After reluctantly rousing myself on Saturday morning, I trotted down to the supermarket for some provisions, only to discover that the largest Sainsbury's in London was closed for refurbishment. So, naturally, everyone and his dog/baby/second cousin had gone the few blocks further down the road to Waitrose. A nightmare ensued. This was however was soon relieved over a bubbly brunch with a few of this year's Mardi Gras co-revellers (and the accumulation of further presents - the spoiling rotten of Dave continued well and truly past the original date itself!). We sallied forth to Finsbury Park around three o'clock, joining the tens of thousands that were in attendance already, and the seemingly equal number that filed in thereafter as we sat and waited for further friends to arrive.
The day gets a bit hazy after that - a quick stop at the main stage for some Abba and Human League ditties, then off to meet old chums Andy and David, then to the Pimm's bar (cue fond thievery-from-the-parents'-alcohol-cabinet memories), then for a groove and a catch-up with two of the Aussie girl triumvirate from last summer's Greece trip, then to the grassy knoll between the Trade tent and Popstarz stage to meet Tom, Nick and John and catch the remnants of EMF's set (more nostaglic flashbacks ... I still knew all the words, ten years on), then for a quick musak boogie on the way out, a mad dash for cigarettes and alcohol (without the need for ridiculous drinks tickets), then to Soho, drinking insipid cranberry-based alcopops, mingling with the crowd and making drunken calls to New Zealand. Phew. That's the Reader's Digest version anyway (documentary evidence here).
Sunday equalled sifting around the flat all day in my PJs, watching American Psycho (I was in a weird mood), eating pizza and playing Starcraft - recharging after a wonderful celebratory three days. It's good to be twenty-seven and right now, at least, it's good to be me.
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