From last night.
Mrs MP, our two dogs and myself were at the church I grew up attending. There was some sort of big, important service going on. The priest turned out to be the one I reported for photographing a teenage boy in the nude. So I get up and denounce him in the middle of the service. But the congregation (who were neither the congregation of his church or from my childhood church, but the congregation from my last church, St. Francis) take his side, as does an unidentified senior clergyman who tells me I will never work in the Church of England again. So we hide behind the organ until the congregation goes home.
When we come out there is a music festival going on in the church hall. It's full of hippies lying around smoking cannabis and making love. Then the relatively obscure, early seventies' rock band, Ashton, Gardner and Dyke, turn up and start playing. We get talking to a couple of people leaning against the back wall of the hall and this leads to us missing the last bus home. As it has suddenly become early on Christmas Day morning there won't be any buses all day. We panic but a member of Ashton, Gardner and Dyke tells us that we should stay to the end of the festival and then go back with them to live at their commune.
The only other thing I remember is that there was a chemist (drugstore) open selling cigarettes and sandwiches.
All this is very straightforward stuff that links to my worries at the moment. Even the music festival in the church is a reference to a post I read yesterday about a fundraising concert at Sam Norton's church at which the Banksboy from After The Fire played a few songs. But why I dragged Ashton, Gardner and Dyke out of my sub-conscious mind I have no idea. I was never a huge fan or anything.