I have been invited on the radio to talk about the 1970s. In one way this makes me feel like an artefact, but I am also pleased to have acquired an area of expertise without having to do anything. I can now add the line “was alive in the 70s” to my CV.
“I’ve invited people to lunch tomorrow,” my wife says. “I don’t know what you’re going to cook.”
“I’m going on the radio tomorrow,” I say. “Johnnie Walker’s Sounds Of The 70s.”
“I know,” she says.
“So I won’t actually be at the lunch,” I say.
“I understand that,” she says.
“I will l be talking about my life in the 70s,” I say. “Live on air.”
“You can do that chicken thing,” she says.
My memories of the 70s are vivid, but also confused and contradictory. I recall spending every lunch period of the fourth grade being forced to watch live broadcasts of the Watergate hearings, but when I check this it appears that the overlap between the hearings and the school year was, at most, a month. I tell myself I need to stop trying to verify my anecdotes, or I will have none left.
On Sunday morning I make the chicken thing, under protest. At 1pm Juliet arrives.
“Isn’t this lovely?” she says. “Sunday lunch!”
“I’m not going to be here,” I say.
“He’s going on the radio to talk about the 70s,” my wife says.
“What are you going to say about the 70s?” says Juliet.
“Watergate blah blah, Rock The Boat by the Hues Corporation, more Watergate,” I say.
“Sounds good,” says Juliet.
“That’s what I’ve got so far,” I say.
I eat some of the chicken thing quickly, and set off. When I return two hours later the house is silent. The remains of lunch still litter the table. My wife is asleep on the sofa. I clean the kitchen and then sit alone, thinking about the 70s.
My wife comes in, yawning. “What are you making for supper?” she says.
“I made lunch,” I say.
“Two meals in a row,” she says. “When was the last time that happened to you?”
I assemble some kind of meal from the leftovers. The oldest one and the youngest one come downstairs to graze.
“We all listened to your thing,” my wife says. “We thought your song choices were just showing off.”
“The music of Grand Funk Railroad is very important to me,” I say.
“No, it isn’t,” she says.
“Grand Funk Railroad?” says the youngest.
“There was so much I didn’t say,” I say. “I forgot about the ballroom dancing.”
“Your father actually spent the 70s doing ballroom dancing,” my wife says.
“Did you?” the oldest one says. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It was like some people came to town, hypnotised all the parents, and told them that when they woke up their children would need mandatory dancing lessons.”
“That is really weird,” says the youngest.
“When I walked in, every other kid in my class was there, wearing the same furious expression.”
“I was beaten in the 70s,” my wife says.
“No, you weren’t,” I say.
“I was,” she says. “By Bad Nanny Janet.”
“Bad Nanny Janet?” says the oldest.
“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” I say.
“My parents went away for a week, and they left me with Bad Nanny Janet, who dragged me to Scotland.”
“This doesn’t sound like a true story,” I say. “Did you read it in a book?”
“It is true,” my wife says.
“Anyway, I spent two years learning to foxtrot to The Joker by the Steve Miller Band,” I say. “Which is worse?”
“That’s why your song choices were obviously fake,” my wife says.
“It’s true that I probably spent more time listening to Saturday Night by the Bay City Rollers, but only because it’s technically a cha-cha-cha.”
“I’m done,” says the youngest, standing up.
“Me too,” says the oldest.
“Think about it,” I say. “S, A, T-U-R!”
“I was beaten, in Scotland, by Bad Nanny Janet,” my wife says.
“Step, step, cha-cha-cha!”
