Squidgy.

The year is 1976.
I have run home from school to make sure I don't miss Screen Test. Over the past year I have made many, as yet unsuccessful, attempts to make my hair grow like Michael Rodd's. As I sit on the sofa, my mum brings me a glass of milk and two slices of Soreen with butter thick enough to see my toothmarks in it.
I am happy.
Punk and Joy Division are, however, just around the corner.