Sunday nights are mine. M and housemate S have band practice, and I lie around doing any of a range of self-indulgent things, or, occasionally, tidying up my bedroom and sorting out my paperwork.
Sometimes this means watching comforting television, and I confess to being a fan of Midsomer Murders -- it ain't Morse, but then Morse is no more. Tonight I was annoyed to see that MM clashed with the showcase for the Eighties nominations for the UK Music Hall of Fame. Which to choose? The music that defined my defining years, albeit introduced by the unutterably irritating Jamie Theakston and commented on by (mostly) sappy celebs like Minnie Driver and Matt Goss, or murder and intrigue in benign English countryside?
I opted for MM, and was just settling in with some nice leftover Riesling when I flipped over in the first ad break to find the Smiths bit just finishing, and the Springsteen bit starting. How could I turn back? I *love* the Smiths, though I came to them late. And I *adore* everything Springsteen did from Born to Run to Born in the USA inclusive. And nobody's in, so I can sing along as loud as I like. Bonus. Midsomer can wait.
Joy Division. Ian Curtis. Love will tear us apart. I am suddenly sitting on the top deck of the 11A from Lytham to Blackpool smoking Consulate and listening to my chunky red Walkman. Why is the bedroom so cold?
joella
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