That's a fuzzy me in our garden pretending I'm at a festival... Somehow I don't think I'm going to quite make it to any this year, which is a rather depressing thought as I love festivals of any description. What's there not to like: freedom to wander around and be guaranteed to see interesting things and meet fascinating people, stepping barefoot through the wet morning grass, eating festival food and drinking lots of chai, bracing yourself to visit the little smelly toilet cubicles, finding hippy clothing, listening to lots of good music that you've discovered by accident on your way to a different part of the festival... I bought those poi at Glastonbury in the vain hope I'd actually learn some cool tricks. At least they got a little bit of an airing that sunny day.

Now that I've been told off for reading behind the bar (it was only the cookery section of a magazine some customer had left behind because I was that bored - although I refuse to be bored enough to read the Sun), I have to find other ways of keeping myself occupied when it's slow. I even asked if I could do any cleaning, only to be told 'no' because I needed to stand behind the bar just incase anyone came in. However, I have managed to come up with a comon denominator between the two places that I've lived the longest in the UK. Both places I am/have been twenty minutes away from a Wetland Centre... That's a lot of boredom to come up with a fact like that!