Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Over a year ago I bought this Tijuana Christmas vinyl record, because it looked so cool.

"One day,  I'll get a record player and we'll listen to it."

Mum is moving house soon and culling a lot of stuff. She gave me her record player so that I could finally listen to my record. She also gave me two *huge* boxes of records.

The past weekend was our last at the beach before school goes back today. I sat down and opened the boxes, expecting to make one pile to give away and one to keep.

There were no piles ... we're keeping all of them.

This is just a snippet ... there's about a hundred all up. Elvis, Billie Halliday, Ella Fitzgerald, Beatles, Louie Armstrong, Bing Cosby, Bucks Fizz ..... SO MANY. I called mum straight away and left a message on her phone.

"You are the coolest woman in the world." 

When we saw this, Dave and I started laughing.

When we first met, he had a copy of this album on CD and would play it over and over and over and over again. I think I accidentally threw it out, but now it's back.

That old Gypsy Kings chestnut.

To celebrate the record players arrival, Dave restored an old sideboard and painted it in bright colours. It took all weekend. The boys watched as he set it up, unsure of this new technology.

I couldn't wait for Bamboleo to finish so I could put this on:

I know all the records so well. I've grown up with them. There's something so delicious and mindful about listening to music like this, like it's an actual thing to do.

Especially the way Kris Kristofferson sings "Sunday Morning Coming Down." Sunday mornings throughout my twenties were so lonely and weird. And terrible. I always felt like there was a better life for me somewhere, but I didn't know how to live it.

Now I know.

We danced to Heartbreak Hotel then listened to Rodney Rude (for 4.5 seconds) then Me and Bobby McGee then Bamboleo once more.

All because of one record ... one little bug that went ka-choo.





Anybody still play vinyl?