Singing oldies, goldies

I don't think it's a revelation to say that the chill of the recession makes everyone reach for a cosy cardigan of nostalgia. I was reminded of this at work yesterday afternoon when most of the office were out on a training course in negotiation. (This strikes me as an excellent waste of money in The Current Climate – but at least the staff will be better equipped to non-aggressively fight their corner when they're being made redundant.) I don't really know how it happened, but the few of us who were left behind – all coincidentally at the higher end of the age spectrum – felt a collective desire to listen to Dire Straits' Brothers In Arms album. Someone's iPod was able to oblige, and we slipped into a carefree reverie of towelling headbands and electric piano. It was almost as comforting as a 75p white-bread jam sandwich from Marks & Spencer, which should really come with a couple of live wasps in a plastic box which you can release while you're eating, to conjure up the heady atmosphere of 80s childhood picnic. 

Earlier that day, we'd had a bake sale in aid of Comic Relief, which also made me feel like I was still at school – not that anyone at my school could have summoned up the baking smarts to create a Jammie Dodger from scratch, as someone did yesterday...

She cut all the heart-shaped holes out by hand, but then she does work in the art department.

Then today I found myself picking a 5-CD 80s compilation off the clearance shelves at Sainsbury's. I spent a glorious afternoon thriftily selling my old clothes on eBay, and reacquainting myself with Musical Youth, Swing Out Sister and Curiosity Killed The Cat. In 1987, when cooler teens were mourning the demise of The Smiths, I was conscientiously filling two scrapbooks with pictures and interviews of Curiosity Killed The Cat, which I had feverishly cut out of Smash Hits. I've never stopped loving those early singles, but I thought I was the only one – until earlier this week. I was working at a different title, alongside the archetypal Serious Music Fan, with his subscriptions to all the appropriately earnest magazines and podcasts. At about 6.30, after most people had left, he put his own 80s pop compilation onto the stereo. It included Down To Earth, whose opening bars he met with a clenched fist of delight. I naturally responded with an adolescent squeal.

Then I knew I was not alone. You are never really alone, of course. But sometimes, with one's love of critically scorned jazz-tainted white-boy 80s soul-pop, it can feel that way.