Happy Birthday, Mum.
Bit of a melancholy day today, really. May 24th is my dear departed mum's birthday, and I've been thinking quite a bit about her, and old times back in old Blighty.
Once in a while, people ask me if I ever miss England. It's an increasingly tough question to answer in a way, because although there may be the occasional thing about England that I miss (pubs), I wonder if I'm just being nostalgic for a bygone era. Despite the fact that it was the decade that gave us high-waisted A-line flared trousers, platform shoes and Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree, it would appear that I miss the England of the 1970s. (And pubs.)
I miss blustery day trips to the seaside with my grandparents; I miss watching T.Rex performing Telegram Sam on Top Of The Pops on a Thursday evening and then rushing out to Ashley's record stall in Scunthorpe Market on a Saturday afternoon, to get my grubby mitts on my own copy; I miss skulking around the neighborhood listening to Radio Luxembourg on a tiny, tinny transistor radio while sneaking sips from cans of illegally obtained dry cider. Most of all, I miss my mum being alive.