No. I know because I can’t stop reading and hearing about zomerfestivals, summer festivals. They’re everywhere, even inside this very newspaper (see agenda). There’s no escaping it. The innocent and unsuspecting citizen may fall victim at any time of day, anywhere, when he least expects it. Standing in line at the supermarket, walking the dog or poking his head out the window, he’ll be deftly reminded of the fact that other, cooler people are having fun somewhere.

Festivals exist around the globe – even the word has a universal ring to it – but in Belgium, they thrive. It is home to the best festival in the world (Rock Werchter). Last year, the Flemish vote for the favourite neologism was the less than flattering tentsletje, or tent slut, “meisje dat bv. op een festivalweide met verschillende mannen seksuele betrekkingen in haar tentje heeft” (www. woordvanhetjaar.vandale.be), girl who eg at a festival has sexual relations with several men in her tent. (Feminist groups protested, understandably, but to no avail.)

It’s like religion, according to a full-page cartoon in a recent weekend newspaper. De zanger is als een priester, the singer is like a priest; de band zijn ceremoniemeesters, the band his masters of ceremony. Het bier-drinkende publiek zijn als de gelovigen, the beer-drinking audience is like the faithful, het Coca-Cola promotieteam de ongelovigen, the Coca-Cola promotion team the unfaithful. Enzovoort. Et cetera.

I personally haven’t decided yet. I’ve already missed the best festival in the world, again. I might go somewhere else, though, to one of the four alternatives listed in this newspaper two weeks ago. Wie weet, misschien komen we elkaar tegen. Who knows, we might run into each other. But then again, I might not go at all. I might just retreat back into my cave and not poke my head out anymore, until the season is over.