That summer, cauliflowers and cabbages landed in our garden, gifts from next door’s vegetable patch. Maybe we played army in the fields. Post-Lennon, pre-Falklands, before the first CDs, just after the Toxteth riots and ahead of Sadat’s assassination. Retro styling meant Shakin’ Stevens and the future was the Commodore 64. There were street parties while plans were hatched, affairs were had, lies were told, while you were a sudden shudder, engendered there – and then… the burning truth, the broken car, and your mother dead.
And, well, we used to talk over the garden fence; now we do it across firewalls.