The girl sitting next to me at dinner looked about nineteen, and a complete throwback to 1967. She was very slender and wore a turquoise and white mini-dress in a geometric print. Most time-specific of all, she wore knee-length white boots which, if they aren’t made of PVC (does anything get made of PVC now?) certainly looked like it. They had chunky high heels. She had nicely bleached blonde hair and a heavy fringe, and was very pretty.
In the course of conversation, she mentioned her daughters, aged fifteen and eleven. I tried to mentally double her age, but she still didn’t look it. Her husband looked almost as young, certainly less than thirty.
It’s a post-Christmas dinner rather than one that pre-empts the December rush. The Sage and I were talking to one chap about his 1962 Wolseley. “Not exactly old” he said. “Classic, rather” agreed the Sage. I shall adopt the term. I’m not middle-aged, I’m classic.
You are slowly shaking your head, aren’t you?
You wait until we get old Rover out next summer in time for his birthday. He’s Vintage.