Today I met a woman who wanted to go back to the 1960s. She recited a poem, flecked with exerts of Bob Dylan and Jimmy Hendrix, sung with the voice of a middle-aged hippy and some pale blue eyes. She wore a psychedelic rainbow scarf and fluro laces on her black Dr Martin boots, and spoke about fields of daisies and a peace sign painted onto a smooth cheek - in the days before the drugs made everybody fight and 'free love' was the trojan horse that exploded marriages.
And most of all she yearned for her lover - that long-haired man with a scruffy ginger beard, who made her feel beautiful and special and that she belonged somewhere. Her pale eyes lifted skyward as she recited her words - of a full length fur coat skimming the ground, of platform heals that went high, sky high, and of a woman she once loved buried deep beneath piles of Simon and Garfunkel and cut-off hair.
As we chatted over milky tea and cream-filled Arnott biscuits, I suggested that what she missed was still within her - that it was a part of HER she wanted back, not the era. She shook her head slowly: "No, it was the 1960s" - the idealism, the freedom, the community. It was a short-lived revolution, destroyed by the very things that caused its conception. "I never got into drugs, I never slept with anyone else's husband!"
And now, all alone, the man who once held her in a fragrant bossom gone, selling stocks and tending children.
"Won't somebody join me? Why won't somebody join me?"