Festival. Oh god. Two.

Morning Two. Yesterday was a mixed bag. Went for an early run. Met a terribly nice chap on my return called Olly who, overlooking the fact I was shouting ‘Fucking Footloose again?’ (My iPod was stuck on repeat), explained he had a bedroom in the house and I could use his bath. Delighted and grateful I ignored the information that he couldn’t shake hands because he was ill. I don’t know if you have ever tried to have a bath without touching the sides, it’s not easy. As I hunched in the tepid water there was a knock on the bathroom door, “Olly?” said a female voice. “Erm, no it’s Ali”. Rapidly retreating, puzzled footsteps. Somewhere at the party someone is convinced there is more to Olly and Ali than meets the eye. The tennis didn’t go well. Sean suspected Isobel of deliberately throwing the mixed doubles. Chased her through the dance display, shrieking and hitting her with his racquet. My, “He’s highly strung” gag didn’t cut much ice with the assembled mothers. Talent show was a bit of a washout. Apparently shouting at your kids *not* a talent. Also inappropriately laughing at the 7 year old girls’ hoopla hoop show is frowned upon. Don’t know how much longer I can avoid the Portaloos, can no longer feel below my waist and I can’t risk another trip to Olly’s – who has also been avoiding me. My face spent the night getting to know Sean’s elbow. Tried washing the makeup off (see the photograph above of my daughter’s dance off facepaint) with Handy Andys. Limited success. Now, because I don’t drink, I’m the perfect person to make breakfast for 130 hungover festival goers. Oh sure, cater every other meal and leave breakfast to Al. Fuckers. Lisa meanwhile is at home working. Uh huh.
Alisdair Williamson's photo.

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