A phone call at half ten on Saturday morning: Emma Jennings, says caller ID. A gruff man’s voice says hello. That’s not Emma.
“I’ve called because you’re the last person on the call register. I’ve found Emma’s phone. And her purse. And her handbag. All of her stuff.”
“Wow,” I thought, “this guy could have robbed all of her stuff, but he didn’t. How lucky is Emma?”
He was also staying in the camper vans section, so I said I’d try to ring Tracy and get the stuff back to Emma. I thanked him, and got to work. I couldn’t get through to Tracy, so I called Dem and asked Dem to try to get hold of Emma’s dad’s number – he tried to do this by calling Kelly, who didn’t have it – and we tried to get hold of Emma’s boyfriend’s number too. Pulling all the strings from Manchester, I felt like John Tracy in Thunderbird Five.
Tracy texted: “Emma’s gone to get her stuff now. She’s broken her ankle.”
A broken ankle means spending the next two days holed up in the camper van, and not seeing any bands at all. What a shit Glastonbury story.
UPDATE: It gets worse. Emma gave her fella the flick for not looking after her properly. Shit the bed.