In mourning

I'm in mourning. Glastonbury this year was at times like trench warfare, and there are always casualties in war. In this case, the casualties were my trusty festival boots.

Already more than three years old when they were pressed into service at my first festival, Reading in '96, they were veterans of numerous campaigns including the two terrible Glastos of '98 and 2005. I can't think of many festivals I've been to when they haven't seen any combat (All Tomorrow's Parties in 2000 at Butlins being an obvious exception). I was very attached to them - though on occasion that was because I couldn't bear the thought of taking them off and instantly exterminating all flora and fauna within a mile radius.

In truth - and I'm ashamed to admit it - it wasn't even really this year's Glastonbury that finally did for them, but my own neglect. They survived the Friday, muddied but unbowed, and only perished after the return to base. I left them out to dry in Friday evening's sunshine, but then forgot to take them in - and by the time I remembered about them on Saturday afternoon they'd had a thorough soaking in the downpour, were full of water and smelt even less fragrant than normal. At the time we were in the middle of clearing out our house, and they wouldn't have been welcome at our new place - so there was little option but to lay them to rest.

So, they didn't quite die face down in the mud for me, but they might as well have done.

RIP.

The Glasto diary continues tomorrow, I promise...