And how many teenaged girls spend an hour each morning chanting Sanskrit or writing the characters with a bamboo pen?

We had a professor at uni, obsessed with AC/DC and The Bill. I couldn’t stand most of her shallow self-important nonsense, but she taught Popular Culture in the Twentieth Century — with a special emphasis on the bits she’d been around for, of course — and I found Sarstedt and Donovan far more interesting than many of the more famous groups.

Carnaby Street and Swinging London sounded fabbo, but when I finally poked my nose in forty years later, it was nothing special. I once had a Facebook friend who had been part of that world with a minor title and a string of famous lovers, but now she ranted about fox-hunting and global warming hoaxes and the indignities of growing old and I unfriended her after the umpteenth passion over Brexit. But I wish now that I had made better notes of her drunken reminiscences.

The connection is Yeats, of course. He knew his Sanskrit.

Britni

Britni Pepper has always enjoyed telling stories. About people, places and pleasures.

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