The boys dare each other to read out loud the titles of the X-rated movies showing down the road, some claiming to have been snuck in there by mysterious older mates.
Who were they – this Sparks? No internet back then/No instant information. You remained agog before Google.
They rode a flying carpet together and travelled with birds.
On the train/we ran through fields of wildflowers/as if in slow motion...
Sue was 1980s confidence personified, with the sweetness of Kylie and the style of Cyndi. “I always wanted a daughter,” she would say, “want to hear some Madonna?”.
I could see the bright lights of the Barracuda Fish and Chip Shop as a cheery spot in front of me. The door opened; smell and music spilled out. Fish and chips and doner kebabs and Build me Up Buttercup with all its warm yellowness. I sang along. I would be home soon.
The nurse had downloaded the lyrics to Downtown, probably in exasperation at our feeble yet frequent attempts. Finally, we sang the song in its entirety.
In the spirit of moving on, I looked up and streamed the album that gave us Everybody: Songs from the Big Chair. Over the next few days of my respiratory virus and associated insomnia, I became intimately familiar with it.
Getting my driving licence back was tedious and a bit of an exercise in hoop jumping. But the Marcia Hines tape in the old car was a treat.
"What the hell kind of friends do you have? I’m paying twenty thousand dollars a year to send you to that private Catholic prep school, and I will not allow trash to come into my house whether literally or via social media."