Picture the scene - it's 11.30am and we're walking past the Greenpeace tent by the climbing wall. We've been drinking vodka and orange for the last two hours, so we're all feeling a little worse for wear.

After being accosted by a Greenpeace volunteer, we eventually ended up in the Greenpeace tent to watch a Glastonbury version of Blind Date.

We sit down in some pretty little striped deck-chairs to watch the action take place. Three questions were asked and the girl picker chooses bloke number two.

The rejected guys come off stage and then the most unbelievable thing happens. The girl opens the door to the booth and walks out, BUTT NAKED!

The presenter then asks number two to remove his blindfold. Now, I've seen shock. I mean I once caught my sister and her boyfriend "getting down" so I know what shock is. But this poor guy looked like he was going to faint!

Anyway, once he relaxed a bit, and the staff have got the smelling salts out, it's time for them to choose their date. Now, this is the cream of the crop, the one place you would not want a nudist to go. Up the climbing wall!

At least 50 people were crowded round to watch, and it was definitely a great spectacle. And all this on our first morning at Glastonbury, I could tell it was going to be the best weekend of my life. And it was!

Thanks to Tom and Lucy, Kate and Eddie, Julia and Matt and everyone else who made my weekend complete. I couldn't have had as much fun without you!

I'd resisted the urge to unleash hell in the Glastonbury toilets until about noon on the Saturday.

Having finally built up not only the nerve but the unbelievable colonic pressure required I finally entered the gates of hell and set about performing the patented Glasto toilet buttocks-not-touching-seat hover.

It was at the exact moment I realised I'd forgotten toilet roll that the door was opened by an absolute vision of Swedish fitness who's disgusted face caused the rest of my colon to prolapse.

The only thing I could think of saying was: 'Oasis were good, weren't they?'

It's Sunday night and I'm knackered but I have promised my 13-year-old son that we WILL stay to see Muse, no matter what.

We slog back to the car carrying damp tent, damp sleeping bags, damp everything, so we can make a quick-ish getaway, and then we make our way back on site.

My feet feel like red hot bricks, I've got sunburnt legs cos Itook the bottom of my cargo pants off during Joss Stone's set, and I'm as sober as it's possible for a body to be.

Muse aren't on stage for an hour and a half, so the boy slopes off to blow the last of his pocket money on a digeridoo and I walk painfully towards the Jazz Stage to see Bonnie Raitt.

She's 15 minutes late on stage, the field is a mudbath, my feet hurt and I'm so very very tired.

Then she comes on stage. And she starts to play... my feet start to twitch inside my German army para boots.

By the end of the third song, I'm dancing in the mud like a 17-year-old in the Dance Tent on Friday night as the drugs kick in.

Nothing hurts anymore, I don't feel the cold, or the wind, or the hunger or the sunburn.

When she starts to play acoustic, my heart melts and I fall in love. 45 minutes in, I check my watch... it's time to stand in the crowd to watch Muse.

Reluctantly I drag myself away and as I do so she sings Angel From Montgomery at my departing back. And I KNOW she's singing it to me.

Bonnie, I want to have your children...