Imagine, if you will, me as zulu warrior dancer. I hold up my rake as a spear while my feet stomp along in lines, around in circles.
Friday was a furious walk to work. When I get home, decisions will be made. A phone will be called… emails sent even.
But they weren’t. Instead, this being bank holiday weekend, I spend my frustrations and energies in what we laughingly call the garden but is more of a wasteland. I want a seating area, so I choose a small sloping section in front of the bedroom windows to transform. I dig it over, move a ton of soil, and what is left I level, ready for decorative aggregate.
Which explains my dance. Rake, stomp, check, rake, stomp, check… I pass a happy Sunday morning.
The mud I tread into the house is soon mingling with Yorkshire mud that my daughter brings home from the Leeds festival.
Every other word is fuck, she says.
Needn’t bring that northern muck here, I say.
Was so funny tho, Ma. K had so much E Saturday that he woke up Sunday with blisters all in his mouth and throat, so D was trying to spoonfeed him cold cream of chicken soup.
But that was all claggy so we cracked open the cream of tomato instead.
Wise choice, I say.
She tells me that raving in the rain was probably the best experience of her life, and that the most depressing thing in the world is the end of a great festival; walking alone through muddy fields of mostly-empty tents, the odd person you pass is either sobering up or hungover and you have seven hours before the coach home.