Sunday morning and Tom and I are sitting in the swathes of clothes that litter the inside of our tent. It’s lashing it down outside, the walls are quivering and drops of condensation are being rattled on to our ‘bed’.
Last night was Primal Scream and thanks to the help of a team of friends strong enough to shoulder Tom, he got a perfect view of Bobby and almost as much attention. It’s the last day of the magnificent Festival Number 6 in magical Portmeirion, there are a hundred amazing things to see and do and I don’t think we can move for a bit. I could do with the Portaloo, but I just stuck my head out of the tent and got smacked by sideways sheets. We do need to leave the tent at some point, but I’m worried it will fly off into the estuary. We’ll just sit tight, until things calm down a bit, then go out and see what’s happening. I flick through the programme, spoilt for choice by the tantalising music, talks and parties in spectacular places. Tom is eating a piece of squashed bread, wrapped around a rubbery cheese slice the colour of Barbie. Balancing precariously on his long-johnned lap is a tin of cold baked beans.