Silver

We dance and clap and cheer and gaze in wonder as rainbow-coloured globes drift…no fling, themselves on kamikaze missions across the field. How quickly, quickly the bubbles burst – sending droplets of moisture to cool the sun-scorched skin. Hands reach up to aid them on their quest as the sun sinks lower behind the stage and clouds gather to herald the fast approaching twilight.

A sudden chill descends on bare shoulders but soon muffled in windcheaters, sweatshirts and hastily snatched up picnic rugs, the revellers kick up their heels and do the Can Can – audience participation taken to new heights when told to all jump as one on the count of four… we leap and sing until we are hoarse, then exhausted from chilling out in the brisk country air, we retire to our cocoa at the unholy hour of just past eight. Decadence reigns amongst the silvering heads of legions of former New Romantics and New Wavers and Ska and Punk aficionados.

Next year we vow to be be donning fancy dress like many others, but for this year we came as we are now and not as we once were. Celebrating the past is good as long as we live for today and value our wisdom in recognising that an era past has given us older and wiser heads to nod and smile with.

Maybe.

bubble

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