I roadied for Martin yesterday, driving him to deepest Kent for a small private festival organised by a group of people who started off as Grateful Dead fans.
That part of Kent (somewhere east and north of Hastings) is liberally sprinkled with huge and beautiful Elizabethan mansions and cherry farms. Having lived and worked in Sussex in the 1980s, I always feel a little uneasy in these gorgeous English rural villages, which back then hosted small and efficient National Front enclaves.
Who knows what lurks behind the wisteria?
The festival goers, however, were friendly and relaxed. They wandered round with sausages and cider, and watched Martin's set tapping sandalled feet and smiling into their beards (the men, I mean!).
Poor festival-goers, it's chucking it down with rain. I hope it clears up for them later.
And I got home to find that the central heating has broken down again.