Today I'm at the Port Eliot literary and music festival in Cornwall and the people here (those not performing anyway) are all enjoying a Friday off. Why are festivals three days long and not two? Because two days just isn’t enough. Same with a weekend. Does anyone, anywhere, ever say at 8 o'clock on a Sunday evening, "You know what Janice, I've had enough of the weekend now. I'm ready to start working again. Let's have an early night. Do you fancy crumpets for breakfast?"
Our breakfast here was traditional in content but rarely is one's bacon and egg followed instantly by a pint of ale whilst lying on a hay bale watching a band you've never heard of, all against the backdrop of a beautiful estuary. When the band were done I asked my girlfriend to procure the programme from her shiny little handbag. "What shall we go and see next petal - a talk on father-in-law etiquette, a Smurfs’ tribute band or a naked Scrabble match?"
I used to be totally anal about all this. I would scour and desecrate the programme - mapping out a schedule with a set of highlighter pens. Orange highlighter pen for unmissable; yellow highlighter for 'possible go-see' and blue highlighter for 'won’t go but I’ll tell people I did’. Remembering this dark and depressing past, I hurried the programme back to my girlfriend, rolled off the hay bale and sauntered off to get another pint in.
These Fridays have taught me to drift more rather than plan too much. It's okay to miss stuff. Having more free time makes one more relaxed when spending it. So yes, I may miss a legendary set by The Super Furry Antelopes but I might just 'happen' upon someone gurgling with squids or a confused red squirrel running up and down a speaker stand.
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