I know the festival season is approaching when I get an endless stream of e-mails bearing captions like “Work those wellies” or “How to be a glamping queen for under a tenner”.

I vaguely remember when a rock festival was something you turned up at in jeans and a T-shirt, having squeezed through a hole in a hedge to avoid the ticket queue.

There was something primal about standing in a field supping warm beer out of a plastic cup, with the thud of live music filling the summer sky.

These days festivals are vast, corporate affairs with cash machines, mobile phone charging points, pop-up boutiques and multi-storey car parks. Well, maybe not multi-storey car parks, but you get my drift.

The days of sneaking in through a hedge are long gone. These days there are watch towers, searchlights, armed guards and dogs, or at least that’s what it feels like when you’re being herded in by a stony-faced security team that takes its high visibility tabards very seriously.

Festivals are an expensive do. There’s the cost of the ticket, which would leave a dent in most monthly wage packets, the cash you’ll need for the over-priced beer and noodles you’ll be living on for several days, the cash you’ll need for the henna tattoos, head massages, waterproof ponchos, palm readings and general festival tat you suddenly find irresistible, and then there are the outfits.

Festival-goers tend to fall into two main camps, quite literally. There are the seasoned, weather-beaten ones who wear old multi-coloured fleeces and chunky toe-rings and don’t really bother with washing their hair. Their festival experience is a spiritual one; you can keep your Coldplay and your dance tent – for them, it’s all about perching on a hill at sunrise, chanting something in medieval English while passing round a pipe of peace.

Then there’s the in crowd; the Home Counties twentysomethings slumming it in the name of rock ’n’ roll. For the girls, it’s all about working their denim shorts, Hunter wellies and VIP passes. Think Kate Moss festival chic meets Pippa Middleton at Wimbledon.

Then there are the inbetweeners; the festival-goers who are there simply to enjoy the music and the atmosphere, and don’t care about the label in their hotpants or what the tree fairies are up to on midsummer’s eve.

That’s the category I fell into when I was young enough to enjoy festivals and survive the mud, rain, over-priced falafels and the longing to hear the sound of a toilet that flushes. These days I’m happier in a teashop with a lemon slice. Now teashop chic, that’s a whole other tale...