Sunday, January 15, 2006

Come dancing

I take my mum to the airport for her flight back to the UK. Apropos of nothing, she says she likes my navy blue corduroy jacket. Turns out that when she and my dad were first going out, in 1955, my dad had a bottle green corduroy jacket that she found very fetching. She would wear a brown corduroy coat of her own to match, making them a very good looking pair. Or so she assures me.

Well, those were simpler times: the hottest venue in town was the Irish Dance Hall in Leytonstone, which ended every evening with the Irish national anthem. Large parts of East London were still rubble from the war, and food and petrol were rationed, as were clothes, which latter point might explain this unaccountable fondness for corduroy. Still, it's a little alarming to think that you might only be here because your parents had matching coats.

My jacket, on the other hand, is of course very fashionable...

The Fifties, yesterday.

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