Fifty Years Ago: Saturday, 3rd April 1976
Five-Year Diary. I went to tennis, but it wasn’t on because of the rain. The courts were too wet. Dark patches and puddles appeared along the baselines. We stood about for a bit before it was called off. Slightly frustrating, though not entirely. I didn’t mind not having to serve.
Rang home and wait for Mum to come and get me.
Spent the rest of the day working in the garden. Started in the veg plot, turning over the soil, which was heavy and clinging after the rain. I patched the bare bits of lawn—raking them level, scattering seed, trying to make it look even again. Then began on the bank, which needed shaping more than anything.
After lunch, I moved a laurel bush. I rolled it carefully with the root ball still intact. This was done to block the view of the bank. It made an immediate difference, as though something untidy had been covered over. Planted a cherry tree behind it. That felt more permanent.
Did some planting indoors—lettuce and cauliflower in trays—and took cuttings, which I put in the playroom. It smells of damp soil there now.
Watched the Grand National.
Rag Trade won, Red Rum second
Everyone watches it, even if you don’t really follow racing.
Then the Eurovision Song Contest 1976 in the evening.
‘Save Your Kisses For Me’ won. I’m not sure if you can call it a win for the UK. It’s not The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, or Pink Floyd. It was more like a German clog dance set to a children’s nursery rhyme, with lyrics from a greeting card. A care home singalong. Perfect Eurotrash. The song has everyone thinking it was about young lovers like my girlfriend. I, writing, saving up the kisses, S.W.A.L.K on the envelope. However, the last line revealed it was about a couple who’d already done everything. They had finished kissing. They got married and got her pregnant. They had a child and raised her until she was 3 years old. They are still together, in a caravan at Clacton, from what it sounds like. I thought it all too much. The dancing, the clothes, the song. Cheesy. Still, you don’t watch Eurovision for anything else. Not David Bowie. Not Who. Not Queen. Or Heart. Or Boston or Genesis.
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