Everybody in the Netherlands seemed to speak perfect English and Jolene was no exception. She told me about a lengthy amount of time she’d spent studying in Leeds. She was clearly an avid gig goer and had enjoyed dancing at many of Yorkshire’s finer venues. She had to shout in my ear to be heard above the general hubbub. I didn’t mind that I could smell the alcohol on her breath. Sometimes, she stumbled into me but I didn’t mind that either. Jolene’s tall friend wandered away, leaving us to chat.
“You English are so much more polite than many Dutch people”, said Jolene as a tall chap came and stood in front of us, largely blocking the view of the stage. There were many things that I could have countered such an argument with but I chose not to. I’d seen the marauding masses at other European festivals to know what she meant.
The band came on the stage and , in truth, weren’t that memorable. After a couple of songs, I wanted to head off to see what else I could find. Jolene started fumbling with her phone in a sign that she was also anxious to move. As she moved away, she handed me a business card. In the dark gig-light, I couldn’t see what was on the card and wondered what services were being offered. I put it in my wallet.
(Click on page 3 for the resolution to this tale)