Glastonbury festival, eponymous music fiesta, that rocks Somerset to the core on the final weekend of June.
This weekend definitely delivered in abundance.
Despite day one's horrific downpour spirits were still high come Saturday and Sunday to ensure buzzing crowds at Chemical Brothers, swaying arms at Paolo Nutini and a bass-driven, hyperactive set by The Correspondents.
More puzzling than the maze of the Rabbit Warren and even more confusing than the wild weirdness of Shangri La was the dress-code and beauty choices of some of the festival goers. In a place where anything goes (quite literally from the inappropriately tiny man thong to a bleeding, baby doll head adorned jacket) I find it really hard to understand some choices that are so evidently not conducive to the unpredictable nature of a festival.
I'm not a fan of excessive make up. In particular at a festival when it's raining, the loos are flooded, the paths have become a natural mud ski slope and there is a perpetual mist of acid rain.
Rated highly were the natural looking babes. I'm talking wavy locks, emerging freckles complimented by a lick of eye liner and a big fat coat of mascara on the lashes.
I have very little time for the groups of girls who wafted past me in a bubble of plastic perfume, with thick falsies, perfectly manicured paws and layers of foundations crust. Get your priorities right - it's about cider, going natural and literally LETTING YOUR HAIR DOWN. ( Batiste may be your best friend...)
Loving the Glastonbury look - mud whiskers and all.