In between sporadic bouts of (ugh) housework, I am listening to Saturday Night Fever.
In fits of nostalgia, I remember the soundtrack being used for the circus in Brighton that my house-mates all found temporary work at: when they all came home at night exhausted and smelling of camel dung.
Just months later they all got bit-parts in Quadrophenia and stuck their fake scars on to the toothpaste tubes, to look as though they were oozing out of them.
I remember the flush of excitement that would hit me sometimes; I was just out of my teens and I would experience almost animal-like rushes that made the world and everything in it seem like a magical place. Normal things would seem hyper-real; everything seemed full of untold secrets, and everywhere seemed to contain layers and layers of explorable material.
Music was everywhere, a sound-track of assorted jumble as I walked along the Western Road to the Art College in the morning, whistled by workmen as they loaded and unloaded their vans at lunchtime; in my head as I walked back home; on my turntable as I loaded it up with vinyl and danced around before I went out at night, with my small green budgie balanced on my head, gripping my hair with its spiny little claws and shrieking with birdy glee.
Every night, bands, bands and more bands: sometimes me, sometimes others, trying to get to grips with organising noise into melody and rhythm, wondering who had the hidden formula of the perfect song.
It must be the sun. At last, there is warmth in the pale rays to thaw out our winter bones.
Spring will be the antidote to recession depression.
The energy returns!