Eric Clapton has just finished to play his last hit, when some people start walking swiftly away from the mass that still lingers, crams and cries afoot the stage, wishing the old guitarist put his nose out again. I've got my couple of hours of music, standing with feet into a sticky mud, under heavy rainfall. I'm devastated. I'll throw away my jeans in a bin as soon as I'll reach my hotel room. I'll have to get back home tomorrow, before I do the same to my shoes. My watch says it's nearly eleven in the evening. Northern summer magic. I have to hurry: I could miss the last train to Asker.
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