Weekend 'break'
Beware four-day festivals
It was a simple and arguably perfect plan. My son – for reasons unfathomable to any sane person – wanted to go to a music festival in Norfolk, near King’s Lynn. Houghton Hall, to be precise, a four-day marathon of non-stop dance ‘beats’ set in the grounds of a stately home. Tents, toffs and overpriced food. My idea of hell.
His sister was in agreement. But her jam, as Princess Meghan of Sussex likes to say, is car boot sales, and she had her eye on one or two choice ones in the region. So we thought we might make a long weekend of it and scoop up the sweaty remains on the way home. A dear friend who lives close by generously offered to put us up.
We set off, the boy and I (my daughter wisely elected to come by train), with the dogs in the back of the car and two large backpacks, one belonging to a friend of his, Ned, who had misjudged the space in his mate’s tiny Mini Cooper. The plan for us to drive in convoy; but 20-year-olds being 20-year-olds, they quickly left me for dust.
By the time we got there, the queue was huge. The sound system was emitting loud bursts of aural GBH. Ned and the others were already the other side. My son, although strapping enough, could not possibly carry two rucksacks plus all his camping equipment, and so I had no choice but to park the car, sling Ned’s colossal bag on my back and trudge what felt like several miles to the festival entrance, dogs in tow. Memo to self: no good deed goes unpunished.
By the time I had deposited rucksack and son and walked back to the car, I was pretty shattered. Which may well have contributed to what happened next.
I arrived at my friend’s house to discover she’d had to make a mercy dash to the local A&E as her grandson had fallen over and cut his head. This suited me since I had work to do. I settled in with a nice cup of tea and got typing.
She got home shortly before teatime, so we decided to walk the dogs. Trouble with Norfolk is it’s awfully pretty. I was just admitting an adorable ruined church in the horizon when I missed my footing and turned over my ankle. There was a loud pop. ‘Oh dear. That sounds like another trip to hospital,’ said my friend.
So now I have a broken ankle, which I wrote about in the Daily Mail
At least you’re under 65. Once you get over 65 the hospital junior/resident doctors seem to be taught that everyone over that age has some degree of Dementia and certainly can’t remember anything to do with their hospital treatment (or lack of) correctly. Every patient needs a ‘Champion’/family member/friend with them in hospital-those elderly people without one are soon left and forgotten.