Today is a good day.
Thousands of people are staggering, blinking in the morning light, out of their temporary canvas and mud shelters at Glastonbury.
Somewhere in a field in Buckinghamshire, my daughter is also unzipping a tent and crawling outside, her hair sticking up at a ridiculous angle, a toothbrush in her hand, and a smile on her face. The similarities end there, though. She’s camping with the Guides, so there’s not so many Class A drugs involved, there’s only a minor risk of developing trenchfoot, Keith effing Allen won't turn up, and the toilets are a bit less stinky.
Back when she was diagnosed with Prader-Willi Syndrome, the future looked very bleak. I never dreamed I’d be able to say she was off on a camping trip.
Yes, there are a few things we have to organise that most other parents don’t: going through the menu beforehand to check the meals are suitably low-fat; getting one of the guiders to supervise her ablutions; and providing her own healthy snacks instead of the communal choccie biscuits.
But she’s there. With the other girls. Who will keep an eye on her and make allowances for her odd little ways, because they’re essentially good kids.
And I get a lie-in. Result.
Video is Pulp - Common People. Glastonbury gold.
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