At the beginning of 2024, I resolved to spend more solo time in the real world, getting to know myself beyond what my Instagram algorithm showed À me so that I wasn't scrambling to change my whole personality from Barbie to Brat at the drop of a hat. The first thing I did was go on a monsoon trek with a group of complete strangers.
Everyone else came with people they knew, but I spent my time in absolute silence taking photographs and making friends with monkeys. I watched more films in the theatre by myself. I travelled. I ate alone in restaurants, which was what I was most nervous about. I'd always thought it would be sad and pitiable, that people would look at me and wonder who had stood me up. When I did it, though, I realised it was actually hot and mysterious.
I could order what I wanted without asking for the opinions of others. I could watch people and eavesdrop on their conversations. I could read Ottessa Moshfegh while my eyes were obscured by oversized sunglasses.
I could be anyone.
None of these adventures, however, could have prepared me for what awaited me at Glastonbury.
On my first morning there, I accidentally got into the wrong car and instead of reaching the leisure camp, ended up at the festival itself. I was frozen on the spot, watching crowds thousand-strong striding around like little ants. What was I doing here when I'd never even been to a concert before, when I'd spent my weekends bingeing TV shows alone, getting up only to receive my food delivery?
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