Lizzie has gone to the WOMAD music festival in Wiltshire, with a friend.
It’s the first major excursion she’s done – without the family – since her illness. She’s going to be there from Friday to Sunday: nearly the whole thing.
After Lizzie arrives at the festival, she calls and tells me that – despite the fact WOMAD is a world music event – she’s never seen so many white people standing together in a field, in her life. She’s just been to an African dance class… and Lizzie says that whilst the African people on stage were dancing amazingly, all the white people in the audience were jigging along in a very uncoordinated manner. More Surrey than Sudan.
We chat a bit longer about the white people’s crap dancing and then I ask Lizzie: ‘How are the toilets?’
Lizzie’s been particularly worried about the toilets at the festival.
It’s not surprising, really. We’ve been to WOMAD twice before (not because we’re particularly interested in world music… but because a friend could get us cheap tickets) and both times the portaloos were absolutely foul. They stank of pure evil. And you had to sit on them, to do a crap! My god… and we paid for this! (Even though it was at a discount).
Lizzie’s been particularly sensitive on the subject of going to the loo ever since a post-cancer-op bowel adhesion hospitalised her in the spring. She’s become hyper-aware that not doing enough number twos (or doing too many of them) – as a result of the wrong diet – could land her back in a hospital ward, in terrible pain.
And what better (or worse) place than a music festival, to eat the wrong thing and not do enough number twos (or do too many of them)? What with those yucky toilets? So that’s what Lizzie has been worrying about. What if the festival experience becomes a hospital experience?
‘The toilets are rancid,’ says Lizzie, on the phone. ‘I can’t bring myself to sit down on one, with all that shit under the seat. I’m worried a rat may pop up out of the hole and bite me on my privates.’
‘That sounds horrid,’ I sympathise, feeling deeply glad not to be at the festival.
‘I’m thinking of paying to use the La Di Da Loos,’ Lizzie continues. The ‘La Di Da Loos’ at Womad are the posh ones – actual normal, flush toilets.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ I say.
Its Sunday morning – the third day of the festival – and Lizzie calls me at 9.00am.
‘I’m coming back!’ she cries out over the phone, sounding broken.
‘But what about the rest of the festival? Haven’t you paid for today too?’
‘I don’t care,’ says Lizzie. ‘I’m coming back now!’
An hour and a half later, Lizzie staggers from our toilet into the kitchen – where she sits down with a slump. Her expression is a mixture of repulsion… and massive relief.
‘Thank God I’m back!’ Lizzie sighs. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to use those disgusting toilets, at the festival.’
‘What about the La Di Da Loos?’ I ask.
‘The La Di Da Loos were a bit shit,’ replies Lizzie. ‘No, actually, they were fine. I still didn’t want to use them, though. I needed to be at home.’
I nod – getting it.
Lizzie’s expression darkens… she takes a deep breath… then continues… ‘I’ve had half my insides removed, in a cancer operation,’ she says. ‘And I’ve done chemotherapy and had Covid too, at one point, while I was doing it.’
I nod. How could I forget?
‘AND,’ Lizzie continues. ‘I’ve given birth twice.’
I nod again. It would seem foolish to deny it, considering we have two children.
‘But I’ve never…’ Lizzie concludes, ‘… experienced pain as bad as when I was in the hospital, two months ago, with that bowel adhesion. It was off the scale.’
‘So I couldn’t enjoy the festival at all,’ Lizzie sighs. ‘I was too worried I’d eat the wrong thing… and end up back in hospital with another blockage.’
Lizzie looks gloomy. ‘M.J….’ (that’s the friend of Lizzie’s who went to the festival with her, not Spider-man’s girlfriend), ‘… must have been really annoyed with me. I was just so… boring.’
‘I just wasn’t strong enough for the festival,’ she concludes, plaintively. ‘I’m not ready for things like that, after everything which has happened.’
I look at Lizzie, looking pale and drawn at the table, and suddenly feel incredibly sorry for her. Whilst her cancer operation was a year ago – and her chemo ended back in the spring – she’s clearly not as robust as she once was. Even if she doesn’t have a recurrence of the Big C (and please God let that be the case), maybe she’ll never quite be running on full throttle again, after her dismal experiences of the last twelve months.
What a steaming pile of (non-La Di Da) turd it all is.
P. D. Clifton 
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