I’m watching Glastonbury on telly. I’m warm. I just walked out to the car to get a CD I wanted to listen to. That’s a ten yard trip to the next band. It’s a four yard stroll to the tea stall. I have a seat. I’m clean and as far as I can tell, there is almost no chance of any crusties urinating where I am going to be sleeping. It would be too much of a cliche to wish I was there. I used to go every year and would go again but I’m put off by the palaver of getting a ticket, the unlikelihood of getting a ticket and the question of whether or not to take my millions of children too. I am now reading The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien. Kick it.