Summertime Cowboys

I've rarely experienced such a sense of quiet contentment as I did last night, sat alone on the top deck of a double-decker bus travelling across a darkened Isle of Wight, destination unknown*, listening to my song of the week (mp3) and wearing my cowboy hat.

But oh yes, before that happened, I went to the Bestival. Which was ace. I won't go into too much detail because I'm rubbish at describing what things were like. Let's just say there was a lot of dressing up as cowboys and Indians (hence the hat), and much laughter, scandalous gossip and general enjoyment.

I read a portentous article in the Sunday Times last week about how Rave Is Back. Cue the involuntary resurrection of confused memories of too many lost weekends from years ago. I think my reaction could best be summed up as "Nooooooooo!".

However, I can now confirm that It's All True. The sight of 25,000 thirtysomethings dressed up as glitter-bedecked cowboys, dancing to mad bleepy music (courtesy of this lot) and - horror! - waving glowsticks will not easily be forgotten. What's more, it was brilliant. Be very afraid.

So, several hours and what also seems like several hundred pounds later, I've made it back to London and am now on my way to fulfil my duties as History's Most Recalcitrant Godmother at my very clever and talented god-daughter's 12th birthday party. Might leave the glowsticks behind for this one. The next generation doesn't need that kind of embarrassment.

* It turned out to be Newport. Which was emphatically not where I wanted to go. Where I had to wait another half an hour for another bus to Cowes. Where I had to wait another 50 minutes for a ferry to Southampton. Where it turned out that I had missed the last train back to London. Whereupon I was obliged to pay £100 for six hours' sleep in the waterfront Holiday Inn. By which point the sense of quiet contentment had worn off somewhat.