I am trudging around a field in the middle nowhere with mud up to my genitals. The joining instructions for the annual HowTheLightGetsIn festival at Hay-on-Wye does not include advice about avoiding looking like a filthy puddle by the time you get to do your talk.
I was booked to speak at a few sessions on men being absolute bastards, and arrived on Friday at the same time as the torrential rain. ‘It was beautiful last week,’ said the driver who met me at Hereford station. ‘Hope you’ve got your wellies?’ For the love of god, I thought, why would I have bloody wellies? I live in London.
After a restless night with no mobile phone signal or internet connection, I’m picked up from my B&B. ‘Please take me forthwith to the quaint, village Outdoor Clothing shop,’ I ask the driver, who looks like he has been up all night ferrying folk talking bollocks about philosophy around the narrow roads.
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