Each August
Bank Holiday, Nigel, Pascoe and I go to Greenbelt Festival and camp with Nick
and Jackie (and this year, Mark, Adri and offspring too). Nick found us all a great spot.
We were close
to some portaloos and a stand pipe, but not TOO near.
Even better,
we were right next to a large area of grass – presumably one of the campsite
fire breaks.
However, when we got back to our tents on the first night, a large fire was burning in the
grassy area. Worse, campers had begun to
sing songs around it.
“Oh you’ll
never get to Heaven in a biscuit tin…”
I was
indignant:
“Don’t they
realise how dangerous fire is on a campsite?
How do I contact the fire marshalls?”
“It’s okay
Mum,” said Pascoe, “There’s somebody wearing a yellow gilet that says Fire
Marshall…Hold on though – what on earth are they doing?”
The fire marshall
was giving the fire a good poke and adding some sticks.
Clearly
they had completely misunderstood the role of fire marshall.
And it wasn’t
just a single rogue operator – other fire marshalls joined him and stood
warming their hands beside the blaze.
“She’ll be
coming round the mountain when she comes…”
I was no
longer sure who to complain to.
And on the
following night, it happened all over again.
It was only
on our last night that I thought to check the programme and discovered that it
was the official Greenbelt Campfire – open to all festival-goers.
So this
Greenbelt was the one where I discovered my inner NIMBY – although I’m not sure
I ought to be boasting about it.
