Eighties Child

I could sketch the whole of my childhood around Michael Jackson hits. First record: Thriller. First cassette: Bad. I begged my mother to get me Moonwalk for my 13th birthday (she did, and I read it straight through, fascinated). I had a red boombox, a sequined glove, too-short pants... A break-dancer wanna-be. And a horrible one at that.

But then things turned sour with a myriad of visits to the plastic surgeon, babies dangling from balconies and more sinister charges. And yet in spite of all that, a Jackson Five episode on TV or a song from Off the Wall or Thriller will still slap a smile on my face.