ancient wardrobe.
Space really was at a premium. Both rooms were decorated with a poster of Chairman Mao, left there by the previous tenant. There was a phone on the living room floor, a luxury after the coin box of the last place. And, because it was above a bakery, mice scooting across the kitchen floor eventually became as regular a feature of our lives as the eager young men who’d drop in on us virtually all the time, en route to and from the centre of town. Talk about location, location, location. This place wasn’t just convenient, it was a bloke magnet.
There was no TV – hardly a source for concern since we were rarely at home long enough to sit down and watch it. But I had acquired a valuable asset via my old job at the electronics company – an early-model answering machine. I’d been surreptitiously given it as a parting gift on my last day there. It took me months to find someone to set it up for us, but eventually we had the answer to the age-old problem of Waiting For Him to Phone: a machine (essentially a tape recorder connected to the phone line) that played a message recorded in my breathiest tones glibly informing all callers that Jacky and Rosie were out – but they’d love to hear from you, so please leave your name and number…
So new were these machines that many people couldn’t cope with them. There were more sounds of people hanging up than messages left. Or there were sarcastic jokers who’d say, ‘The one thing I don’t wanna do is speak to Jacky or Rosie.’ Some comedians wouldsing – but not reveal their identity. It was definitely progress in knowing if the men you wanted to ring were calling. But not much. People couldn’t go out and buy these things cheaply the way they do now. BT would only permit them to be rented. Signing up to rent one – on a five-year contract – was a hefty financial commitment. It was a big day in the office at the electronics company when John Cleese, already a BBC name with The Frost Report and on the cusp of his success with Monty Python , rang up to order two, one for home, one for office. Yet they remained a novelty, really. After all, 60 per cent of households in the country didn’t even have a phone.
Jeff didn’t take to Rosemary. This was odd, as she looked every inch the desirable hot babe. ‘I don’t like her,’ he said thoughtfully, after the first meeting. ‘There’s something funny, like she’s got something to hide.’ Jeff’s instincts were finely tuned. There was a secret back story to Rosemary. But neither of their hidden worlds would be revealed to me just yet. When I did start to learn a bit more about my new flatmate, it was nothing more than a partial glimpse of her world, that summer of ’68, when things started to change a little bit for me.
Until moving in with Rosemary, who created her own social scene around us, I’d still gone to clubs, sometimes with friends. I’d already abandoned the West End places like Tiffany’s in Piccadilly (easy to pull therebut the men were too dodgy) or the Whisky-A-Go-Go (ditto) for the more fashionable clubs further West, like the De Vere in Kensington and, on the odd occasion, the musicians’ hang out, places like the Cromwellian in Cromwell Road.
The De Vere was my favourite. One reason I liked it was that just getting the guy on the door to let you in was a challenge of sorts. It was free for girls, but only the nod from the fat, bald man behind the small table at the top of the stairs would get you in. It seemed you had to be the right kind of babe. The De Vere had two floors. On the first was a small, intimate kind of bar with banquettes and a few tables and chairs while the top floor had the dancing area. No live music: just the latest big hits such as ‘Ride Your Pony’ (Lee Dorsey), ‘Keep on Running’ (the Spencer Davies hit), ‘Respect’ (the Otis Redding song that Aretha Franklin made her own), ‘The Letter’ (The Box Tops) and The Foundations’ ‘Baby, Now
Space really was at a premium. Both rooms were decorated with a poster of Chairman Mao, left there by the previous tenant. There was a phone on the living room floor, a luxury after the coin box of the last place. And, because it was above a bakery, mice scooting across the kitchen floor eventually became as regular a feature of our lives as the eager young men who’d drop in on us virtually all the time, en route to and from the centre of town. Talk about location, location, location. This place wasn’t just convenient, it was a bloke magnet.
There was no TV – hardly a source for concern since we were rarely at home long enough to sit down and watch it. But I had acquired a valuable asset via my old job at the electronics company – an early-model answering machine. I’d been surreptitiously given it as a parting gift on my last day there. It took me months to find someone to set it up for us, but eventually we had the answer to the age-old problem of Waiting For Him to Phone: a machine (essentially a tape recorder connected to the phone line) that played a message recorded in my breathiest tones glibly informing all callers that Jacky and Rosie were out – but they’d love to hear from you, so please leave your name and number…
So new were these machines that many people couldn’t cope with them. There were more sounds of people hanging up than messages left. Or there were sarcastic jokers who’d say, ‘The one thing I don’t wanna do is speak to Jacky or Rosie.’ Some comedians wouldsing – but not reveal their identity. It was definitely progress in knowing if the men you wanted to ring were calling. But not much. People couldn’t go out and buy these things cheaply the way they do now. BT would only permit them to be rented. Signing up to rent one – on a five-year contract – was a hefty financial commitment. It was a big day in the office at the electronics company when John Cleese, already a BBC name with The Frost Report and on the cusp of his success with Monty Python , rang up to order two, one for home, one for office. Yet they remained a novelty, really. After all, 60 per cent of households in the country didn’t even have a phone.
Jeff didn’t take to Rosemary. This was odd, as she looked every inch the desirable hot babe. ‘I don’t like her,’ he said thoughtfully, after the first meeting. ‘There’s something funny, like she’s got something to hide.’ Jeff’s instincts were finely tuned. There was a secret back story to Rosemary. But neither of their hidden worlds would be revealed to me just yet. When I did start to learn a bit more about my new flatmate, it was nothing more than a partial glimpse of her world, that summer of ’68, when things started to change a little bit for me.
Until moving in with Rosemary, who created her own social scene around us, I’d still gone to clubs, sometimes with friends. I’d already abandoned the West End places like Tiffany’s in Piccadilly (easy to pull therebut the men were too dodgy) or the Whisky-A-Go-Go (ditto) for the more fashionable clubs further West, like the De Vere in Kensington and, on the odd occasion, the musicians’ hang out, places like the Cromwellian in Cromwell Road.
The De Vere was my favourite. One reason I liked it was that just getting the guy on the door to let you in was a challenge of sorts. It was free for girls, but only the nod from the fat, bald man behind the small table at the top of the stairs would get you in. It seemed you had to be the right kind of babe. The De Vere had two floors. On the first was a small, intimate kind of bar with banquettes and a few tables and chairs while the top floor had the dancing area. No live music: just the latest big hits such as ‘Ride Your Pony’ (Lee Dorsey), ‘Keep on Running’ (the Spencer Davies hit), ‘Respect’ (the Otis Redding song that Aretha Franklin made her own), ‘The Letter’ (The Box Tops) and The Foundations’ ‘Baby, Now
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