Born in 1979

Back in 1979, life felt like it was shifting gears, caught between the grey wool of the seventies and something altogether flashier. If you’d walked into this very pub forty-five years ago, the air would’ve been thick with the blue haze of Embassy No. 6 and the smell of spilt mild, while everyone argued about Margaret Thatcher becoming our first female Prime Minister.

I remember that winter clearly; it was bitter, truly bone-chilling, with the "Winter of Discontent" leaving rubbish piled high in the streets while we all hummed along to Blondie’s "Heart of Glass" on the radio. At home, Mum would be serving up Arctic Roll or a proper Vesta curry for a treat, usually just as *Blankety Blank* or *Terry and June* started on the telly. The kids were obsessed with their new Action Man or trying to master a Stylophone, and the cinema queues were around the block for *Alien* or *Life of Brian*.

It wasn’t all easy—the strikes were a nightmare—but there was a warmth to it. We’d sit under a knitted brown throw, drinking tepid tea because the power was out again, and somehow, we felt more connected than we do now.