Generally speaking, I like to get Wednesdays over with as quickly as possible. Not only is it the middle of the tedious working week, but it’s the time when I usually haven’t seen my daughter for over 24 hours.
I drop her off at nursery on Tuesday morning, but by the time I get home that evening she’s already tucked up in bed. Then, Wednesdays, I pick her up from nursery in the evening, which means I have to leave for work before she gets up.
Tuesday morning until Wednesday evening with no Millie. Bummer, man.
It’s one of the reasons I’m not going to Glastonbury this year, despite there not being one last year and missing the year before that because the Lovely Melanie was in hospital. This year the excuse is that nursery costs mean it would be very difficult to afford, but also the prospect of five whole days away from that little fat baby is, at the moment, just not do-able.
The Lovely Melanie’s been crowing about it a bit – ‘When we first met you said you’d rather die than miss Glastonbury‘ etc.
Well, that’s still almost true, I am going to be extremely grumpy indeed come the end of June.
But I’d be a shadow of my former unstoppable hedonistic self at Glastonbury, moping about the campsite, looking at pictures of her on my phone and generally bringing down the whole vibe, man.
Nope, three days at All Tomorrow’s Parties at the end of April is about the best I can manage this year.
Hopefully the whole family will be able to go to Glastonbury next year. I really hope so. It’ll be rather a different Glastonbury to previous years, but it’ll still be Glastonbury…
Millie went to her first beer festival on Friday – the Sussex Beer And Cider Festival in the seaside town of Hove. We had a very nice time there with our old friends Martin and Rebecca who are visiting from California, and sampled a variety of bizarre liquids.
Everyone was very nice about Millie wandering about the place (except in the bar area), and, um, yeah. That stereotype of CAMRA real ale drinkers being mostly older men with beards and large bellies is still shockingly true, though. We were the youngest there by about 20-30 years – and we’re no spring chickens any more!