Three late nights in a row - THREE! - and insomnia is a noun that has been well and truly kicked in the butt and lobbed out of my vocab.

So, I went to the IOW Festival - and I didn't get a T-shirt. I also didn't buy any of the hundreds of other things in the "marketplace" nor a pair of sunglasses for a fiver. I didn't totter into the campsite on high heels towing a suitcase the size of Newport. I resisted the temptation to have a ride on a fairground ride, laughed in the face of forking out twenty quid for a trip in a vomit-inducing bungee thingy and I didn't have any children who could be kept entertained by hassling drinkers for their 10p returnable empty drink glasses.

No, I showed my age and turned up to listen to music. Which makes me quaintly old-fashioned, obviously. Because lots of other people were quite happy to fiddle with their mobiles or stay seated on their camper chairs and carry on chatting during the headline acts. Their loss. The Kaiser Chiefs, The Police, The Sex Pistols were great. I loved The Zutons - even when I finally realised they weren't called The Futons. (Wishful thinking - my ageing limbs kept rebelling against sitting on the ground). I loved Starsailor and The Australian Pink Floyd Show and enjoyed Ian Brown and KT Tunstall. Iggy and the Stooges were dire. James didn't play their major hit 'Sit Down' and Nerd won the prize for being the most foul-mouthed. (They had stiff competition).

So it was very different to what I'd expected or have been used to. But it was good. It was relaxed and friendly and superbly organised with hardly any queuing. It was cold in the evening but then I was not stupid enough (and over-mindful of the feelings of the rest of the company) to wear hotpants, or to omit to take a warm jacket. We only got five drops of rain, despite the forecast. Glastonbury - eat your wet and soggy heart out.

Now though, I am nodding off and ready for bed.