Mine was Halfway To Paradise, by Billy Fury (pictured left). I must have been about ten years old. I bought it in a record shop in the neighbouring village. I was with my older cousin Rita; she bought Wooden Heart, by Elvis Presley, which I thought was very soppy.
Anyway, vinyl records were gradually overtaken, first by cassette tapes, then CDs, and now digital downloads. All very depressing for those of us who loved the look and feel of an old-fashioned disc.
So here’s the surprisingly good news; last week, the British music-listening public spent more on vinyl than on downloads. We spent £2.4million on vinyl albums, compared to £2.1million on downloads.
Perhaps the figures, compiled in a week when people are buying music as Christmas gifts, will prove to be only a temporary blip, but who cares?
It was one small victory for records, which like other forms of “old media” are proving stubbornly resistant to reports of their demise.
So very French
Speaking of old media, on Monday I watched a DVD of Les Enfants Terribles, which was a surprise because I thought I had purchased Les Enfants du Paradis from the local HMV shop. Still, one old French film is much like another, you say.
It was a very curious film; the brother and sister at the heart of Jean Cocteau’s story are meant to be in their mid-teens, but the actors playing them looked to be in their early twenties (pictured above). The brother in particular looked very peculiar in his short trousers.
Did French schoolchildren in the 1950s really go about in capes and berets? British schoolboys of the time wore gabardine macs and peaked caps, so I suppose they had their equivalent schoolwear that looks equally outlandish today.
But there is one thing about the French that is unique; their love of a bit of cod philosophy; at one point, the narrator tells us (spoiler alert in the unlikely event that this blog has inspired you to hunt out a copy of the film) that the sister had married a rich, handsome (and by-this-point fatally injured) man, not for his charm, looks or wealth; no, “she married him for his death.”
I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. I strongly suspect that it means nothing at all.
It’s a mystery to men
The Current Mrs Feeney’s car has been undergoing tests to find the source of a mysterious water leak. Nothing conclusive, but the mechanic thinks the cause may be a “thermostat sweat.”
Which makes it sound as if the car is going through the menopause.
Good luck with that
Arthur the handyman, who helps us with jobs about the house and garden, is off to Tenerife for a month from mid-January. He promises to report back on whether we would like to book the same hotel next year.
Brave or foolish man, to assume he can fathom out TCMrsF’s holiday preferences.
Christmas tree update
It’s been boxed up, collected and returned to manufacturer. There is a tree-shaped hole in the lounge. A decision on a replacement is eagerly awaited.