If I had a photograph of you

Grange Girl and I were sitting on the grass atop the Priory ruins, trying to imagine the park covered  by an enormous festival. At present it was just us and a seagull.
“Do you know what I’m most looking forward to about the Mumfords thingy?” Grangey asked, taking out a sandwich wrapped in grease-proof paper. The seagull cocked his head expectantly.
“Um, going to sleep early as usual, despite the revelry yards from your window? Wait, don’t unwrap the sandwich yet, let me take a picture so I can show the kids what 1950 looked like.”
She raised a cynical eyebrow while I lined up my phone. “What devilment is this? A hand-held device that steals your soul…”
“Please don’t do the ‘new-fangled technology’ riff again, you’ve already hurt my pedometer’s feelings.”
“Well, honestly! A gizmo that counts your steps? This is how to tell if you’ve walked enough: when you’re ready for a nice early bed.”
I took a picture of her so I could show the children what 1850 looked like.
“So, what are you looking forward to re Mumfords?” I asked, unpacking my hoisin duck and endemame bean wrap.
“Tourists,” she murmured indistinctly through a cheese and pickle barrier.
“Tories? You’re saying the Mumfords will attract unprecedented numbers of Tories and you’re looking forward to that because… no, I’m going to need some help here.”
“Tourists, you cloth-eared clod. Probably some will be Tories, but that’s statistics for you.”
A middle-aged (eg slightly older than us) woman approached. She was definitely a tourist, but kept her politics to herself. After a few kind comments about our lovely town, she asked how to get to the castle. I let Grangey tell her. Directions aren’t my strong suit. I regularly turn the wrong way after leaving my own house. Nonetheless, people always ask me the way, perhaps working on the same principle as that which compels cats to seek the laps of the allergic. I have often inadvertently sent tourists into a perpetual loop round the one-way system. Some may still be there.
After receiving the Grangey instructions, complete with map coordinates, and recommendations for other sites of interest, the woman toddled off happily.
“See?” said Grangey, offering her crust to the seagull, who ignored it and looked at me. They have a taste for hoisin sauce, do Lewes seagulls.  “This festival is a brilliant opportunity to show off our town’s many wonders. I love sharing them with new people.” She leaned against her rucksack and pulled up her thick hiking socks.
I said, “They ought to employ you to promote Lewes. You look like you’ve stepped out from one of those Golden Age posters.”
“Like this, you mean?” Grangey whipped out an iPad mini and Googled a ‘Travel by Train Today!’ image. To my incredulous look she said, “I believe I have previously mentioned that I am large and contain multitudes.” She opened a Tupperware and offered me and the seagull a hard-boiled egg. We both declined.

 Beth Miller. Published in VivaLewes.com. Photo taken from Wiki Commons.

Hoxton Mum’s May Diary

Weds 1^st

Totes excited! So many festies, so little time. Brighton first, obvs. Lovely Mikey Rosen with his droopy eyes and populist spin. Have found cerrr-azy sounding kids’ event for Django, called Flathampton – culturally challenging, plus creative participation: perfecto. And Lysander will heart the play I’ve booked for his birthday treat: We’re All Gonna Die.

Fri 2^nd

Everything on the Fringe sounds amazeballs, but so hard to know which will - like last year’s one-woman monologue I Want To Be A Vicar - prompt Lysander to storm out demanding refund. Mind you, he later made me sit through sub-Frankie Boyle ‘comedy’ show during which I was actually sick into my Chloé tote. I said, Lysander, if I want to hear jokes about mental health problems I will jolly well make them myself, thanks very much! Plus you owe me £1100 for new bag.

Sat 3^rd

Gutted I missed Early Bird for Elderflowerfields. Bought Late Bird tickets, then double-gutted to discover it’s on the same weekend as Meadowlands! When I worked at the Battersea Arts Centre, heads would roll for such a scheduling faux pas.

Mon 6^th

Trotted round town watching the Knots of May do their bell-jangling thang. Lysander, three Harveys down, rudely said that women Morris dancers even less enjoyable than men plus not traditional. Was in midst of eloquent feminist retort, when Django let side down by ripping his flower garland to shreds.  Fear his father is engendering the rigid gender roles we’d agreed Django must reject.

Thurs 9^th

Woke at 3am in cold sweat: had forgotten to book Charleston. Rushed to laptop and spent ten minutes blinded by panic into believing that only Melvyn Bragg was left. Thank god managed to get Joanne Harris and Audrey Niffenegger. LOVE Charleston, I will channel Virginia by wearing long cardie. And by sleeping with my friends. Kidding!

Sun 19^th

Got festival survival kit ready for our Elderflower/Meadowlands weekend (we are dashing between the two). Hunters wellies, tagine, Jo Malone room diffusers.

Fri 26^th

As we were about to leave, those male swine I live with appeared in headbands and TIE-DYE T-SHIRTS. To complete hideous tableaux, Lysander had taught Django to roll a spliff one-handed, and this is a child who can’t yet tie his laces. (His Geox all have Velcro fastenings). Sent them to change and loudly pretended to call divorce lawyer.

Tues 28^th

I remarked that two festivals in one weekend sure is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Lysander retorted that he wished the once had been twenty-five years earlier, rather than now. I am so shattered I went to bed without removing my sparkly festival eye-shadow; face now resembles crumpled glitter wrapping paper.

Fri 31^st

Thank god I have a month to prepare for July: Hop Farm and Love Supreme (both same weekend, thanks again, Scheduling Fiends), and then of course lovely Mumfords. Fired up JohnLewis.com and ordered latest essential festie must-have: portable Nespresso machine. Totes sorted.

Beth Miller. Published in Viva Lewes magazine, May 2013.

                                                     

So tie me to a post and block my ears

Born & Bred Boy is very excited about the Mumford & Sons festival, and not just because they have an ampersand in common. “I’ve hired out my hard-standing to some bloke with a campervan,” he says, ticking money-making opportunities off on his fingers. “A family is renting my spare room for two nights. And I’m selling glow-sticks outside the gate.”

I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified by his entrepreneurship. “Don’t you need a licence, Boy? But otherwise, you know, well done, very Apprentice and all that.”

He “pshaws” at my concerns. “Licence to print money, you mean. People who’ve paid £75 for their kid’s ticket are hardly going to balk at bunging them a glow-stick for two quid.” His eyes are alight with dollar signs, like Scrooge McDuck.

Grange Girl’s festival priorities are different. She’s been staying in every night, hunched by an overheating Spotify, to familiarise herself with the entire Mumford back catalogue. She’s nearly mastered that folksy spiritual facial expression she’s gonna need to fit in with the hardcore fans down the Convent Field.

I must confess that I hadn’t even heard of Mumford & Sons until their Lewes tour was announced, and even then, when I heard their name I initially thought they were a BBC sitcom, in the Open All Hours mould. Though why would a sitcom need a tour? Actually it’s rather a good idea, must see if Born & Bred Boy fancies backing it.

Ah, there was a time – specifically 1982 – when I knew not only every band in the top twenty, and the words to their songs, but also the names of all the band members, AND was very clear about which band member was the most fanciable (often not the one marketed as such – for instance in Madness I preferred Chris Foreman, while in the Human League it was Joanne Catherall). Looking at Mumford & Sons I suspect one is meant to go for Marcus Mumford, and apparently the lovely Carey Mulligan has done so, but surely the pin-up money is on the other one, the one with nice teeth? It was reassuring to know that Grange Girl wasn’t familiar with Mumford’s oeuvre either, but being Grangey, she wasn’t going to just wing it. Be Thorough Even If Wrong is her family motto. I, on the other hand, was planning to wing it proper. Only uncool people sing along at concerts, is the way I see it, so why bother knowing the songs in advance? But of course I was going to be there. What, miss the biggest thing to hit Lewes since Waitrose arrived? And more to the point, miss a festival that’s a five minute walk from home, and a proper toilet? My younger self might have known who the drummer in the Undertones was, and the reason why Haircut 100 were so-named, but there was one vital thing she didn’t understand: the importance of being able to nip home easily from a festival.

Beth Miller, published in VivaLewes.com