I've been coming to Hay now for three years, and every year I'm palpably reminded of being at school - partly because of the rigid timetable ("no you don't have time to go to the loo - you've got Doris Lessing in a minute"), but mainly because I spend every festival in a state of mildly anxious bafflement. This is the fault not of Hay, but of technological development.
In year one, I came up on my own with no idea of what I was doing, wrote a few snippets for our brand new web log, and left thinking I had it nailed. By year two, blogging was a going concern, and a team of us were marshalled to deliver blanket coverage of the festival. I arrived with no idea of what I was doing, and came back thinking I had it nailed.
This year, as well as upping our blog coverage, we're organising a Hay relay story and producing a daily podcast. I arrived with no idea of what I was doing, but am slowly beginning to get a handle on things. By next year, I expect we'll be streaming the events directly into our users' minds, and I'll be out of a job.
Anxiety-inducing as it undeniably is, however, I'm finding the podcasting side of this year's festival deeply enjoyable, and even managed a Guardian scoop of sorts when talking yesterday to David Mitchell, who revealed - exclusively, ladies and gentleman! - that his next book will be (and I quote) "a historical, Dutch-Japanese novel set in the Napoleonic war". Bring it on.
My smuggery about the weather yesterday is looking like the height (or should that be depth?) of hubris this morning. Not only is it pouring with rain (Gordon Brown's event last night coincided with a downpour of biblical proportions, the drumming on the tent roof threatening to drown him out) but the temperature has plummeted. Typing away this morning on the Guardian bus, wearing a jacket with a fur-trimmed hood a la kid from East is East borrowed from our landlady, I can see my breath steaming in the air. They may be decked out in wellies, brollies and fleeces, however, but still the visitors come.
Spotted
AC Grayling leading the charge to the dancefloor and cutting some fine moves at the Harper's party.
Damian Lewis emerging from Eric Hobsbawm's event, wearing what appeared to be a baby papoose - but minus a baby.
"That guy from The Line of Beauty, you know, what's his name, Dan something" (collective Guardian knowledge of contemporary actors)
Overheard
"Coming from the antipodes, I had no idea that Wales was an epicentre of danse arabique" - Thomas Keneally, following a display of Welsh farmers' wives belly dancing.
"Not now I work for Sky" - Rory McGrath to soup vendor, who suggested that he should pay double on the grounds that he is famous and therefore rolling in it.
"I'd have fallen asleep if the woman next to me hadn't been snoring" - audience member at William Dalrymple's event.
"I thought they were the caterers" - gentleman, on being informed of the identity of Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers, who had walked past with cakes.
"This is like panto for old people" - audience member at Any Questions.
