I was on Radio Suffolk on Monday night with the lovely Jon Wright. Gosh, how I love the radio! In the current climate, I didn’t even have to drive to the turreted palace which is Radio Suffolk HQ, but was able to slump on my creaky chair in the dining room and chat on the phone. Thanks Jon!
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Sax on the balcony
It’s been quite a week. My last post managed not to mention the C word at all, instead looking back fondly at loud nights and sticky carpets. There was a sad lack of loo rolls and pasta in the UK this time last week, but as I write, we are now going back to the type of rationing not seen since the Fifties.
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A Middle-Aged Mother in the Mosh Pit
Pre-marriage and motherhood, a big part of my life involved going to gigs. When I worked at Exeter University in the late Eighties and early Nineties, we got the chance to buy reduced tickets for all kinds of performers. Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (remember them?) Joan Armatrading, Lenny Henry, Jasper Carrott and many more. I still kick myself for not turning out on a wet Wednesday night to see Primal Scream. That was probably their last gig before they hit the big time. Sigh.
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A load of old rubbish
I grew up in the Seventies. In some ways, it’s a miracle any of my generation are still here. Puffing on fags was widespread and no-one had any namby-pamby ideas about protecting children from second-hand smoke. Seat belts were a rather louche extra feature and our playgrounds featured high, steep slides, witch’s hat roundabouts that offered an exciting opportunity to injure yourself and of course hard concrete on which to fall.
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