...all the world is biscuit-shaped/ It’s just for me to feed my face/ And I can see, hear, smell, touch, taste/ And I’ve got one, two, three, four, five....
Weekend Six: Gone, baby. Six days remaining. Come have some fun before it packs in for the season.
Saturday: weather is heavy. I turn on the God Light, a Sunbox full-spectrum lamp that staves off the blues. I had it in the living room, but found occasion to sit so rarely that it made more sense to put it in the bathroom. I hurry Martin through his coffee and shaving. We scurry out to drizzle and a forecast of near-empty site, but inflow is respectable. The grounds, mucky from morning downpour, suggest we don stilts first thing, saving the white for later. We end with 11,000 and change, good for a rain day. As we leave, the sun pushes through heady striated clouds.
Hawk is cooking. There’s a lot of food, most of it vegan. In deference to the healthful hordes that have descended upon him, he mitigates his carnivorous habits. Warm freshly laundered towels are a nice treat after hot shower, after a damp and weird-energy day. The house is cozy with comfort and full bellies. Eight slumbering people create a mass of somnolence that is difficult to shake when morning comes.
Sunday the weather is more gorgeous than gorgeous, and I work to work up a sweat. I count cameras each time we stop to be photographed in our white outfits. Today’s high is sixteen.
Five colorful stiltwalkers form a phalanx, set to stride large across the site, but we are stymied by the massive crush of humanity. Connected, we muddle through, sometimes on tiptoe through thickly clustered bodies.
Mike breaks for camp, the children with him, and Gin and I are set to have some serious fun with the punters. Stealing hats and babies, preening, dancing and shimmying, we finish at the pub, swiping beer and oyster shooters from delighted victims, er, patrons. We use our "drunk mime" shtick, in which we stumble, snicker, and shush each other loudly.
In a hurry, the children and I head out for treats. We're rushing Martin to the rail station before six. With sun touching my face, neck, wrist, I eat a plum the size of my fist, juice dripping down my arm with each bite.
(XTC; Senses Working Overtime)