It's 1987 and Rosalie is about to tape an appearance on Top of the Pops... but all is not quite well, thanks to Mick Jagger.
London, 1987.
Rosalie was all dressed up and ready to mime when Mick Jagger took to the stage. He had a solo single out which had more to do with Thatcher’s pissing on the poor than rock and roll. She watched from the sidelines as he minced, posed and gurned wildly while periodically leaping through the bemused teenage audience like a cartoon Mexican Jumping Bean on speed.
He was trying so hard to be hip and fashionable that her abdominal muscles clenched in secondary embarrassment.
It was almost as bad as Cliff Richard in leather trousers and rollerskates for the "Wired for Sound" video. Six years, and she still occasionally still had that nightmare...
The singer of a truly fashionable group who’d already filmed their segment was also watching and shared a “who does he think he is?” glance with Rosalie. She felt every single one of her thirty-five years and was grateful that she was not the target of such a moment. Yet, at least. Who knew what was about to happen, truthfully?
Her dress was uncomfortably tight - she had not quite returned to a pre-pregnancy figure and doubted she ever would, no matter how little she ate or how many workout hours she logged.
Still, if she felt old looking at the audience, she was positively embryonic compared to Mick.
His song was a slice of conservative yuppie ideals set to an irritating synthetic beat, and she was glad her own current sound had little in the way of electronic intervention.
‘Ready, Rosa?’ Bobby was in his showbiz element, as always.
‘If this is what I’ve got to follow,’ she replied. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t underestimate Rubber Lips.’
‘I don’t, but this-’
Bobby moved to disagree but at sight of the Dartford Wonder mid-gurn, he changed his mind. ‘Yeah.’
Rosalie watched as Jagger bounced up and down, surrounded by mildly bewildered children. His act worked on the huge stadium stages the Stones called home, but on a small sound stage he looked entirely daft. She felt sick on his behalf again.
As he moved off-stage, Jagger smirked at her as he always did, like he knew some great secret of hers, oblivious to the reality of his performance. She smirked right back, then allowed the runner to take her to her place on-stage amongst the kids.
Thirty-five was nothing in the grand scheme, but god, she felt old.
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