And they call it puppy love

My mind was a blank, so I went into the chatroom to ask whoever happened to be in there for a word that might inspire me bloggery-wise. Obviously everyone else has a life at 9.30 on a Friday night (tchah!) and I found myself all alone. So I ran the vacuum over the scraunched-up crisps that had been ground into the hideous carpet, and emptied the ashtrays (these aren’t tobacco cigarette butts are they?) before I turned out the lights (global warming doncherknow).

But before I left I glanced upwards and saw the word ‘Portsmouth’. Now there’s many a tale I could tell about Portsmouth. I lived there from 1969 till 1973, the longest I had ever lived anywhere, and they were very formative years. Ages 11 to 15 is a huge leap in social development, and I look back to those years with very fond memories. I have intermittent contact with friends from those days, and even regularly see one pal presenting the BBC News. I enjoy those broadcasts, no matter what the news involves, because I am instantly transported back to the easy life when the greatest worry was whether or not Mr Xxxxx (not his real name) would breathe over us in double maths, or if there were prunes and semolina for pudding. I go back to the era of first dates, the first boyfriend, the first (squeaks with excitement) … kiss!