Sunday 09/09/07 Day Three @ Bestival, Robin Hill Country Park, Isle Of Wight

It's Ladies' Day at Bestival and the only thing that's rained on these radiant revellers all weekend is a big cloud of glitter. False eyelashes flutter, Converse are laced, dresses zipped, sequined capes draped around sunburnt shoulders and scarves are ribboned around mussed-up heads for an (accidental, I think) lady line-up. There's a dress code in force here and slumming it in a pretty little sundress is not an option, girlfriend. 'A vintage sailor outfit'? Give me a break, you need to kit yourself a big toy boat to wear, tie an anchor to your foot and shore yourself up at the main stage, sat in a paddling pool. Everyone else has made an effort, so why can't you?

It's only midday, but we've emerged from our scorched tents ready to slip into Sunday, mostly because we need to see Bat For Lashes. Natasha Khan mesmerises the sleepy main stage with her esoteric brand of folksy whimsy, the hushed crowd is hypnotised by her lullabies, as her silvery tunic twinkles in the sun. Between songs she's still blushing behind those bangs, but with her band of merry maidens (think Herbal Essences models lost in Sherwood Forest), she's still a defiantly uncategorisable wonder and definitely won’t be this far down the bill next year.
 
Kitty, Daisy and Lewis might be very very young (yawn!), but they really couldn't give a damn, exuding precocious confidence as cool as their quiffs. For their opener, diminutive sisters Kitty and Daisy stride to the front of the stage sans band, click their fingers and sing an a cappella duet and it's not long before the fancy-dresseds are harmonica'd back onto their weary feet. Look past the rockabilly get-ups and you can see that KD&L ain't no novelty act, these kids can really sing. And play the banjo. And the piano. Three songs in and the front rows have jived out of their Sunday slumbers.

By now we're several pear ciders down (uh oh, it's running out) and have relocated to the Village Field's (BestivAle, anyone?) Bandstand. There's a girl on the platform behind us singing over the sparse bleeps of an electro backing track. 'Isn't she brave?' I say out loud, stupidly, before realising that she isn't brave, just brilliant. Middle-class-drawling lines about locking eyes with lonely indie boys at discos, listening to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and checking her make-up in the mirror a lot. She's called George Pringle and she knows how cool she is.