Blonde girls in tiny shorts with legs that boast a
delightful shade of orange hang around in packs at the festival.
Faux faded tops hang loosely from their spindly frames
and plastic flowers loop within their hair.
Long hair, perfecting a not-brushed-for-a-year matted mess swept perfectly to the left side of
their head -
Just so it covers one mascara-glooped eye.
Oversized wellies bag around woolly grey socks, pulled up
and over their knees (the only bit of this outfit that their mothers might approve of).
They’re the girls who get on burly shoulders and wave
both arms at the crowds; shrieking impulsively to each other;
Pouting proud.
I watch them take to their own centre stage, revelling in sneers of; 'get yer tits out for the lads!’
I wonder how those luminous plastic Ray Bans could be
useful when left propped up on their
heads?
They’ve been dashed with neon painted streaks by God-knows-who in a make-shift tent.
(Apparently they charge a fiver for one cheek, tops.)
Highly impractical for the first day, wouldn’t you say?
I peer out from under the toggle-tight cagoule I got from a camping
shop last week, and mutter darkly;
“I daresay the baby-wipes won’t take it off.”
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