"I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June." - L. M. Montgomery
When I saw this quotation, above, from the writer of my beloved Anne of Green Gables series of children’s novels, I thought about the idea of being in a ‘forever June’. June has never been my favourite month, particularly: I always loved July as a child as, much as I enjoyed academic pursuits, the lure of the summer holidays, endless Grange Hill reruns on the TV and the ability to stay up as late as my eyes would let me, always overtook the preceding month.
Now for me, June denotes saving on heating bills, the odd tot of G and T in the garden and seemingly endless media discussions about festivals galore. Although I used to be a pop massive music fan- nowadays, I listen to Amazon podcasts more than I do music- I have never been a particular fan of music festivals. When I was a student, I proudly went to the first Madstock- originally to see Morrissey, but he didn’t turn up because someone threw a can at him in the previous concert- but I have never been a great festival goer since. I have dutifully done the outdoor ’80s Revival’ concerts that have been doing the rounds since the early noughties: no self-respecting former Spandau Ballet fan would have missed out on the opportunity to see Tony Hadley live: he has done numerous eighties events, particularly when he had to pay damages to Gary Kemp, and then after he had split up with them again in the 2010s. However, dear Reader, and I know that some of my trendier friends will feel I have to hang my head in shame at this point- I have never felt that I would like to go to Glastonbury for the festival- I went to Glastonbury once, but that was to climb the Tor and to listen to a lecture from a tour guide about ley lines. My excuse if asked is that, unlike other people with jobs where they can take holidays when they want, I am in education, which dictates that I am in school during the period of the festival at Worthy Farm. People I know who have reached the beautifully euphemistic phase of their lives known as ‘middle youth’ have rhapsodised about their almost-transcendental experiences at the world-famous Pyramid Stage and have boasted about the once- in- a lifetime experience of seeing one of the Legends on stage. I admit I would have liked have seen Dolly Parton and Barry Gibb live, but any envy is dissipated by the thought of the ‘madding crowds’ and the odour of the ordure that would inevitably be ever-present. I know that ‘Glamping’ has been a thing for a long time, but I still cannot imagine myself in a yurt, and my long-suffering husband and long-serving travel companion would rather be slapped around the head by a wet fish than engage in such outdoor pursuits.
Therefore, even when I am no longer in education, I will not be one of those millions who crash the internet in their attempts to get tickets to Glasto. When I retire, long into the future, I will be setting my sights on Glyndebourne in May, polishing my champagne flutes and dusting off the grand picnic basket that was bought as a wedding present many moons ago, and has been waiting for a posh enough event to befit its grandeur. Forget George Ezra and Ed Sheeran, bring on Don Giovanni…