Rupert Goodwins' Weekend Diary


At home today and tomorrow, on me hols. Was going to go to Glastonbury as usual, but had a sudden intimation of mortality and decided to sit in my Highgate fastness and write the Great British Science Fiction Novel. The gods rewarded me richly for this by causing all my pals (who went, and pronounced me mad for selling my ticket) to be visited by a giant river of mud. I had two hot baths a day, just because I could, and even managed to actually do some writing.


Friends return, muttering something about "that which does not kill us, makes us stronger". Never thought of Glasto as a Nietzscherian exercise in character building before. It's also an exercise in telecommunications these days; the site was saturated not just with soupy cow glop but optical fibres, twisted pairs and extra cellphone coverage. Gone are the days when one had to bring a pair of walkie talkies just to find your pal when he's drifted off-planet; just remember his Orange number and off you go. No public e-mail/Web kiosks, apparently, but lots of people want to do this next time.

One downside to the phones, though: when clutching a walkie-talkie, it was usually possible to walk into secure areas just by looking purposeful. Looks like it's back to blagging laminates again