By the time I got to Woodstock I was eighty years old

Bit of an uneventful week, except I started back at school, we've had some amazing weather, and the average age of people walking down the middle of Tregenna Place has gone up by about thirty years overnight. There are times when you feel you're in the middle of an audition for a crowd scene from Shaun of the Dead.

The Beige Sisters went home yesterday and I ended up having to walk them to the station. They were both called Marge and had one set of clothes between them that they kept swopping over like those blind sisters in the olden days who had one grey eye between them. They stayed beige all week except for their faces, which were the colour of Campbell's condensed tomato soup by the time they went home. Anyway at the station they gave me 50p each which more than made up for not being able to sleep in my own bed all week. Not.

The St Ives September Festival is on for the next two weeks, and we've got a band staying at ours for the next few days. Yes, an actual band that's playing in the festival! For once I was actually looking forward to meeting some of our guests. I ran all the way back from the station. There was this mingin old man standing outside, well I say standing, he was more sort of leaning on one of those metal crutches that looks like a diver's spear gun, and he looked a bit of a hobo to be honest. He looked like Amy Winehouse's grandad. He'd got all this luggage round him. Next thing there's about another six of them, all old men in Levis with saggy faces and this really thin, lank long hair, all smoking these disgusting little stringy fags and taking the piss out of each other. Turns out it's the band, who reckon they were really well known in the seventies, but are all in their seventies themselves now. I should have known, the average age of St Ives September Festival goers being about ninety, stands to reason that the bands they froth over are going to have played Royal Command Performances for King George VI.

But my dad had apparently heard of them, because he behaved like a twat and went on about Donovan and Woodstock and that, and helped them in with their luggage, something he'd never do unless he had to. And then one of them sees the No Smoking sign, and my dad says, "No boys, don't worry about that, that's not for our VIPs." VIPs? So now I've got to spend a week in the same house as a load of geriatric old tossers stinking the place out with their shitty little fags and probably chucking my telly through the window.