I’ve just finished Michael Frayn’s Spies, in which two prepubuscent boys concoct fantasies about the secret lives of their neighbours and relatives, accidentally uncovering sadder secrets than the ones they suspect. It’s a very well written Second World War tale covering slightly over-familiar ground. Many readers will see the ending coming (if not the extra, final ‘twist’ that Frayn doesn’t quite succeed in bringing off) but so what? Originality is over rated – give me predictable but convincing over shock/stretch the credulity endings any day. I finished the book in bed, before turning off the light (most novel reading, I suspect, takes place on holiday, or in bed). When I thought about the book again in the morning, one thing confused me. What made it…

As I type this, the Ms. of my adult novel is slowly seeping out of my computer into the world wide web, from whence it will be retrieved rather more quickly by my agent’s broadband connection. In the old Amstrad days, it would have taken me at least two days to print out an Ms. this long, and I would then have to photocopy it before posting, as two copies were required. Today I generally send one paper copy of the first draft and later, revised versions by e-mail. No wonder my local post office is closing down. (Sending books by attachment is actually a pain if you’re a Mac user, like me, as different people find different formats incompatible – but that’s another, frankly…

On Sunday, I go for a morning walk, taking breakfast at the same noodles place as yesterday – evidently local suppliers have run out of eggs (25,000 consumed – that’s one for every six people – didn’t the egg people know we’d want more?) so there’s no fried egg or eggy bread but there is fried bread, fried mushrooms and an extra sausage (plus bacon and the excellent bubble and squeak I forgot to mention yesterday). I read my cheap copy of ‘The Observer’ (‘REM triumph’) then set off to see what’s happening. In the Circus tent, the Heart And Soul Experience are beginning – an exuberant, slightly strange set from a group of young performers with Downs syndrome. I watch the first few numbers…

On Saturday morning, there are posh loos with – joy of joys – hot running water, allowing me to wash my face before making a cup of tea outside the tent. Rob texts me to say that he and Richard have gone to eat at Lulu’s in the hospitality tent. My appetite doesn’t tend to kick in until later, so, when they return, we go for a wander around the site. After careful perusal of the food on offer, I go for the ‘top scram’ all-you-can-eat breakfast at the noodle bar at the far end of the site, near the acoustic stage – egg, bacon, sausage, eggy bread, beans and brown sauce, with a mug of tea thrown in – all for a fiver. This…

I’m not at all good at early starts but I click awake at 5.59, a minute ahead of the alarm clock. I’m ready to go when the taxi shows up at 6.30. I’m the first to arrive at Rob’s (our companions living much closer to him) but we’re on the road by seven, stopping only for a second breakfast somewhere on the M5. Traffic is light and we approach the festival site through back lanes. There’s no queuing whatsoever, in stark contrast to my 2000 experience (this diary will assume you’ve read my 2000 diary and the novel Festival). The main suspense is whether there’ll be room in the hospitality car park (there’s loads) and – now this is more familiar – when it will…