Now stop that, I know where your mind went.
I refer, of course, to the most harmonious of undertakings, the Hard Rock Calling concert on Sunday. Elvis Costello, Crowded House, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and the ever marvellous Paul McCartney.
Hot, sunny weather; Hyde Park crammed full of aged hippies; Elvis Costello sweating his head off in a purple velvet suit; Crosby, Stills and Nash covering the Stones' "Ruby Tuesday"; Paul McCartney covering "Tequila"... These were but a few of my most excellent experiences on Sunday.
I've never been to a concert alone. The cinema, yes. To dinner, yes. To a concert? Nope. It was a truly eye opening experience. I haven't done very much completely alone in the last few years. Being married means you have a built-in companion for everything, and it doesn't even occur to me to book something for one person. This was no exception to that, actually, it was more a strange array of incidents that saw me traipsing on my merry way to Hyde Park alone, but it's made me keen to try it again.
I sat where I wanted to sit, in the dirt with a bunch of strangers, and made conversation with them where I wouldn't have had I been accompanied. I loaned out my sunscreen to people turning a bit pink in the sun. I handed my water bottle to a girl who had been directly after me in the path of overflowing beer from a guy walking past, we washed off and had a laugh together. I danced down the front in the crowds of people (something Himself HATES and refuses to do).
It was a bit of a return to the "me" before Himself and grown up life, and made for a nice departure from the norm.
The moral of the story? Paul McCartney's a proper weirdo in person. I mean, weird. He kept putting on this bizarre Jamaican/rastafarian accent, and he swore more than I thought he would. Which, of course, means I never pictured him swearing at all. *lol* Gotta hand it to him, though, the man's still got it. OAP gyrations aside, his pipes are still totally intact, perfect pitch and lovely tone. Eleanor Rigby made my day.
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