Apologies to my blog followers. I’ve not been keeping up with writing regular posts lately. No excuse, except life getting in the way. Please bear with me for another few weeks and then I’ll try to do better.
One thing I’ve been busy doing is working on my novel-in-progress. It’s set in the Sixties. I’ve been trawling my memories and other sources to see what we were doing, wearing, watching and listening to around 1966.
Teenage girls wore white knee-high boots with mini skirts. The skirts and dresses I wore just seemed ‘normal’ at the time, but now I can’t believe how short I wore them. We danced to pop songs by groups such as the Rolling Stones (young men then) whose music blasted out from juke boxes in coffee bars and discos; dark cellar places with psychedelic lighting.
The media was full of news of the World Cup in 1966. Those of us long enough in the tooth to remember that year might have had a World Cup Willie, the mascot, a lion wearing a Union Flag jersey.
The roads were safer then, being far less busy. My dad had a strange looking three-wheeled scooter car, which made an ear shattering revving up noise like a motorbike. We called it the Fug as those were the letters on the number plate. One day, while driving down a road, my dad looked out of the window and saw a wheel merrily rolling along past the car. Strange! And then came the realisation that our Fug was one wheel short. It balanced along on two wheels for a while before crunching to a halt.
The Sixties have long since crunched to a halt. But, for better or worse, some of us will never forget the sights and sounds of that fizzy-dizzy decade.