Nothing exciting happens in January...

                                                                                                                                The plague of being simultaneously preoccupied with working for no money and hunting for a house in the perpetual wasteland that is East London has resulted in no fun, no funny stories and no blog posts. I have therefore decided to tell you an old story, because its a good one.

Three summers ago when I was young, free and still on my parents’ payroll I went to my first British music festival. My friends and I drove up with the wind in our hair, rejoicing in our new found bohemian freedom, quietly ignoring the fact that there was not a lot bohemian about the nissan micra I was driving, or the wheely bag I had in the back.

After having dragged said wheels across the fields of Cambridgeshire, I set about deciding which American Apparel boob tube and headband would evoke the most respect from my rah-ver peers and sent my friend off in search of a shady looking individual.

Tent up and war paint on, we set off into the dusk…

Once we had the lay of the land, we decided that being at a festival warranted the kind of behaviour usually employed in an Enid Blyton novel and began frollicking and gamboling away. Not content with carefree fun endowed upon us with our own two feet we decided to roll down a hill. After some convincing that if indeed I did lose control, picking up speed and hurtling through the festival like a human canon ball, everyone would get out of my way (It was after all, the beginning of the festival) I launched myself down the hillside.

I stood up, triumphant, I had not crashed into anyone or anything, I was living the dream…or so I thought.

Kat: Err B… Have you rolled in mud?

I looked down, it did indeed appear that I had rolled in mud. ‘Oh well’, I thought, it is a festival after all. My friends started laughing hysterically, the cogs in my head started whirring…

It hadn’t rained in weeks, hence lack of trench foot and ability to drag wheely bag accross field. It was the beginning of the festival, therefore the likelihood of the earth having been trampled into a quagmire was slim. It was a dog friendly festival.

Me: 'OH MY FUCKING GOD I’VE ROLLED IN DOG SHIT!’ It was true, the worst had happened, I was acutally covered in shit. There was only one thing for it. I removed my clothes and began to run. Unfortunately, being blessed with the sense of direction of a knat, I ran the wrong way. And so I began my first unintentional streak, cheered on by festival goers muttering 'she must have started early’ into their ciders.

By the time I found my way back to the tent I had a lapped the festival and my friends were washing my clothes in the lake. A packet of babywipes were thrown my way and I proceeded to try and regain some dignity. Unfortunately there was none to be found. For the remainder of the festival I was blamed for every smell at the festival, be it the longdrops, the portaloos or a rotting falafel stand.

I even had my first taste of minor celebrity…'So you’re the girl who rolled in dog shit!’

Yes. Yes I am.