"COUCH DANCING," I mumbled happily, slinging my inflatable couch off my back where it landed with a plop in the mud. I grinned at my fellow trancers who all grinned back, evidently appreciating the sheer brilliance of my idea.
And flashes of sympathising with Joseph over his twisted his ankle and couldn't dance and didn't seem too upset, blazing spliff after spliff with Cam. And of conspiring with Gary in the Food Tent to storm Ibiza in July - and we would - where he would make the track: I see you baby shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass, his own.
And flashes of coming around a curl in the trees to see dirty old Jack in the distance, she who could keep up with the lads, but stunning at this moment, an outline on an elevation, with wide beatific smile beneath dreamy closed eyes, rapturous upraised hands, clouds and crowd and sound behind. Jackie, who later would lose a pill in a haystack and utter the immortal words, “That's going to be one fucking happy cow.”
It was two in the morning and I was on my way up for the third time and I’d just humped my inflatable couch halfway across the Downs, one mention by Darius of our long running, couch-dancing joke enough to set me off on a spangled mission . . .
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