Send in the Clowns

So I don’t have to work Wednesdays any more and neither, apparently, does the wife beater upstairs. As there’s no one there for him to have fights with during work hours, I’m delighted to note he has his radio blaring ALL DAY LONG. Don’t you often find, with certain people, that there’s almost *too much* to hate?

All this is not helping my frazzled nerves that are becoming more tightly wound by the second. I’m off to Latitude tomorrow, you see - VauxhallVille are headlining the cabaret tent - and right at this point in time, I really don’t want to go.

I don’t want to drive all the way (though it’s a better option than dragging things on the train) and I certainly don’t want to spend four nights in a tent.

I’ve bought one of those pop-up ones, being a complete camping novice, and set it up in the sitting room at the weekend. I sat in it for about 5 minutes and felt completely claustrophobic - I’m convinced I will suffocate if it’s sunny. I’m also annoyed there’s nowhere inside to hang a mirror ball. Is it not possible to be house proud in a tent?

If I don’t die of nylon and heat asphyxiation, then the crowds will get me I’m sure. There will be people ruddy well everywhere, and a lot won’t even have the decency to be gayers. This is no place for the self-sufficient, queer-loving misanthropist.

Hopefully it’s just last minute nerves and I’ll be back here next week screaming “FABULOUS” while planning a dramatic return. If all else fails, I’m borrowing a clown suit from Le Phreeque and will spend the entire trip incognito. Everyone loves a scary clown.