Our first shift was hardly taxing. (Approximately) 8 hours later, we found ourselves heading out into the night once more. I'd love to tell you all about it. But I'll keep it brief.
We found a bar called Bread and Roses, where we met up with the extended gang of old and new friends. It was an interesting mix of people aged from 22 to 36. Biggy Smalls chose not to repeat her order from the night before of a pint of Prosecco. I know not why.
No? Well, in fact, all of us discovered during the course of Glastonbury that, despite our campsite being situated actually outside of the festival (hence our E.P.O wristbands - stands for easy pass out) and all homeward bound 'commuting' being done either in the pitch black or in that discombobulating it's-light-and-I'm-not-in-bed-yet 6am state, we didn't need guiding home. We were all feral homing pigeons.
Just aswell, since we had all migrated to the B-Bar for all sorts of varieties of hideous sweet commercial cider when, just as a new friend had bought us a drink, Biggy Smalls and I sensed our bladders calling and set about our mission to the long drops then bumped into one of our bar managers, Dave. After talking to him at considerable length about who knows what and finally releasing him back into the crowds, our extended gang was nowhere to be found.
They were, in fact, hiding in plain sight. Little blighters. But that's another weird thing about Glastonbury. You can bump into an old flame you haven't seen for 10 years in the middle of a crowd at the Pyramid Stage and completely miss the group of people you came with while standing at the same meeting point.
Thursday was a giggly day. P'raps festival fever had begun to take route. At any rate, we were tucked up - Biggy Smalls in her Fort Knox tent with palatial porch and I in my single 'don't touch the sides' skin - at 10pm.
To be continued...