Hop Farm/Little London

The best thing ever. Patti Smith performed a perfect acoustic set, accompanied by Patrick Wolf on violin and harp. She sang GLORIA out into the sun. The song that we would wake to most mornings last year. Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine as I rolled out of bed and sleepwalked on autopilot the ten minutes back to my house for a shower.

And Lou Reed put on an epic Ecstasy, but it was the slowed-down acoustic Sunday Morning and Femme Fatale that restored my faith in him. I wish he'd written the latter for me. I have been played a version on the ukulele in a Tufnell Park attic room however, so maybe I'm halfway there.

So Patti and Lou and a glam, glitzy Morrissey, and dog tired limbs as I'd woken with swollen eyelids before 6am. But then mountains of pillows, clean sheets, pancake breakfast with their own honey, a bonkers pack of dogs, hammocks, sunset-coloured rice, the most enormous summer cake, and picking, picking, picking raspberries like we suffered from idyllic OCD.

But now I need a new alarm clock as my phone is gone, along with everything else in my stolen bag. Along with my mind. I wish Patti could sing me awake every morning. I'd be in such a good mood.