Minnie’s Musings

Alongside the death of Ozzy Osborn (who by quirking fate – for which read random claim to fame – lived up the road in a house once occupied by my godfather in his army days, and is now buried down the road from my parents (or rather tarmac pathway in Highgate Cemetery) we saw the passing of Chloe Lane this week.

I just loved Chloe Lane. As did my mum. She used to pop up on the Mike Yarwood show. My dad had a thing for Shirley Bassey about whom he used to say, “Ahhhhh, the girl from Tiger Bay” in what I suspect is the same manner our king speaks of Diana Ross.

I loved the boopity boop of her singing and ringletty Afro. I think I new quite early on that her frocks were of the decade that fashion needed to forget quite smartish, but then I also knew that my mothers white shirt-waister with strange blocks of brown and black squares evening dress was but a brief hiatus in taste back in 1976.

The 1970s was an odd decade to spend one’s formative years. I shall remember it for the scratch of bro-nylon (a la Philip Larkin ) and knee length white socks with brown leather sandals. We were turfed out of school during the care takers strike and Spam was for Saturday tea, with mashed potato and garden peas.

I shall also remember it for running around on the Old Railway behind the back of our house, all Summer long, spoiling tea with handfuls of blackberries and scarpering away from a glue sniffer who wanted to tell my sister and I all about the girl who had just ditched him.

My sister jumped down from the tree we were sitting in and fled first. I like to think she thought I would follow her, (not realising that I was frozen with fear) but this is the same sister who persuaded me to jump off the landing onto the sofa below….Not that I hold a grudge or lay the pathos on with a trowel.

Hands up Old Muswell Hillites who remember the Big Tree!