I saw a hedgehog last week – the first I have seen in ages, I think years in fact. They’ve been suffering from a case of too many badgers or roads, depending on who you speak to. Anyway this one seemed in rude health, and did an excellent job of demonstrating her roll-in-a-ball capabilities when sniffed enthusiastically by my ever-inquisitive horse. (No horses or hedgehogs were harmed in the making of this blog.)
In my head she was a female, named something suitably Tiggywinkle-esque and adorable like Esme or Mildred. But I have less than no hedgehog knowledge, so she was probably a he and called something oikish like Ricky or Wayne.
(Apologies to anyone named Ricky or Wayne – please blame Eastenders for my outlandish stereotyping. I’ve just guiltily looked up their origins, and as Ricky is short for Richard it actually means ‘powerful, strong ruler’. Wayne, somewhat more amusingly, comes from an occupational surname meaning ‘wagon maker’. Lol.)
That same evening I encountered a rather different sort of beast, when I went to Wildlife festival at Brighton Airport. At least that’s what it says on the tickets…it isn’t in Brighton, it’s in Shoreham – I think it says Brighton so that it sounds cooler. (Soz Shoreham, but Brighton does sound a bit cooler. Just saying.)
My compadre (she who is blonde of hair and mischievous of eye, pictured above), is a big fan of George Ezra – mildly loopy on the subject in truth. We managed to get ourselves right to the front and sing/shout/dance our hearts out while he sang. This was excellent.
But Wildlife plays all manner of music, and we quite fancied watching an act called Giggs. We had heard him on Radio 1 and thought he was quite cool. That’s actually a total lie – I’d never even heard of him but the afore-mentioned blonde pixie had. Anyway his genre is grime. Which I quite like. Sort of. A bit. Not loads though – it’s a bit shouty.
The crowd that had assembled to watch this fellow were defo wagon makers, if you know whadda mean. They were forming mosh pits and having actual fights. We were mildly terrified and had to make a run for it pretty sharpish. And THEN while we were in the process of beating a hasty retreat, one of the b*stard makers of wagons shouted at me to ask why I had brought my mum! By which he meant my blonde of hair, mischevious of eye, George Ezra-loving friend. Outrageous! And SO rude!
Shortly afterwards I thought of loads of hilarious and witty things to say back to him, but by that time we were sipping decidedly tepid prosecco from a jug in the VIP area. (Yes prosecco, yes a bit warm, yes in a jug, because we weren’t allowed to have glass for security reasons. Zut alors.)
I hope he fell over and grazed his knee. Because that really hurts.
Luckily the evening took a MUCH better turn when both the future Mrs Ezra and I managed to get ourselves right to the front and on two willing donor’s shoulders for the closing act, local hero Fat Boy Slim. (By local I mean Brighton, not Shoreham!)
He was INCREDIBLE. Day made. Actually it was already made by Esme/Mildred and then George…but then Norman (for that is Fat Boy Slim’s real name). While I’m still on the website I can tell you that Norman means ‘northman’, referring to a Viking. I’d go on a longboat with him any day.