Glastonbaby

By Hilary Hazard

I went to Glastonbury this year, as a puppeteer. I’ve been before, on and off since 1997, when I was a skinny middle class white girl and didn’t notice that everyone else there was a skinny middle class white girl too.

This year I felt like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused – ‘I get older, the girls stay the same age.’

It’s not that they are all middle class, white, skinny and girls, it’s that there are so many of them, like a plague of short shorts wearing locusts swarming around the cider bus; wearing flower garlands and matching sunglasses.

We were sitting by the acoustic tent next to 4 of them, the brunette was funny, the pretty one was a fucking nightmare.

I tuned in just as she began her birthday rant which went like this: (Please do it in your poshest skinny west London accent)

‘I can’t beeeeelieve I’m going to be 24 tomorrow. I’m SOOOO OLD.’

The brunette rolled her eyes but kept quiet.
‘I mean, in 10 years I’m going to be 34! That’s so OLD.’

I sat there, with all 32 of my years thinking, ‘Kitten, blink, you’re already there. I’ve been sitting on this bench since I was 16.’

Then I double dropped two pills and woke up in Hull.

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