People enjoy the fine weather as they spend time on the beach at Porthcurno Beach near Penzance

This current spell of weather has locked me into a full-on revival of that glorious year of pop.

I’m lying in the garden on a tartan blanket, wearing a bikini and basking in the heatwave. The only thing that’s sad about this is that it’s not 1976, although it might as well be, and I’m not 13, but 55, although right at this moment I don’t feel it. Pressed up close to my ear is the tiniest of speakers, my iPhone trying its best to sound like a transistor radio. Blaring out in all its tinny glory is “S-S-S-Single Bed” by Fox.

Two friends of mine have recently made 1976 playlists, and so I’ve amalgamated them to make my own, though really all our choices are more or less the same, and this current spell of weather has locked me into a full-on revival of that glorious year of pop.

Lying in the sun, nothing can make my heart soar like an afternoon of “More, More, More”, “Play That Funky Music”, “Young Hearts Run Free”, “The Killing of Georgie (Part I and II)” and “This Is It”. As the sun starts to dip, we slip into “Lowdown” and “TVC15”, “Low Rider” and “Amoureuse”, “Haitian Divorce” and “Free”, “Fool to Cry” and “Wake Up Everybody”. Same age as me? You know what I mean.

That memorable summer I was 13, and unbeknown to my parents I was snogging older boys at the local disco, and writing it all down. I recorded the heatwave in full in my diary, with a hand-drawn full sun emoji running for weeks on end. The first was on 8 June, with the words HOT WEATHER underlined. Little did I know what joy was to come. Next day was “Hot, but windy. Saw Survivors.”

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Source:: New Statesman

      

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