That summer of Buck’s Fizz dance routines, Loop-the-Loop ice-pops, and a royal wedding, I longed for a rah-rah skirt.
Delicate layers of pretty frills in pastel shades graced the windows of a travelling shop, which only opened on Saturdays. I begged and pleaded, but my mother stood firm. Those skimpy things were only for teenagers. One day, the doorbell rang, and there was my best friend, Maggie, doing a twirl in her new, flouncy rah-rah. I re-launched the campaign, but to no avail.
Dance moves long abandoned, I’ve gone off ice-cream altogether, and come to know there are no fairy-tale endings.