Hay-fever

Back from a blissful Hay festival and wondering how the heady summer days of the weekend have descended so rapidly into a grim and grey week. Settling back into the 9-5 after a holiday has always been a struggle. I have grown to expect all my days to start with a latte on the lawn and some soft jazz in white marquee, cider and venison burgers for lunch and some literary criticism in the afternoon. Real life, it turns out, isn’t much like that. So in the name of fending off the holiday blues, I’m writing down the best bits.

Overheard at Hay:
“I’ve never seen so much sensible footwear in one field…”
“No, they don’t have a Jack Wills concession here.”
“Do they do tofu?”
“I was chatting to Martin Amis at breakfast…”
“Do you know what I think? I think…”
“Oh yes, I love Nietzsche too!”
“I find (insert author’s name here) work so inspiring.”

Spotted at Hay:
A huddle of hot dads pushing Maclaren buggies over rough terrain accompanied by women wearing tie die confections.
The Lady editor Rachel Johnson looking regal with amazing hair, blow-dry perfect even off-duty and in a field.
Two mid brow, thinking woman’s crumpet, C-listers who recently dated friends of mine. Both behaved in ways counter to their on screen/on page persona of carefully cultivated ‘new man’ and both subsequently replaced my challenging, interesting wonderful friends with identikit, miniature and meek girls half their age. Shame.

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