I spent the weekend at a very wet, very noisy arts festival (Greenbelt for anyone wondering!)

In a gap between deluges and watching a guy climb inside a giant balloon (seriously!)

I was paused while my daughter made some clay models outside the kids craft tent. Under gorgeous trees, in a rare moment of sunshine, cosy on my camp chair, crocheting a discernment star blanket.

And someone came past, peered at me and declaimed (it certainly wasn't a question, and it was announced with horror) “You've paid hundreds of pounds to sit in a field and KNIT”

I was lost for words

I wish I could have said

“Crochet helps me process my emotions”

“Better than paying hundreds of pounds to walk around criticising folk”

“Jog On!”

But I was so taken aback. This is a hugely inclusive, super welcoming festival, where folk love to lift one another up, people release their gorgeous truest selves into the environment, and this person was stomping around like the “appropriate activity at a festival” police.

What actually came out of my mouth was “it's crochet actually” full autistic moment there! (And a joy when Robin Ince in his festival show, proved he knows the inherent risk of confusing the two!) And tried to explain that I was watching our child (who had actually been off being feral for most of the weekend)

I spent a good while after fretting. Was I wasting our money? Should I have brought something more worthy? Should I have been engaging in deep conversations and listening to the more deep talks around activism, justice and climate instead of sitting under a tree, in the sunshine, crocheting (and not even with ethically sourced, hand spun yak entrails, but with vivid cotton and plastic stitch markers)

And then I looked around, and I realised.

Here is my tribe, the weird and wonderful, the flamboyant and the feral, wearing inappropriate clothes, sliding like penguins through the mud (mainly but not only, children on that one) laughing, chatting, and sitting soaking up the glory of creation.

Wearing glitter and glam, camo and couture, dressed for comfort and creativity, listening, loving, showing curiosity, and squealing with delight at the creations of one another. Sharing stories, being our best selves.

And I stopped wanting to think up cunning retorts and justifications, and I wanted to find that person, with their cutting words, give them a hug, and invite them to the joyous freedom of living with love for others and love for yourself that allows you curiosity not criticism.