It's Thursday night at Latitude 2008. The warming-up night. And it's already gone a bit Hollywood. On the lake, in addition to the now iconic coloured sheep, there's a Hollywood sign type row of lit-up letters dotted along the bank, spelling out the festival's name. You'd have thought that'd be enough by way of adding something new for this year, but there's also a host of floating water lily decorations, plus a series of huge projections: from ghostly silhouettes to selections from the text of Alice In Wonderland, complete with John Tenniel's illustrations.

Except there's no projection screen in sight. Instead, the images seem magically suspended above the lake.  I first think it's some kind of special smoke, but on asking around it turns out the backdrop is droplets of mist, drawn up from the lake by ingenious mechanical prodding. It's a spectacle of sheer beauty and magic, and tonight the Latitude Bridge is crammed with people gazing and gawping and smiling widely.

I've been coming here every year, first as a punter, second as a DJ and blogger. Both times I've stayed in accommodation off-site, a room in nearby Southwold. This year I thought I'd finally do things properly and bring a tent. It's the first time I've camped since I was in my teens, and every time I've mentioned this, my friends have smirked and chuckled, and not just at the obvious innuendo. I suppose my reputation - if I have one at all - is for being That Pristine Bleached Blond Guy In A Suit, with the air of being a world away from the slightest hint of anything muddy or earthy or physical. It's true
that I do bristle at the very idea of donning wellies or jeans or cagoules, and prefer to take my chances in my regular attire (one thinks of Dame Shirley Bassey's diamante wellies at Glastonbury last year - that's the way to do it).

Well, I can happily report that it is indeed entirely possible to put up a tent in a pinstripe suit and loafers. You just use the groundsheet to kneel on, and set the thing up around you. Problem solved. There was a touch of rain which people have moaned about, it's true, but so far, it's hardly been Passchendaele. 

After all the settling-in and the gawping at misty projections, I manage to catch a little action in the performance tents. In the Literary Tent, WordTheatre present their readings of new short stories by actors of stage and screen. The boyish Harry Treadaway (of such films as 'Control' and 'Brothers Of The Head') delivers Amy Bender's 'Loser', about a child kidnapping, and stops at one point to illustrate the infant's sucking of his thumb.

This is followed by Robin Ince's sprawling but always entertainin Book Club. Mr Ince opens by comparing a homophobic evangelist's reading of the Bible as 'like saying that 'Great Expectations' is about the flammability of wedding dresses'. He goes to partake in a John Peel Impersonation Stand-Off with Ross Noble. Oddly, the very Southern Mr Ince can do a better Peel accent than the very Northern Mr Noble.

I saunter over to the Film Tent to catch the club act Grind-A-Go-Go, and end up dancing on stage with their own scantily-clad dancing girls to 'Let's Twist Again'. And so to bed.