I’m a grey tourist.
I’m the Grey-Brit on holiday.
But I’m not your average purple white grey haired granny.
I’m a pink jogging bottom type of granny.
In fact I’m not even a Granny as I never married or had kids.
This year I went to Glastonbury,
I went to Reading.
I went to Leeds,
I went to Green man.
I went to Latitude.
And now I am recovering.
My tent is drying
My clothes are on the washing line.
And my music taste is in question.
My tent stinks, damp sweat-hot nights and rainy days.
But I bought something back with me.
He has dark hair not a grey hair in sight.
Our wrists are covered with entrance bracelets.
Our skin is prickly red, brown and tattooed with mud.
I met him next to the beer tent.
I bought him a beer.
He’s a student and I’m retired.
We spoke about our differences.
We discovered we were the same fans for the same bands.
Our hands meet.
He liked my soft skin.
I really liked his … he was nice and thin.
So we, shared my tent.
We smoked, we kissed.
We decided to have a rest.
Back at my bungalow.
I needed to check my garden.
And he needs sleep.
But it doesn’t stop here.
Like Romeo and Juliet.
His family and I will never meet.
Once the tent is dry,
We are going to travel.
Two concessions together.
From the highlands to the channel islands.
This is our summer thing, our little fling.
Our Great-British holiday.
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