Released On 04 August 2025
Dolly's blog: Somewhere in a field in Hampshire... all right
It was actually a field in Suffolk and we were definitely not sorted out for Es and wizz, but in the spirit of Jarvis Cocker I was heading to a music festival for the first time since my 20s; the latest facet of my “Project: joy” mid-life crisis manifesting as a potentially ill-advised decision to take my three children to Latitude.
Having sold a kidney to finance it, I’d gone for the luxury camping option (it’s bad enough sharing a bathroom with my own family) and was looking forward to the indulgent experience promised. Reality bit fast.
It’s no exaggeration to say that it started raining the exact second we got in the car, that we drove through floods, and that the traffic jam heading into Latitude was the worst I have ever, ever, endured. I literally read an entire magazine whilst sat (stationary) behind the wheel. Arriving 11 hours after leaving London and just before midnight, the bar at which to claim our complimentary drinks had long since closed and it was lucky (in the widest sense of the word) that we’d already foraged in the boot for a nutritious dinner of cheese and Tim Tams. The scout tents were so close they practically overlapped and the base from the adjacent woods pulsated our internal organs as we lay, very much awake, on the floor. This luxury trip had not got off to a good start.
Things looked up the next day. The sun shone. I was childishly delighted with my new cool box, carefully packed with Chicken Wine and tins of G&T. We cooked the sausages I’d brought from home (a half-hearted attempt to off-set the life-altering ticket cost) on the also new camp stove, belatedly realising that’s not the done thing and getting some filthy looks as I washed two charred frying pans in a water trough used by everyone else to brush their teeth, forcing bits of fried onion down the plug hole with as much nonchalance as I could muster. Sorry everyone.
Make no mistake, Latitude lives up to its achingly middle-class rep. It was packed with floppy haired teenage boys in bucket hats, glossy haired teenage girls in Tom’s Trunks, and parents who’d driven them in the family Land Rover and were now enthusiastically knocking back the wine and gin (who am I to judge). It was as if the residents of East Dulwich had travelled en masse for a camping trip with their mates who moved to Suffolk post-Covid. Embracing the vibe, we ensconced ourselves in the Listening Post marquee, listening (the clue is in the name) to a succession of Radio 4 presenters and wondering if it’s wrong to get a tingle seeing Nick Robinson in the flesh.
But the main draw was obviously the bands, who were playing what was essentially the musical backdrop against which I’d made some of the most significant decisions of my life. It was music that meant something and, listening to it all again, this time stood with the children who had resulted from those decisions and are all now taller than I am, I felt the magnitude of life and shed the odd tear.
And then it was nearly midnight and nearly all over. And yet… there was this thing going on in the forest… some bloke from the Klaxons DJ’ing alternative 90s bangers (the musical rather than sausage variety). Having sold my kidney to be here it would be foolish not to just check it out for a couple of songs, no? Turns out there’s something exceedingly life-affirming and pleasingly bacchanalian about dancing in the woods. A lot. And so, nearly three hours later, it took every ounce of what’s left of my self-restraint to tell my kids it was probably time to head back to the tent for what little was left of darkness. Pleasingly, as my head hit the pillow my step count for Monday had already reached 9000.
“Are you all still friends?” texted Mr D as we drove home. Yes. Even stronger. Would I do it again? I’d have to sell my other kidney, or perhaps our over-priced dog, but hell yeah. All right.
After 19 years of fee earning, Dolly now works in a management role in a London law firm. Working four days a week she is supported by a wonderful (though often absent) husband as they attempt to bring up three teenage children. A lockdown puppy adds to the chaos but keeps her sane.
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