I have a feeling my offspring may be regretting the “joke” stocking filler present they gave me this year. I have loaded all 5 CDs of the 70s disco compilation into my car and now spend my journeys singing word perfect and very loud accompaniment to the magnificent garbage that was the soundtrack of my teens. As I yell along to “Disco Tex and the Sex-o-Lettes” and “Lady Marmalade”, I reminisce fondly about nights at the Walton Hop with my best friend, wearing a cap sleeved T shirt, Oxford bags (so flared that one could put an unfolded Daily Telegraph in the pocket on the legs) and some rather fabulous yellow, patent, platform clogs (so clumpy that each shoe had to be transported home from Dolcis in a separate carrier bag). The finishing touch was electric blue eye shadow applied with abandon. Ah, the memories.