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16th July

            After a night between Egyptian cotton sheets then a bath and a cooked breakfast Sandy and I drive up to Latitude; she with her camera and me with my notebook.   I decide not to write a diary but to be a roving reporter for two days. Focussing on the over-fifties is our niche angle.             Marilyn Goss, 62 from Kent is at Latitude with a group of friends. A retired palliative care social worker, Marilyn is staying four nights in the Pink Moon Camping area where the tents are already set up and furnished with the added attraction of hot private showers and a hair care pamper parlour.   There are Charity Concierges roaming the campsites each morning to go and get breakfast, bringing it straight back to your tent.              Richard and Barbara, both 72, from North Creake in Norfolk are prolific attenders and are at their ninth Latitude. “We had to miss one year due to our grandson’s wedding.” Their tips include “Don’t name hunt; look all around and you’ll find
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15th July: Latitude

            Last year Georgie and I spent a couple of weeks in Italy using AirBnB.   I wrote about the experience and it was published in The Leicester Mercury.   I didn’t get paid for the article – what, you want money as well as a holiday, don’t be so deluded - but the nice folk at AirBnB gave me a voucher for a future trip.   And now, my friend Sandy and I are about to use it at Latitude, the festival at Henham Park in Suffolk.   It would be entirely logical to stay in Lauren but it’s not ideal accommodation for two heterosexual unrelated women, especially when there’s the option of a gorgeous free cottage with a bath in Walberswick.   It also means we will just be using the van as a car to get us to and from the festival; this decadence feels almost illegal.               Sandy has driven from Bristol and we rendezvous at Bury St Edmonds, leave her car there and head up thorugh skfbf ksfjfk akfj to Walberswyck. Last year my best bit at Latitude was watching, nay participati
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15th July: gossip with nana

            It feels a bit weird, but not shameful – I’m too old for shame - wearing the same siren red dress for breakfast that I wore for lunch and dinner, and even weirder when Brexit Bloke called me ‘darling’ and eye-boggling weird when I notice that the only available newspapers are The Daily Mail and The Telegraph.   Is this how the cloistered live?   I wish that one of my soul-mates would march in with a stack of Big Issues.             Brexit walks me back to my van where we kiss, marking the end to an intense second and third date.   Bye, see you soon. Phew, the shagged-out butterfly can retreat to her cocoon. I strip off, pull the curtains and crawl under Georgie’s unicorn and ballet dancer duvet.                         My ninety-five-year old nana lives in Sheltered Accommodation in Stamford so, after a two-hour kip, I decide to visit her for coffee and confession.   She has a livelier past than me and amongst other stories tells me about one boyfriend of hers w
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14th July: nookie in Stamford

            I’m woken by horses neighing. I’ve never experienced this before and it feels good.   I even make use of the onsite showers and kettle.   At a row of communal sinks, whilst spitting toothpaste, not lubricant, I speak to a fellow camper, except she was camping for real. She tells me it was her first time and she’s learnt that next time she should pack a lilo.   We are both novices but at least we’re trying.   As I leave I think about leaving a ‘thank you’ card to the nice lady who I met last night; I’ve got one hundred and seventy-eight glossy greetings cards featuring a large hadron collider to get rid of.             Today is my second date with Brexit Bloke and we’ve arranged to meet for lunch at the rather smart George Inn, in Stamford, at one.   I have a red Vivienne Westwood dress hanging up in my twelve-inch wardrobe and somewhere, maybe in the fridge that hasn’t yet been used as a functioning fridge, there are some high-heeled grey boots.   I leave in plenty
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13th July: a vagrant's Paradise

            Georgie and I drive back to Leicestershire and have an arm-in-arm walk through Bradgate Park (photo) where we eat butterscotch ice-cream alongside the River Lin, take photographs of prancing deer and read about the history of the park where a former owner had the glorious name of Ulf.   Then it’s an hour in Loughborough library for me, perusing audio books, while Georgie tries on half the stock in Top Shop.   After dropping her back at her dad’s I have a big consideration. Where to sleep tonight?             Can I stay in Bill’s spare room?   He says No.   For the first time since I’ve had no permanent address I feel vulnerable. I drive to The Range in Leicester, buy a domestic life in the form of Tupperware containers, plastic coat-hangers and, to please my mother, a large tub of pepper to use in case of attempted rape.   Sitting in the van I browse my new campsite app and find a site at Saddington, a village about eight miles south of Leicester.   I phone and ask
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12th July: Dirty knickers on the dark side

            The calendar shows that I’m doing removals today.   Posh-Boy is moving house so I’ve offered to help.   Six of us, resembling rejects from a misplaced Sherpa clan, form a human conveyor belt as we traipse back and forth, in drizzle, over a grassy quad and up and down four flights of stairs.   Posh-Boy’s packing preparation is immaculate, everything in square boxes that fit like Jenga pieces into Lauren LaVan.   The last item is an unsealed box containing his folded shirts that I swear he’s ironed around a specially prepared piece of hardboard. There are even two dress shirts, their wing-collars sitting upright, neat and proud like meerkats about to embark on a tour to The Dark Side.   My cutlery draw contains dirty knickers and I’m struck by the contrast in our lives.               I’ve not seen Georgie for a few days so in the afternoon I drive over to see her at Bill’s, where I help myself to Stilton, coffee and biscuits.   I’ve been doing this every week for twel
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11th July: Trucking

            I’m woken at six-thirty by a tap on a window. I pull the windscreen curtain back to see my brother holding all three offspring. He’s been keeping the children amused for an hour but now seems a reasonable time for Aunty Jellybean (it’s easier to pronounce than Genevieve) to open her playroom on wheels. I totally agree.   Come in in kids, let’s play trucking!   (Photo).
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