The future. A festival in a field. Teenagers reenact the 80s. They ask about Pete Wylie, how he sang to support the Blues. Like I’d know anything about that.
I play my part, of enthusiastic old person who reminisces about the good old days. But for me, they weren’t good. I hated the 80s.
The field fills up, and becomes a Crowded House. A couple carry chimps, dressed in the style of old PG Tips tea commercials, they quote the lines, and other animals take over. I’m given a kid goat, it bleats its lines, in the rhythm of an unconvincing delivery. I place it on the floor, careful to avoid the feet crowding the dance floor.
I step outside, talking to rabbits with hard, angular edged faces. I dance with my friend Matt, skipping across collapsing footpaths while improvising a jazz scat version of The Birthday Party’s ‘Deep in the Woods’.
We joke how it always sounded improvised. Around a corner, Nick Cage (not Nick Cave) joins in, singing out of tune in a cabaret style. His horse isn’t with him.
I cycle to a space in sunny Donleigh St, grass and trees where home used to be. I lean my bike on a bendy fence. A teenager asks about the 80s.