Seventies

Nearly the end of term, time to clear up my desk at home, give it a little dust over, leave the concerns of hamsterdom to one side, hang a B&W 10/8 photo of seventies porn star Fiona Richmond on the wall (she was a vicars daughter, hung out with Malcolm Allison- then flamboyant manager of Crystal Palace- famous for his fur coats) sit and admire it; she's clearly in the sun somewhere wearing nothing but a silver trinket or two, a big cane hat, and the obligatory cigar. It's the sort of 'Topless Grand Prix Cote d'Azure' number of great style picked up for next to nothing on e-bay. Yes and I know the Cote D'Azure is a shithole, but a bit of seventies romance does nobody any harm, and it was probably shot on the Costa Blanca.

Then mix a large one, sit in my arm chair (which by the way, is just like Aalto's) listen to the ticking of the new Finnish clock in the kitchen (actually an attractive piece of old Finnish plank with a bit of battery powered assistance- perfect) reminisce on Finnish experiences like almost dying in snow, and find the Quiller Memorandum showing on the TV, a classic piece of poor Odessa File, and just right for lunchtime viewing. Oh the peace.