We all have songs that remind us of specific periods and events in our lives. Twenty years from now, which song will remind you of the summer of 2014?
Don’t know. It hasn’t happened yet.
I suppose I could pretend for the sake of diplomacy, but it probably wouldn’t help. In terms of music, I’m old. A few years ago, modern stuff devolved into a screeching, tuneless cacophony to be evicted from the head as soon as possible, so it seems unlikely that this summer’s crop will come up with anything that grabs me the musical throat and won’t let go. (Unless my eldest grandson is in love again. That might give rise to uninvited earworms.)
There are always Christmas carols, of course. And I DON’T mean the rubbish piped into shopping malls that can turn Hark the Herald Angels Sing into croony slurp. I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas, and Rudolph is an IMPOSTER!
One of the few good things about boarding school was that we had a proper Carol Service: nine lessons and carols, anthems, the lot. The chapel smelled of summer and Christmas candles, we had a good choir (of which I was part) and we sang our hearts out – with the added fervour of knowing that this was the last Sunday of the school year, the top of the home straight and the signpost to freedom. Christmas carols for me will always have the added triumph of survival.
But what am I thinking? In 20 years, I’ll be 91 if I’m lucky – or unlucky, depending on my state of mental and physical health – so even the memory of rap and hip-hop might be precious. What a deeply depressing thought!