That Festival Feeling

Yes, it's that time of year once more.

Another gathering of England's eccentrics, egos and sporting prodigies. So to speak. But in spite of the bizarre company, the banks of the river are as gorgeous as they ever are in summer, the setting grandiose. And I wouldn't really want to be anywhere else, for this week at least. Just driving up stirred that vague sentimentality in me: memories of new friends and old sunburn.

So. It has been as weird as ever. Normally a respectable citizen, today I found myself breaking in (sort of) to one of the more prestigious boarding houses, through a half-open window, to deliver an armful of clean kit to those who desired it.

"Oh shit. The doors... everything's locked."

And so I turned around to find Ollie. Thirteen and slightly like a sheepdog in appearance - it's the Hoggard hair that does it, I think - and something of a genius allrounder, eating wine gums and looking at me suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" A perfectly reasonable question, I suppose, on his part.

"Deliveries. Shouldn't you be doing a five mile run, or something?"

"Not five miles. Once around the grounds. Two at the most. And you? Are you trying to get in?"

I was, and eventually I did, though without a key, choosing the far more efficient method of clambering through a half-open window. The real challenge was working out where the hell I was supposed to be going once I got in. The slightly vague hint was 'upstairs', but, as I said, big boarding house. Lots of 'upstairs' to choose from.

But it is so sunny, and so warm, and there are so many people (loads more than last year), and we are having a lot of fun. And this view was only confirmed when, wandering around without Uma (who is having an operation tomorrow! Though only very minor, and dental) I came across the buddies - slightly self-important fifteen year olds with impressive tans - singing Grace, complete with Buckley-esque falsettos. The perfect musical accompaniment, I noted, whilst they demanded details of in-camp politics. Not that I know much of that. Too much sunbathing and not enough nosying, I think.

We were, however, slightly distracted by Reece trying to run us over in a golf buggy.

Not funny.

Two more days of this to go, though - whoever knew holidays could be so much fun?

Black Swans and Summer Sun

It is, apparently, going to get to 102 degrees this afternoon. If ever proof was needed of global warming, then this is it. I live in England, and though it may be the fairest of isles, in my experience the natural climate is one of rain and perpetual cold. So, you see, it must be global warming - it hasn't rained for a least a week.

But this is all good news; this afternoon I'm off to Market Deeping (Peterborough, possibly, but who knows) to watch some cricket. Tarantino and Freddie (though not Flintoff, unfortunately) are debutants, which has provided some excellent sulking opportunities for Ben ("I'm. Not. Going. Can't. Be. Arsed."). But it means ice cream, and sunbathing, and infrequently seen friends, so I should have fun. And then, post-work on Saturday and Sunday (then probably Monday and Tuesday too) I'm off to RHS. And that is always a more than adequate way to spend the summer, lying on the grass banks by the Orwell, developing skin cancer.

Then it's Mexico! Sombreros and straw donkeys - nothing better on earth. Not a single thing. Unfortunately it's straight bck to the grind as soon as we land home; not only work, but work experience at Radio Suffolk (I've finally managed it) await me as I walk through the arrival lounge at Gatwick. Probably about ten hours late, but nevertheless...

And quickly I'd just like to recommend my two albums of the month: The Eraser, by Thom Yorke, in all it's Radiohead-esque splendour and edginess, and Trouble by Ray Lamontagne - a proper, raw, folksy delight. Though Lily Allen is amusing for a while, she doesn't quite have the hook for me. She does wear nice dresses, though...

Ha!

I am having so. Much. Fun. I love the holidays; in spite of my new ventures nto the world of employment I still have the opportunity to be a complete lazy bitch whenever it takes my fancy. But here, in no particular order, are the highlights of everything that has gone on of late.

The Prom. For want of a better word, it was absolutely fantabulous. Brilliant. Yes, alright, the food wasn't great and the service was pretty awful ("All I wanted was a piece of chicken without a bloody bone, is that so much to ask?" - Yes, Kirstin, it was), but everything else - the people and the dancing and the dresses - well, it was a fantastic night.

The boys all scrubbed up so nicely, despite the odd few in waistcoats like extras in Oliver! the musical, looking as if they were about to break into a tap dancing routine. I must say, though, that the best tuxedos were those of Ben, Richard and James. Yes, I am slightly biased on account of friendship and spending the best part of the night dancing with them, but they all looked very suave. Like James Bond. And it was, frankly, genius when Kat told me Si and his arch nemesis, Langan, were in the same tux. I think, readers, it's called karma.

The best moments of the night were...

• Mr. Rutter. Singing. With bizarre rock star dance moves. Though actually he was very good; I was surprised. And he played Naive; I've never seen human beings dance as much as when we were treated to the Kooks.
• The snow machine. And the smoke machine, in fact. "Oh my God!", wailed Yasmin, "I'm blind! And it stinks! I might have a fit!" Oh, for the love of God...
• Richard and Ben dancing. Fabulous. And very similar to Josh, who was standing, eyes glazed and arms outstretched 'feeling' the music, before throwing himself around like a rag doll. Very, very funny.
• And, really, every last thing that happened.

And I got a little award thing. How nice. (Though pales in significance to queen of the checkouts, Richard!)

I'm working properly now - and, surprisingly, I'm not fucking it up completely. Well done me.

And my new proactive temperament ensures I am kept busy at all times; on Monday I went to the VCU for the photoshoot I arranged with the police to accompany my article. Yes, I organised it myself. Even my dad was impressed. Debs, though, was even more impressed. I hope. Well, I think she was - she's set me up with some work experience (or, as my mother calls it, Job Creation) at Radio Suffolk next month. So I'm practically a fully-fledged, hard-bitten journo now. I wish.

Kirstin, Kat, Gem and I had the most fun on Wednesday (post-work - so not sophisitcated), shooting the breeze and eating popcorn, watching vaguely scary films and discussing flesh-eating hamsters in disturbing detail. I want a hamster. Kirstin, I am so jealous.

And Kat, if you're reading, we adore him. Kirstin fancies him, you know - that's why she says it - she envies you. Ha! Tee hee.

Ooh, tennis.