Fewer

Fewer things make me happier than when I'm scrambling around a bit of urban dereliction looking for photographs and listening to some of the finest spiritual jazz in the history of recorded music. All in the ten minute spell between finishing work and school pick-up.

Because tonight I have a date with my TV to flick between the Andy Murray match and the BBC's Glastonbury coverage. I always think I won't watch because half of the music I hate and if I see Jo Wiley sitting on a bale of hay again I think I'll scream, but I do find it strangely compelling. And, of course, as a festival veteran, I can sit there smugly and think how much better it all was in my day. I'm being flippant of course, but I was 19 and 20 when I went and I had a great time. If I went now I just think I'd be irritated by everyone and everything from the moment I got there. I am by nature quite calm and laidback about most things but my tolerance for bullshit has never been lower.

I was talking about Glastonbury by the way there, not Wimbledon in case anyone was confused.