Back to the 70s


Maybe everyone is feeling this at the moment, but I think I’m going backwards. Not sure I’ll be regaining my youth but God, I hope so. Stinky PE kit, fighting with my brother and feeling car sick, sheesh, who wouldn’t have that back in a flash if they could? The reason for this nostalgia started last week, when I read Lucy Kellaway’s column in the Financial Times. She said sternly that anyone who has a job should be spending money; it’s unethical not to. Quite right, I thought, except I never was much of a shopper. Also I live in rented accommodation, so I can’t redecorate the place in gold leaf or build a swimming pool on the roof.

But I’m gonna save the economy by getting my milk delivered. Laugh and scoff, groundlings, but think about it. I bet loads of people have cancelled their orders, and what about the milkmen’s jobs, eh? There’s a selfish bonus of course: milk out of glass is delicious, where waxy tetrapaks and plastic cartons taint the flavour. And (though this IS quite embarrassing) opening your front door and finding two pints of milk and a bottle of orange juice magically left there is like Christmas. This will wear off in time, sure, but for the moment it is genuinely as exciting as being seven. 

While I’m pouring milk into my tea, civil unrest is sweeping the nation. Men on picket lines are waving banners and demanding the Prime Minister stand by his word. The trade unions are back! Collective bargaining! Argy-bargy! Mass political dissent! Thank God we still have it in us. My generation has been a shamefully dead loss at giving employers/authority a hard time when they crap on us.

Milk out of bottles; wildcat strikes and finally, snowstorms that shut down offices and schools – it’s back to my childhood. Final proof: this morning I slipped on ice and fell on my arse so hard I nearly cried. AND I was wearing a duffle coat. Yep, I’m seven again.


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