Comptroller of sound

My purpose is to tell of bodies which have been transformed into shapes of a different kind. Out in the darkening evening, around fires, in pools of beaten music, the youth contort and deform. It's a good party.

Angus makes some bread and a chilli. There's firewood stacked and emergency shelter lashed together. Strobes and coloured LEDs are deployed. Fairy lights, their batteries recharged, line the path to the hut.

I fetch Cameron from the Dolphinton bus and Megan from the Lanark train. There are tents sprouting from the lawn when we return, with hasp and padlock (to protect the bothy from party incursions).

Boron and Theresa join me. Ang arrives with Douglas and Doug. Megan creates a No Entry sign which we display on the living room door - it is remarkably effective, but can't keep out the eternal beat from the dance floor.

We mingle briefly with the dancers. Angus is on the decks, engrossed in the fine details of selection and mixing. He's at it for hours before handing over to yet another purveyor of dance beats. It's the strobe, rather than the music, that drives us out into the night.

No complaints. No police. I grab a few hours sleep.