Bleak expectations

Homework completed, I go through my Bruce Lee inspired stretching regime in front of the Enter the Dragon poster that takes pride of place in my small bedroom. I watch my torso reflected in the mirror, not an ounce of fat, or muscle, in site, so much for working out. Eventually I turn in for the night, blocking out the throbbing of the huge chest freezer with which I have to share my room, while I try to focus my thoughts on cruising the city in my Testarossa, accompanied by a mysterious, leggy blonde with a Farah Fawcett hairdo.

Admittedly, beyond the locks I have no idea what the girl looks like nor have I calculated how I can afford a Testarossa on my ten bob a week pocket money, but hey, it's my dream. Old habits die hard, technically I should say 50 new pence but 10 shillings always seems better value, and how long are we all expected to refer to those tacky pieces of silver coinage as 'new' pence? I wonder if Bruce Lee suffered from acne.

Over breakfast I learn that The Who are on tour again, as are The Rolling Stones, Status Quo and Fleetwood Mac. David Bowie has released a single ahead of his new album and there is a new Dr. Feelgood album in the pipeline so I am feeling better than usual for first thing in the morning. Then I listen to the rest of the news, have I really been sleeping for nearly 40 years? Is that a muscle I've just pulled removing a milk bottle top? If I can put on this much weight overnight then I will have to invest in an alarm clock.

Economically the country is on the skids, there's conflict in the Middle East, the government are bemoaning the demise of the GCE exam, Arsenal have lost again, the transport system is on its knees, unemployment is unacceptably high, a significant proportion of the workforce are on a reduced working week, the state of the NHS is still causing concern and almost everything we eat is bad for us.

The only conclusion I can make is that decades may pass quickly but very little changes during that time. The empty driveway would indicate that the Testarossa was just a dream, leggy blondes remain a mystery to me and I am still living on ten bob a week pocket money. Maybe I should go back to bed.