I don't need exotic beaches or fancy cocktails. I do need awesome bands and warm beer.
The weekend before Hop Farm in July, we're going to tie dye big t-shirts in his garden, creating our uniform for going back in time. Chrissie Hynde, Lou Reed, and PATTI SMITH. In the flesh. I can't quite believe it. And all washed down with cider so sparkly and yellow like the sun.
Then we travel to the End of the Road in September. A Dorset land of Joanna Newsom fairies, Laura Marling pixies, Best Coast wave surfers, Emmy the Great story tellers and Sam Amidon folk legends. Tents and organic vegetarian feasts and bare legs covered in gooseflesh. And not thinking about the imminent deadline of my dissertation.
In the meantime I have evenings such as Flame Proof Moth playing at a night put on by a guy named Frog Morris in a bonkers pub in New Cross to keep me going. They sang songs about selling carpets and how women should be in charge. The drummer had a missing front tooth, and I drank cherry cider and wore a fire-orange dress. But soon I'll be in the open air and dancing to Patti.