A couple of weeks ago, I (inspired by ‘er upstairs) invited you to share your memories of where you were 25 years ago. Today it’s time to take things back another decade to 1980, 35 years ago. This time round, I was twelve-going on-thirteen, a crucial cusp of one’s life indeed. Childhood fancies were being superseded by the awakening of adolescence and a realisation that Rosanna Chapman had breasts (she was in my class, and that’s all you need to know), though podgy puberty – as illustrated by the accompanying snapshot – put paid to any amorous expressions.
I had inherited a record player now that my dad had purchased a state-of-the-art hi-fi system, which meant my pocket-money could now be spent not at the newsagents, but at the local branch of Woolies and their 99p 45s. The Police, The Jam and Blondie were turntable faves, as were scratchy old Beatles singles unplayed since my parents tied the knot, a poignant pastime in a year that ended with a horrible assassination in New York. Well, that was me – how about you?