31 March

“Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci”. Not very Country Living, admittedly, but very much the theme of the party I went to last night. It was a friend’s 40th, she is lucky enough to have an amazing barn next to her house which is the most perfect party venue, and she threw a 70’s party to celebrate, despite the fact that her experience of the early seventies was limited to tartan pinafores and ‘Rainbow’ on the television. Parties are an infrequent event in my life these days; I’m usually in my pyjamas by 9.00 pm, my social life consisting of mellow dinners with friends or lazy lunches with packs of children racing around. But last night was all about being grown-up, yet paradoxically paying homage to our youthful selves. Think Studio 54, think Bianca Jagger’s iconic white trouser suit, think Marie Helvin in gold lame. Actually, think a rather motley collection of us country dwellers, usually to be found in fleeces and wellies, desperately trying to recreate some imagined glamour from an era that definitely had its sartorial and social catastrophes. No memories of gloomy evenings with no electricity, winters of discontent or unrest on the street, last night; no NF marches, skinheads in Doc Martens, or water shortages; just extravagance, glitter balls, and lots and lots of make-up. Some people had gone down the comedy route; joke wigs, catsuits and Alvin-Stardust like platform boots, whilst others, (myself included), too vain to want to raise a laugh but eager to enter into the party spirit, made good use of the current fashion for floaty smock tops and accessorised madly, no doubt overdoing the blue eye shadow and eyeliner.

We ate chilli con carne and black forest gateau; drank snowballs (remember those), or tried to, then turned with gratitude to the wine. It felt as though people were behaving like teenagers at a disco, too; no improper behaviour or a sneaked cigarette behind the bike sheds, I assure you, but people still fell back into their natural roles. There was the life-and-soul group, hogging the dance floor, drinking a little too much, exuberant and showing off. There were the hardened drinkers, rarely leaving the bar or their tables, watching the dancer floor with a critical eye. There were those who seemed not to notice that they were at a party at all, but who immediately struck up conversations with their friends or neighbours as though they had met walking the dogs in a ploughed field, launching straight away into the price of crops, animal husbandry or the weather forecasts. An incongruous sight, this bunch of men (for all were of course male), since some were in their usual no-nonsense attire, others sporting stick-on moustaches, kipper ties and velvet waistcoats, doubtless coerced by wives and girlfriends into’ making an effort’, but deeply uncomfortable and wriggling nonetheless, like schoolboys forced into starched collars. Then there were the group of women who stood in a gaggle by the door most of the evening, husbands at the bar, huddled together next to the escape route for security, eyes darting anxiously around to see who they recognised. They would have been the ones dancing together around their handbags twenty years ago. And me? Oh, floating elegantly, drinking moderately, smiling graciously, of course.

The music; well, I’ll give you a flavour of the great and the OK and the frankly forgettable, to recreate any dormant memories you may have of school discos, or the music your parents used to play. Chic; Donna Summer; Hot Chocolate; The Jackson Five; The Drifters; Alice Cooper; Sister Sledge; Steve Harley and Cockney Rebel; Elton John; The Small Faces; Roxy Music; Bowie; Sparks; Blondie; Boney M; Steely Dan; Mud; Slade; The Sweet; Showadywaddy; KC and the Sunshine Band; T-Rex; Abba; Wizard; The Average White Band; Earth Wind and Fire; Supertramp; Thin Lizzy.

I have a dull ache in my head today, reminiscent of the thumping disco sounds last night, and loud noises jar. It’ll be an early bath and bed for me as well as the children tonight, to which I am already looking forward. A lovely evening though; we called it pure nostalgia, but really it was fantasy. I’ve always said there’s nothing wrong with fairy-tales.