The Truck Festival has been postponed till the weekend of September 22, as much of the site is flooded to a depth of several feet. Poor juggzy is currently being rescued from a similarly several feet of water in which her car resides. Those events in themselves aren’t the end of the world, but most of an iceberg is underwater, remember. Until it all melts, at which point we’re all under instead.
Simple message service comes and goes at the moment, as presumably emergency after emergency bungs up the network in turn. I just posted condolences to the aforementioned J. on Twitter, which should bounce out a good half dozen or so texts to people, her included. Well, you’ve got to do your bit.
I keep trying to convince myself that, in place of a long weekend of organised fun, we’ve got a blank slate now and can do our own thing instead. But those appeals to rationality ring rather hollow, to be honest. I wanted to camp, damn it; I wanted to sleep within an inch of smelly, green-crushed grass and drink a box of red wine. I suppose if the river had burst its banks after we’d turned up then there’d be a lot more tears before bedtime, but I still feel cheated by the elements. You’re a harsh mistress, Climate Change: we’d even arranged a lift share, only yesterday. What do you want from us: blood? Feel free to neither confirm nor deny.
I spent this morning (which now feels wasted) buying comfort food and new wellies from a farmer’s supplies shop. I’m damned if I’m letting this turn of events spoil my fun, so if you do happen to turn up here in the next few hours you may be greeted by the sight of me in pants and galoshes, mouth full of blueberry cookie. Now that’s rock and roll.