At the very fag end of the year we drive across to Stonehenge for the free festival. I have been here before only elsewhere, much younger, when it was all adventure, and this feels like a half baked rehash of being 15. So I sit, aloof, leaning against the car, transistor pressed to ear, listening to Australia and England at Lord’s on Test Match Special, John Arlott’s descriptive, lyrical burr cutting through thuds from the stage. In the evening some people send up a homemade hot air balloon, which catches alight. It’s hardly anything, but it makes an impression, strangely enough.