WITH swarms of crowds, plenty of booze and a weekend of late nights on the cards, Glastonbury Festival is sure to deliver a non-stop party to its attendees.
And while for most pregnant women, the idea of spending four nights on a blow-up mattress in a tent might be their ideal of hell, for Halina Watts she wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Here the journalist, 36, from St Leonard's on Sea who is seven months pregnant, reveals why she will be going all out at this year’s festivities, bump or no bump…
“With Elton John, Guns N Roses and Arctic Monkeys headlining Glastonbury 2023 there's no way I was going to miss it - even after finding out I'm expecting my first child.
I've been at the festivities most years since I turned 21.
What Ola and James Jordan really ate and did to shed 7st
But now I'm 36 and it feels like the last chance for me and my partner Robbie to let loose before the arrival of our little bundle of joy.
When I tell one of my closest friends over a cup of tea about my epic upcoming adventure, she puts down the cup, pulls a strange face and says: "Are you insane?"
Dad nearly chokes on his Sunday roast while Mum mumbles something like "can't you ever do anything boring?"
Maybe she has a point.
Maybe I should be at home, reciting my hypnobirthing mantra and starting to paint the nursery.
It was only two years ago at the height of the coronavirus that pregnant women were ordered to stay indoors for three months along with the over seventies.
In most cultures women are heavily lectured about what they can and can't do including our own: no boozing, no smoking, avoiding certain types of food.
In Chinese traditions women are told not to hammer nails into walls, go to weddings, or attend birthday celebrations. I'm sure 'going to Glasto' is on that list too.
Thankfully, we are not in a pandemic anymore. And we don't live in China.
I'm a 'time traveler' - the 'worst case scenario that could kill us all'
But as Robbie and I drive past Stonehenge, Elton's Rocket Man jangles out of the stereo and the little bubba in my tummy kicks. And then he kicks again. And I take that as a I sign that maybe my little one wants to Crocodile Rock as much as I do.
In previous years I routinely walked twelve miles a day, and crawled into my tent at 6am, glitter shovelled across my face - this year I reckon I've got max five miles in me and a 11pm curfew, albeit still spangled in glitter.
My first trimester was full of mood swings, sickness and bad acne while my second was crammed with trips to Japan and Florence, a new lease for life, and clear, fabulous skin.
But now as I enter my final three months, I feel more akin to the slow life. Snailesque.
Still, when we enter the site, welcomed by smiling stewards, and rolling green fields, the Pyramid stage's point basking in the distance, and park up our car, excitement smothers us and I realise I'm practically trying to run into the festival.
The sky is bright blue, there's a soft breeze, everyone is smiling arm in arm and there's a wild (and probably fake) rumour that Britney Spears has just arrived on site. Life couldn't be better.
And then after walking a mile, I realise, oh there's a big baby in my tummy. And it feels a little bit heavy. And then I'm telling my partner, 'babe, you've got to slow down.'
He slows down and we're back to slug mode, until of course, Blur's Parklife rings out, and the excitement begins to swirl and we speed up and then, oh no, 'babe, can you please slow down?'
This happens about fifty times and suddenly I'm feeling a little bit tired, but we've entered the VIP area, which organisers kindly granted me after realising I was writing this piece, and there's Laura Whitmore and Cruz Beckham gearing up to get lost down the showbiz rabbit hole.
A friend skips towards me and she's grabbing my belly and the little one does a big kick, and I'm thinking is that an angry kick or does he want to play?
I tell Rob to dump me in the food tent, in the exact spot where a few years before I was so drunk I vaguely remember doing the robot dance at 3am with George Lamb before jumping into bales of hay.
So he leaves me and then I'm daydreaming about that time I interviewed The Horrors and (much to my editor's horror) forgot all of it or watching Stormzy make history on the Pyramid stage and partying with the Rooneys in the VIP area. All very, very drunk.
Now I've never felt more lucid and I can feel the energy from all these merry people seeping into me but the thought of getting up fills me with dread.
After a little nap and then I'm being asked if I'd like to be scooted over to the midwife yurts in the healing fields. And yes please, I definitely would.
First we take a de-tour to the kids field - something I’ve never done before - and meet CBeebies puppet Dodge who says: “I hope you have a nice baby.” I smile, say thank you and couldn’t agree more.
Then we head to a goddess tent and a midwife yurt and there are very kind women offering me free chocolate and herbal teas and then I've signed up to a gong baths and free yoga and am even contemplating painting my belly in brilliant, shimmering colour.
A peaceful serenity fills every part of my body and I tune into my baby and he kicks back and all the joy and love that the festival has to offer filters into me and I realise there's nowhere I'd rather be.
And then I realise I've got to do it all again tomorrow.
