Today is her birthday, she's smoking cigars...

I lost my virginity 32 years ago today. In a tent. At the Reading Festival. I was a surprisingly long in the tooth 18 at the time, but my partner had lost hers at 15 and in a boat, so I was very much dazzled by her sophistication. The Sugarcubes headlined on the Friday and I'm certain I'd finished before the vocals kicked in on "Birthday".

Still, the romance of being under canvas (she had to ask someone else to help her erect the tent because I was useless), the stars above our heads, the smell of PVC cups burnt on campfires, a lone crusty strumming The Battle of the Beanfield on a three string acoustic he'd exchange for five magic beans before the weekend had run its course, was intoxicating. In short the magic of youth, the first lick of freedom, the awesome potential of life to deliver everything all at once all the time. I never felt it more than that weekend. 

The Saturday line-up was awful, (I never liked The Pogues) and I don't remember seeing a single band that day, so I'm assuming we were twanging the guy ropes back at the crib. Though equally it could just be my poor memory. And this was before I drank. 

32 years. Bloody hell. 

Actually, now I think of it, it would have been the Thursday, the night before the festival started. So, it's not even the anniversary proper today. And the soundtrack to the sentimental plucking of my misterhood was not Bjork, but two blokes from Mortimer arguing about how to get a fire started. 

The romance of being under canvas. The magic of youth.