Picture it: Italy, 1979. A young fresh-faced Eurovision fan…
My intention was to spend two whole days with my mother, and for the occasion we returned to the family house (she moved in with my brother after a knee injury two years ago).
Three hours into the stay, I panicked. Was there enough food in the house? Did I have enough to read? Was the telephone line working so that I could go online? Did I remember to pack my mobile charger?
I was terrified to be cut off from the world, the very same feeling I had throughout my years there.
So, a quick dash to the supermarket and the newsstand later, I settled for a quiet evening in with mother in front of the telly.
And suddenly I was twelve again. I had my secret stash of food hidden away (if my mother saw the quantities of nosh I can put away in one session she'd be horrified and worried that I had developed diabetes like my dad). I sat down on the sofa and spread out the Guardian and a couple of books around me.
After a quick look at what the Italian TV landscape had to offer (tits and arse, none of which interested either of us), I switched over to HRT and saw the gorgeous blondeness of Feminem (yes, no kidding) singing this year's Bosnian Eurovision entry. When I realised that all this year's participants were performing on this preview TV show, with voting and all, I got all excited and told mother how I'd always liked the Eurovision Song Contest and only now that I live in the UK I get to experience the build-up publicly and talk to people with like-minded interests and this year I had already received two invitations to Eurovision parties and I was hoping to host a small one myself for the qualifying round before the live final but Dr B. was not too happy about it being a school night and all, and look, that's Anjelica Agurbash from the Belarus, wearing what looks like a chocolate wrapper with green muppet fur sticking out of it…
I turned around. Mother had gone to bed. Out came the food, and the familiar feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb.