Cheese alert

Two weeks on and I'm still thinking about Glastonbury. There's something so extraordinary about standing in a field with 80,000 other people, all united by a common purpose, listening to songs that make your hairs stand up on end - that crowd mentality that explains football obsession the world over, but which, I would argue, reaches a higher level when there are musicians onstage rather than players on the pitch, because of the lack of competition - we are all bound by one shared goal, there's only one team playing and we all want them to win. It's an enormously uplifting experience, often literally as you're lifted off your feet by the force of the heaving crowd. "Some people think I'm bonkers, but I just think I'm free, man I'm just living my life, there's nothing crazy 'bout meeeeee." Gotta love Dizzee.

And then there's the other extreme, standing in an empty chapel at 8pm on a Monday night, knackered from the weekend, rehearsing heavenly music by Monteverdi or Pergolesi, hopefully doing it some sort of justice, concentrating properly, no room for thoughts of men or motors while you're reading notes, singing and watching the conductor simultaneously, a meditative space in the maelstrom.

And there's my burgeoning ukulele addiction, my growing opera buffery, Chopin, Elgar, Rachmaninov, West Side Story, some lesser musicals, dancing to blues on Charlotte Street or indie at The Roxy. All are forms of release, all are heady, luxurious and emotional, all are necessary. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to enjoy the full spectrum. Spain just won the World Cup but for us music lovers, well... we're all winners every time a good song comes on the radio.

Ick.

In fringe news: it's actually OK. I wore it back in some sort of makeshift turban thing on Friday (odd decision, I'll admit) and he didn't seem to mind. Since then, I've found that, provided I spend six or seven hours styling it each morning, it actually looks OK. This would be unmanageable except I still have a skin-rippingly annoying cough which wakes me up with agonising frequency every night, so there's plenty of time to do hairstyling. Or read past entries of my own blog. Which is obviously more fun.