, that I can safely assume that any reader from the western world, will know exactly what story I am referring to.

There are theories that the folklore and mythology of any give society, are an allegorical reflection of their own psyche, their views, their morals- and IF this is the case- then the cult of the princess needs to be tackled. I suppose if that is true of folklore- then its likely to be true for the modern equivalent of folklore- the media. Our films, our television, our fiction, our art.

I dont want my daughter aspiring to be a helpless virtuous girl- who when faced with trouble, thinks the only solution is that a handsome prince rescues her. The fact that at 2 years old, before she even has the ability to identify what a princess is(she thinks princesses eat sweeties, and have a crown)-this is her first aspiration, bothers me enough, that I will always rewrite these tales- even though by the age of 5, with, or without my influence, she will know the originals off by heart. I am sure that my rewriting these stories will cause a slight bit of friction, when she finds that mummy’s version is different…but who cares.

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Pink stinks!

I predictably swore that I would never do pink. My daughter would not ‘do’ pink. But here we are. Two loads a week. Bright pink, sugar pink, cerise, raspberry pink, peachy pink, pale pink, white with a hint of pink. Even the stuff that isnt pink, has pink fecking sequins, trims, and bindings.

I didn’t swear I wouldn’t ‘do’ pink, because I am a humourless militant feminazi. Although I am. It certainly wasnt because the idea that girls are somehow drawn to this bland, inoffensive, wishy washy colour, by virtue of being born with a uterus, was offensive to me- although it is.  It isn’t because thinking of the people who shape our nation, our minds, and our finances, standing up wearing sugar pink is absurd- although it certainly is.

I swore I wouldn’t do pink- because it is a fecking vile colour. It goes with nothing-apart from more fucking pink. The overall effect of a the obligatory pink trim, on anything, so that people are able to identify that my child is female, and is not called George- is horrible. It was a fucking vile colour when it was traditional for boys, and it remained a vile colour when boys realised, and it was shoved off to girls.

Rachel doesnt even suit pink. She looks great in red, blue, even yellow- but not pink. Yet it is almost impossible to buy clothing for a child without a penis, that doesnt have a sliver of pink, sneaked into it- somewhere, somehow.

I wish this post was original. I wish I was saying something that hadnt been said, a million times before, and that my insight into the cult of pink- was some kind of profound statement. But it isnt.

Ah, I hear you ask. You are the person controlling the purse strings- why do you buy pink? Consumer sovereignty and all that.

I try really hard not to. I will go to ridiculous extremes not to buy pink- but when 90 percent of the clothing available for girls is pink, is accented with pink, or has something pink on it- then you are left with little choice-and it slips in. When that is combined with the fact that her extended family and friends are determined to see her as some kind of princess(and am damn sure I will blog about the cult of the princess at some point- but I need to be able to do so without shaking with fury!)- the pink sneaks in. Rachel is told that she loves pink, that she should love pink- and slowly but surely, pink is becoming her favourite colour- as it is with every one of the little girls in her nursery class.   I would rant more about this subject, but I have to take a load of washing out of the machine, that looks like someone left a red sock in there.

Its my birthday.

THis year, I almost forgot my birthday was coming up.

Sometimes, its like I hit 21, and someone somewhere hit the fast forward button. Months pass quickly, I suppose I will get to the point where years pass quickly. I am going on holiday next week(nothing outrageous- just a shared house with some friends and their kids in the Cotswolds). This means that actually, I will probably spend my birthday sorting out my washing, and playing with the short one.

This year, its 31. Am supposed to feel sad about that. Its been all over the papers that some presenter has been sacked for being too old- and thats the thing with us girls. Once we hit 25, we are supposed to be concerned about the lines, the wrinkles, our fading usefulness, now we dont fit with this ideal of a perfect looking 21 year old. Youth is all, skin like a fresh apricot, taut stomach, arse you could bounce a penny off. People make jokes, pretend that they think I am older- like its supposed to be a bad thing.

Strangest thing though. Possibly not surprising for those who know me, but actually its no bad thing. In fact, I quite like it.

I have lived on my own since I was just shy of my 16th birthday. I always looked much younger than I was.  I had 13 year old stepsons at 23, and long before I was this person getting to grips with parenting Rachel, I was parenting boys who were 10 years my junior. I had this life, this great life, but this life that felt a bit pretending. Like I was pretending to be a grown up. Its cliche for our generation, that we all think we are faking adulthood, and that someone will come along, and take away the mortgage, the house, the career(have been lucky enough to have two), and send us back to double maths.

We arent faking it. I wasnt faking despairing cos Daniel had left it till the last minute to tell me he needed cooking ingredients. I certainly wasnt faking going to work in situations where the decisions I made had consequences that could last a lifetime for others. Any more than I was faking the nights out with my friends, where the sun coming up didnt really indicate that the night was over.  What made me feel like I was faking it, wasnt that when I looked in the mirror, I saw a girl who barely looked 20. What made it feel like I was faking it, was that other people couldnt see past that girls face.

Up until my daughter was born, I looked like a child. I had the skin of a child, enviable I was told. Same with my body- absolutely the ideal apparently. Tiny, fat free- like a little diet yoghurt-sample size- which meant buying designer bargains was much easier.

I was once carrying out a consultancy for Leeds City Council. I was about 23, and it was quite an impressive consultancy. Designing, delivering, and evaluating a series of training events, to be delivered across the service, designed to improve performance…blah blah blah. The head of their training team came to meet with me, and I went downstairs with the guy who did my admin. When we got there, the Leeds City Council guy, shook the admin guys hand, and asked me for a cup of coffee.

That kind of thing happened a lot. In the supermarket with the boys, I got ID’d for a bottle of vodka, even though I had a shopping trolley with what was clearly not the shopping of a young girl trying to score booze. (Seriously, if I had tried to score booze at 15, which I frequently did, I wouldnt have been buying a shopping trolley which included 12 toilet rolls, and enough food to satisfy a swarm of locusts, which by the way is the nearest comparison to having twin adolescent boys in your house-food wise).

When the things that I was supposed to prize started to fade. No longer could you bounce a penny of the arse, the breasts slightly out of kilter after going from a 34a to a 38c and back down again, after feeding Rachel for 15 months. The stomach still flattish, but no longer taut. Skin that could probably do with makeup more often than I can be bothered, and no longer fresh faced and able to fake life, after a weekends activities that apparently it is ‘sad’ that I still enjoy. My ovaries are apparently committing genocide on the eggs contained within, – and the sound of a biological clock should be deafening. All these things that indicate deteriorating usefulness, have actually signalled the start of something else. Something else entirely.

I dont get called sweetheart any more. People dont confuse me with the tea girl any more. I dont get people looking at me, like I really should be shunted back to double chemistry. And the incongruence between a fresh face, and the life I live, is no longer apparent.

I dont get people astounded that a the blonde girl in heels, with the baby face, actually has a working knowledge of economics, or middle eastern politics, or can grasp philosophical concepts. The dismissal of who I am, because I happened to be a girl who fit in with conventional norms of what a pretty girl is supposed to be, has stopped. Not altogether, but enough for there to be a noticeable difference in my life.

Without those dismissals, I have changed. I dont feel the need to justify my existence. I know who I am, and when I say something, I know that that view is worth as much, and is considered as the view of the person I am addressing. There is no confusion for the person I am addressing, no incongruence between what they see before them, and what they hear coming out of my mouth. My idealism has been tempered slowly over the years by pragmatism, but the principles remain unchanged.

The imperfections that age is slowly bringing(and lets face it, at 31 the ‘deterioration’ is only just starting) havent even made me look worse.

The fact that I am not constantly aware of my appearance, or how it might be perceived= no longer worried about the dissonance between the appearance and the reality- has led to a comfort in my own skin, which shows itself when I carry myself, in the way I dress, and in the expression that I hold. No longer the ideal of a pretty girl, I now look like the grown woman that I am.

Unap0logetic. And I have to say, if this is what being in your thirties does. If losing what society appears to prize in women above all else, means being allowed to be who I am- then long may it continue. May the arse sag, the crows land round my eyes, and the waist spread. May the skin wrinkle- because each of those changes, I will earn. They are a sign, that I am no longer 21 and pretending to be a grown up. Each line and sag, is another sign that not only am I learning to live in the world, but that I HAVE lived in the world. If you dont mind, now that the neurosis of early youth are fading, I am not sure I want to swap them with a new bunch of fears, that god forbid, I might age.

And the security that comes with that, which I have barely tasted- seems a whole lot more fun, than constantly worrying about how others perceive me, about whether I will be taken seriously, whether I fit the ideal.

So Happy 31st Birthday to me, and I hope that the feelings that my thirties brought continue- because quite honestly- if this is 31, then 41, 51, 61, can only be fucking amazing. If each of the lines that my face shows, is a little more wisdom, and a little more knowledge, and a little bit of my contribution to the world- then I want a face like an A=Z of Britain. The understanding of the world, that is only just beginning, allows me to enjoy the world, in a way that looking 21 never did.

So shallow. Isnt it fun?

Look at these shoes. Seriously, look at them.

http://www.dune.co.uk/catalogue/style.asp?r=43&g=52&y=S09LLE41SDC037V

They are beautiful. Seriously sexy shoes. From the skyscraper heel- to the zip up the heel seam that implies dominatrix- to the platform which makes them appear difficult to walk in, but actually reduces the heel by an inch.  A duck egg blue, that allows you to look like you are wearing acid brights, but which actually is muted enough to make them versatile.

Now I know for a fact, that several of you will be looking at these shoes, and thinking that only a sado masochist would consider walking in them. I am fairly sure that some of you will be reading this, in disgust, that any woman who describes herself as a feminist,  could possibly see these shoes as anything but a mysogynistic symbol of womens subservience, and patriarchal oppression through objectification of women.

But I dont care. I am shallow. And I love these shoes. As someone who has been in heels since the age of 10, and who prayed throughout her adolescent that the almish clumpy heels of the nineties would go away, while I was still young enough to enjoy the resurgence of the stiletto, I am saying out in the open- I covet these shoes. I want them.

And as luck would have it- the yearly renewal of my tax credits, resulted in an extra payment this week. An unexpected windfall- which I am absolutely aware should not be spent on these shoes. I know that my rent is due in two weeks, and although it is covered, should ensure that I dont have a weeks panic- by NOT buying these shoes.

I am aware that I have bills that are more pressing. But actually, with some mathematical gymnastics, that would defy Einstein- but which are totally logical. I can actually afford these shoes. I have managed to reduce the cost of the train tickets to my holiday by twenty quid, and as the shoes are already half price- that means I have saved sixty whole great british pounds sterling. Which in effect means that these shoes are twenty quid. Which means not only can I afford to buy them, but not to buy them, would be an act of such financial stupidity, and fiscal irresponsibility, that I could not live with myself if I didnt. Also tis my birthday next week….

So I opened up the webpage, and gleefully pressed BUY. Then I went through another window, and pressed BUY. Then I went through another window, entered more personal information about myself than my closest friends know. Am fairly sure that they wanted a cervix measurement, and a potted sexual history- and then the message. ‘There was a problem with your order-please check and try again’. I go back, I check the card details, I check the address, I check to ensure there is actual cash available to buy said shoes. I check to ensure that the myriad of information the Dune website wants from me- and hey presto-NO BLOODY JOY!!! Please contact your issuing bank. THe problem isnt my issuing bank, its your bloody website. I go through the contact details- I send them an email. Nothing. Naddah.

I have the money to buy my shoes. I have the visions of me wearing these shoes with a yellow cashmere/wool mix dress, or with a beautiful white silk dress, with a blue and yellow oriental print round the bottom. And I cant have them.

The problem is bastardisation of free market economics. I have decided.  The customer is supposed to be king, and consumer sovereignty means that supply and demand will mean that the market will always provide what the customer needs. Basic principle of free market economics? Well, when the distance between the customer and the business is now so vast, and there are so few ways for the two communicate-without pressing upteen buttons, going through seventy six million call centres, with six zillion menus, before you reach an apology monkey, with less power than you- who really cant help- cos thats the system. Consumer is no longer king. And I cant have my shoes.

I warn before you read- this is a rant. I bet you never read a rant about Afghanistan AND childbirth in the same place before…

(Warning- before reading this- please note that this post is a rant in two parts, and if you do not feel particularly in the mood to hear me ranting, I suggest you close the page down)

The first part of my rant is aimed at Dr.Denis Walsh, whose comments about women who ‘don’t fancy the pain [of childbirth]‘ and who should be prepared to ‘withstand pain’, were repeated across my sunday morning media.

Now, I understand the sentiment that inspired these comments. Of course labour should be a natural process, I wince at the medicalisation of childbirth, and the taking away of control of birth experiences from women, instead handing it to the ‘experts’ in the medical profession. I am lucky enough to live in an area where the local birthing centre meant that I didnt have to see a single doctor, in the whole time I was pregnant- conscious that I was going through a normal process, not an illness that needed to be presided over by a doctor. Instead receiving support in making MY choices, about delivering MY baby.

However, as a woman, who when refused drugs by a helpful midwife, launched the gas and air mouthpiece at the midwifes head, and demanded my husbands phone to obtain my own drugs- I have to say, I have a teensy weeny problem with this mans statements.  Debates about the medicalisation of childbirth, seemed irrelevant as I bargained in my head that death could not possibly be worse than this-while my daughter remained stuck and refusing to budge(yeah she was stubborn before she was born!).

And quite frankly Dr.Walsh- when you have shat a bowling ball, without anaesthetic, or stretched your front lip over the front of your head, as a new fetching winter hat- you may tell women they should just ‘deal with it’.

When doctors are telling people to have broken bones, and severe burns treated, without pain relief, because that pain will teach them a valuable lesson and enable them to process the trauma better- you may tell women to just get on with it, and stop whinging about pain.

Support women in their birth choices, teach them about natural pain relief techniques(loved the birthing pool, the tens machine..assaulting my husband…all fine, until was bargaining with a god I didnt believe in, begging to not be in pain and tired any more)- but telling women to just get on with it? To expect women to just grin through complete agony- implying that they are simply being ‘soft’ for wanting to manage their own labours in a way that isnt traumatic- makes me want to hunt you down and spray paint graffitti on your house.

I would quite like for women to be able to use the only imposition on childbirth, which benefits women, without it being implied by the profession that is supposed to be helping them, that they are just not ‘hard’ enough to cope with what nature throws at them.

Which links me nicely onto the subject of Afghanistan. Well, it doesnt, but it has also been bothering me this week.

I have this friend Sid. He isnt really called Sid. We called him that because his dad was a village bobby, when we were teenagers. Sid, Sid, the coppers kid.  Sid was one of my best friends, when I was a rebel without a clue 16 year old. We would skive school, and go to my flat and smoke dubious cigarettes of low quality weed(which I am sure was more boot polish than anything else..).

In our early twenties, Sid joined the army. It came as a surprise to me, but on consideration, as I had been bossing Sid around since I was 16, and everyone else had too, I suppose it was a logical step.

Last year Sid came back from Aghanistan. He had returned unscathed from a tour in Iraq, and on paper he returned from Afghanistan the same way. But the stress of whatever he saw out there, had taken my beautiful boy, and changed him. I hope not forever.

I stood in Leeds train station, on the day of 9/11. THe station was more or less silent, although packed. People all of a sudden knew who Osama Bin Laden was, and who the Taliban were. Within days, people who weeks earlier had professed ignorance, when I talked about the treatment of women in Afghanistan, were talking in detail about Islam, and reciting a glossy understanding of this countries history- helpfully served up and spun by our media.

This clear criminal act, perpetrated by a an organisation, was being discussed as an act of war.  We started a war, in a country, on the basis that they harboured a criminal, and because ‘terror training camps’ existed within it. We bombed the people of a country, where they were already experiencing poverty and hardship that we cant imagine in the West, with bombs with more financial value, than the markets and towns they hit. We have been fighting in that country now, since September 2001.

Now pardon me for being simplistic- but I was a little concerned at the time that we were bombing a country, for essentially harbouring a criminal. Given that we regularly harbour war criminals, and that we have criminals being harboured in probably half the countries in the world- was declaring ourselves at ‘War’ with terror, and bombing this poor country back to the stone age really the best way of approaching this?

We didnt define what terror was. We liked having a catch all umbrella term, that could justify almost any atrocity we cared to carry out. By declaring war, we legitamised criminals, and made them combatants. We radicalised the youth of an entire faith- by treating them with hostility, and by placing them on the opposing side of a war-with atrocities carried out, which were only matched in scale by the rhetoric of democracy, and fighting oppression, which glossed them over and repackaged them.

We have created a quagmire- and now politicians are worried- because we arent winning and we cant get out. We cant win- because there was never anything to win. You cant measure success if you never had an objective in the first place. And you cant bomb a country into the stone age to satisfy blood lust, and a right wing agenda.

We sent boys in to do the dirty work. Boys like my friend Sid, who were sent out, ill prepared, ill equipped, with little or no understanding of the country they were fighting in, and a half cocked illusion about what they were fighting for.  When these boys, and they are boys- look around at the reality of where they are. The illusion shatters, and they realise the lies that are being told about what they are doing. Only they are in a country where they are barely equipped for the geographical conditions, never mind to fight an enemy they cant even identify. They are the targets, and they deal with the consequences of the agendas of those who started this. They arent even safe in the knowledge that they will return home heroes, because they are fully aware of the way this ‘war’ is perceived.

This week, we had one of the worst weeks in Afghanistan since the conflict began. With more boys dying, and no end in sight.  I have heard comment from politicians, using words like ‘winnable’, and waxing lyrical about womens rights in Afghanistan-like that was even a contributing factor to our actions. On Friday it took every bit of restraint I had, while listening to Any Questions, not to throw the radio at the wall- as a response to the glib lies and platitudes about this ‘conflict.

I was in Vietnam a few years ago. In Ho Chi Minh city, the rickshaw drivers are those who collaborated with America, in the 11 years that they tore that country apart. They have an official status as outcasts, and are not allowed to eat in certain places, their lives are spent as a permanent reminder of their collaboration. They tell horrific stories of what happpened when America withdrew- leaving those who they claimed they were ‘helping’ to face the consequences of being on the wrong side during a war that should never have been fought.

We will be forced to do the same, when we leave Afghanistan. The soldiers out there know how little we are achieving, and they know that the country we have spent the last 8 years tearing apart, will have to deal with the consequences, as our leaders come up with a hastily devised, ill thought out exit strategy. Will we help those who risked everything to help us in our misguided confused aims? No, of course we wont. Tales are already pouring in from Iraq, about the consequences faced by those who did our translating, and our driving. People who have been rejected in their applications to come to the country they worked for, even though they are at risk of death without our protection.

The aim of this exit strategy will of course be to appease British Voters, rather than a consideration of the needs of the country we have destroyed.

I daresay this exit strategy will be sold to us like a victory for democracy, and like Russia, we will consign our 8 years in Afghanistan to the drawer of history. Trying not to dwell on it. In the meantime boys like Sid, and the people of Afghanistan will be living with the damage done.

Festival madness.

Do you know what a state dependant memory is? You know when you are drunk, and you lose something, and then when you are in the same state, you remember where you put it. That is a state dependant memory, and  that is what happens with me and festivals.

My stomach sank on Friday morning. I looked out of the window, and after a week of glorious weather- I saw torrential rain, and  Lake Gallilee had formed outside my house. This was the first state dependant memory. The memory of every festival that I have ever been to. Waking up on the day of departure, to torrential rain- and the prospect of a weekend with trench foot, bad food, and cold.  I packed deeply unnatractive waterproofs(which i lost anyway, and never felt the benefit of..), my list of the bands/dj’s I intended to see, and off I went.

By the time I arrived- the torrential rain had dissapeared- left enough mud for the wellies to come out(pink candy striped wellies- clearly not an outdoors girl really..) and been replaced with glorious sunshine.

Unlike every other festival, I did not spend hours grappling with the intricate science of tent erection- instead arriving on site after my friends(actually one friend and her friends) had constructed a tent, laid it out with all things necessary for a great weekend, and already settled in.  This all boded well. As it was, I barely saw this tent, and not putting it up, meant I was not familiar enough with it, to actually find it without difficulty and luck, later on in the weekend… Her friends quickly became my friends, and off we went.

The initial forays to explore the lie of the land,  became entwined with the festivities, and I happily realised that the whole of Hebden Bridge had upped sticks to this collection of muddy fields for the weekend- with my neighbours, my stepson and his friends(trying desperately hard not to look like they were doing anything illegal at all..) and various acquaintances from different stages of my life- also there, in wellies-tentatively exploring this site of tents, marquees and sounds stages. After the first hour or so, of inhibitions falling, and decibels increasing- time began to lose all meaning.

Went from soundstage, to marquee, to tea shack, to a beautiful clearing in some very tall woods pounding with techno, and teeming with people. Many conversations with people, some strangers, some not, some already half recognised, and gotten to know in the time that elapsed between Friday evening, and Saturday afternoon(evening? Really not that sure). Had conversations with everyone, on topics as diverse as the meaning of life, the new Doctor Who, how to eat a twix correctly(you nibble the chocolate off the sides, then peel the toffee off the biscuit, then either eat the biscuit or chuck it..). It was dark, then it was light. Then I was lying on a sleeping mat, in a circle of tents, with some rather nice people- considering the awful choice that lay before me.

Lie there and fall happily asleep in the sun(which was already hot) and eventually be discovered as the toasted remains of me, or move and find the tent(which could have been green/red/blue, large or small, and possibly in a field with more tents…). As I did not at that point, have the capacity to move- my options became rather limited. THe porch of someones tent was offered- and I lay there, hoping for sleep, but actually listening to the competing decibels and beats, from the various soundstages- contemplating the fact that there was definitely a toothbrush and an unopened pack of cigarettes in the tent I had lost.

After being christened Bernard, and being part of a discussion about which animal we would prefer to be stampeded by(we came up with Meerkats-but realised it was impractical- as we would need about 15oo meerkats trained to stampede, possibly in pyjamas, and that might be difficult to locate)-the urge to pee, became stronger than the urge to sleep- and after a doze(it may have been sleep, it may not)- I went to look for the toilets.

This turned out to be a masterful stroke of planning. While I did not find the toilets- I did find my tent. Important rule- if you are looking for your tent at a festival, you will never find it, but kismet and serendipity mean you will always happen upon it eventually when you are looking for something else.

Saturday night at a festival is always different to Friday. The energy and the enthusiasm dissipates somewhat, and it is replaced by casualties from the night before, trying to rediscover the energy that they had the night before-without realising that the lack of sleep, adequate nutrition, and a shower- means it is lost till at least Sunday.

I valiantly gave up at 4am, and spent several hours asleep in a yurt.

Sunday was spent in a day of relative sobriety, looking about 30 years older than my years- eating cake, drinking tea, and contemplating going home. This placed me at odds with the rest of the gathered partygoers- but responsibility beckoned. They had found the energy to party with the same enthusiasm that they had arrived with- but this was my cue to leave. As the friend I had come with, was in no fit state to drive- I grabbed a lift to the station- and on Sunday evening, I managed to get myself home, albeit with filthy hair, a mouth that tasted like someone had died in it, and attire that might as well have been a neon sign  that said ‘I am on my way home from a festival’-(muddy wellies, denim cut offs, a bag with a sleeping mat sticking out- and hair that looked like it was on the verge of dreads).

Today, as I settled back into life watching Rachel, drinking tea, having clean hair, with techno replaced by Radio4, I was reassured by the friends that I had been with, that they had had a wicked time. State dependant memories of recovery from festivals, have appeared out of nowhere- . I didnt see any of the DJ’s or bands I intended to see(I may have caught 808 state, but really was unaware), but I did have a brilliant weekend. I have eaten terrible noodles, some things with chickpeas in it, and a very greasy burger, and paid way over the odds for the priveledge. I have peed in smelly portaloos, and I am quite sure that my stuff will remain in the bags I took for at least a week. I dont have trench foot, I do have sunburn, in a pattern which indicates it was earned while I was lay on that sleeping mat, procrastinating about finding my tent.

Rachel is now in bed. I am clean, my house is not, and I have decided that that is my festival fix for the summer. Unless Kendal Calling tickets fall ito my lap…