On the final night, I stand in the queue for the toilets with a picture of myself in my mind: eight years old and crying as we leave Legoland. I blink it away as a door opens and bangs shut again. I clasp my beer in my teeth, praying I don’t drop it, trying not to breathe too deeply through my nose. Around me, there’s swings and bangs and loud voices. I lean my elbow into the plastic door and add to the chorus, gasping for clean air. My beer has survived the ordeal.
“Mainstage?” I ask, drying hands on dusty shorts.
(continued)