The mother of all festivals

My sister called me last night. She lives in Spain but she is currently at our father's house, just outside Glastonbury. It's raining, she tells me, so she has willingly given up her tickets to the Glastonbury festival to our niece and her partner. Glastonbury in the rain, uh huh, I don't think so. Anne and I went many years ago. I remember wearing shorts and wellington boots, an unattractive look even then. Sinead O'Connor was playing, and James and the Pogues and all those other bands you stand around in wet fields listening to. Even then we were such home bodies that we went home every evening to warm baths in my parent's cottage. We got free passes since my mother's good friend was the mother of the man who runs the festival. The old ladies went to Glastonbury the year Tom Jones was the headline closing act. My mum got to stand on the side of the stage and watch him strut his stuff. I'm assured she didn't throw her knickers at him.