For a first-timer, I’m inclined say everything was my favourite: Somerset ice cream for lunch, chatting with “randoms”, singing happy birthday to the Dalai Lama in the Stone Circle on a drizzly Sunday morning, Somerset ice cream for elevenses, El-P and Killer Mike hugging on the West Holts stage (“We can’t believe we’re here,” they said at least twice), wandering through the Green Fields at dawn as hippies stoked the burning embers of their campfires from the night before. But the moment that won me, that made the sunburn and the mud and the crowds worth it, happened during Mark Ronson’s starry set. I saw what looked to be a dreadlocked figure – is that Rob Zombie? – come on stage and start to sing the first few bars of Do You Really Want to Hurt Me? And there, as the sun set over the Other stage, Boy George made my six-year-old self swoon – more than 30 years after I wore out Colours By Numbers on my parents’ record player.
• From the Glastonbury 2015: Guardian writers share their highlights – from Patti Smith to wild yoga to skipping Kanye. Read them here