After an exhaustingly muddy five days at Glastonbury, working more hours than one is accustomed to (perhaps only in my case, certainly not in Joel’s!), Sunday night set in, and, instead of running off at the end of our shift at the Treehouse (Oh we had a gay old time; selling Pimms, cream teas and other cakey/tea-y delights with a group of Bristol’s finest) as we did last year when we met, Joel and I prepared ourselves a cup of Pimms and climbed the hill to take in the spectacle; incredulous, knowing that the sheer Western hedonism and display of abundance at their most extreme would feel other-worldly in a couple of months time, when, Insh’Allah, we’re enjoying the hospitality of some Iranian family in the mountains in the middle of nowhere, and begging them not to slaughter their last goat in our honour. (“What do you mean begging them not to?” Joel just asked me, puzzled…)
There we sat, as the reality of the mammoth task ahead hit home. We sipped our Pimms slowly and gazed quietly on the throbbing valley below.


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