Sheffield should be right proud of the weekend’s Tramlines Festival.
It was, truly, tramfastic.
What a great, great idea.
A free event, in the middle of the city, where bars, restaurants and shops can all benefit from a huge influx of festival-goers. It makes so much more sense than siting it in a field on the estate of some remote stately home where folk have to pay through the nose for tickets, rubber burgers and lousy lager - and survive the brutal extremes that now pass for British summer weather in tents for three days.
Tramlines revellers could go home to their showers and their beds and pop back fresh as a pre-Reverend and the Makers Devonshire Green daisy the next morning.
In previous years I’d given the event a wide berth, believing it only for the yoof and therefore a bit scary; all those bands I’d never heard of were sure to attract cool cats who would cast disdainful glances at middle-aged women clomping, sensibly shod, into their midst.
Was I wrong, or what? On Saturday we strolling through a pulsing city rammed with sunshine and music-lovers of all ages.
The atmosphere? Brilliant. Everyone was loved-up on music and good times.
And a huge bonus for everyone - scores of stunning girls working festival chic in the all-essential combo of wellies and teeny, cheek-skimming denim shorts meant no one batted an eyelid at the fiftysomething in Crocs, clutching a Boots the Chemist carrier bag containing ear buds and cottonwool pleats (well, I was passing).