Where is she?

Well. This weekend I took myself off on a little excursion to the Hay Festival of Ideas - the world’s biggest literary gathering - in the charming town of Hay-on-Wye, in Wales. 10 days. 700 writers. 70,000 visitors. Although I was of course thrilled by the prospect of attending lectures by some of my favourite authors, I had an ulterior motive: to find the woman of my dreams. I had booked tickets for the Sarah Waters reading on Saturday night, followed by a burlesque performance by Immodesty Blaize. The hottest ticket in town for any self-respecting literary lezzer, surely.


Arriving on Friday evening, I felt like I’d found my Nirvana: a town where every other building is a bookshop or a bar. Grinning inanely, I made my way to my B&B, The Chestnuts, to be welcomed by my gracious hosts and introduced to their two rather dashing Italian greyhounds, Stanley and Luigi. I nodded sympathetically as my hosts recounted the sad story of Stanley’s cancer, which explained why he was missing an eye. I managed not to look shocked as I was told there were ‘some toys for you to play with’ in the top drawer next to the bed. I giggled to myself when I opened said drawer to find a book of half-completed Sudoku and a pair of dice. Then I got changed into a fab frock and made my way to the festival.

The Hay Festival is a bit like being at a rather posh country wedding. All the marquees are connected by tented walkways with nice green carpets. There are lots of older ladies in floral frocks. The toilets have flower arrangements in them and are spotlessly clean. The whole place is awash with Pimm’s and champagne, and organic nibbles. I trotted over to the wine bar and bought myself a mini-bottle, then found a deckchair in the main courtyard and settled down with a book. From time to time I heard applause rippling through the summer air. All was well with the world. I was in bed by 9.30 and slept the sleep of champions.

Next morning I was up early, wandering the streets. There are only two, so it didn’t take long. Then I settled back into another deckchair with the newspaper to await my first lecture: Alain de Botton on the philosophy of work. As the morning wore on, the festival filled up with an odd combination of Islington intellectuals, men in Panama hats and linen suits, jolly women on daytrips from Manchester and beautiful girls wearing summer frocks and reading books on the grass. I began to experience a profound sense of contentment at the prospect of lectures and lechery: two of my favourite things. I wandered over to a pub for lunch, deciding that as a grown woman of 35, I should be able to sit in the garden on my own and not feel guilty about taking up a table.

But as the afternoon wore on, I began to remember the trials of attending weddings on your own. My back got sunburnt from not being able to reach it with the suncream. I had to drape things all over my chair and table to make sure no-one took them when I went to the loo. I realised that all the pretty girls were with their boyfriends. I drank too much white wine.

I made an effort for the Sarah Waters reading. I put on lipstick and changed my frock. I smuggled in a mini-bottle of champagne and two glasses in case anyone wanted to share, then waited for the cliterati to arrive. But they never did. I sat in front of 3 girls who were discussing Jeremy Paxman, whom they’d just seen:

‘He’s handsome isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Being under him would make you feel so petite!’

I shuddered and drank all the champagne myself.

The last time I went to a wedding in Wales I ended up posing topless on a Cadillac and shagging the priest. But I am a reformed character these days so instead I stuck to making resolutions and observations.

1. The only way to pull at Hay is to be on stage yourself. I have given myself a deadline of 2 years.

2. A festival is all about the people you’re with.