Normally I'd have said Crap. (see yesterday)
Today we journey to the darker side of the moon - Stornaway Isle of Lewis, the fathermost reaches of western europe battered by atlantic gales, virtually treeless, to camp at the annual 'Hebfest' despite having virtually no money.
To be honest I'm not really a folk officionado and midges are a definite possibility unless the rain and wind are particularly heavy.
I imagine a leaden sky with very little wind with an endless twilight and midges getting into the tent at 3am, then a hangover but...
"Where do we wash?" asks Isabelle
"There's bound to be water for 10,000 people" I reply.
But the weird thing is I can't connect any mood at all to the possibility of the above.
It's like I can't find the peg to hang my own brand of bleakness on.
Do you know what I mean?
It could well be crap, it could be awful, it could be boring, tedious, I could wish I'd never gone, in fact it could be the worst three days of my life...but it won't be the end of the world.
I can't get any feeling of foreboding about it...even if I wanted to...
THIS IS WEIRD! weird, weird.
4 comments:
Fifteen pints, a stretch of straw between the teeth and a banjo, and you'll be part of the furniture in no time. Rock on
One session with a hypnotherapist and you are fundamentally different? Don't want to be cynical, but . .
Alcohol CAN play it's part in musical appreciation, it's true.
I still sound like I'm on drugs though.
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