STAY AWAY FROM NANCY SINATRA

Isn’t it weird what triggers childhood memories? Lots of mine are linked to music, which will be no great shock to any of you, dear readers... but recently I blew several layers of brain dust (TO MY VERY MORTAL TERROR) from a memory which -- for bloody good reason as well -- my school-age self had very tidily repressed; shoved waaaay deep into the wooliest bits of the ol’ grey matter, as far down as could possibly be pushed.

When I was very little my Dad had a Nancy Sinatra record... you all know who she is, right? Boots of the sauntering variety? Bouncy hair, enviable thighs? Famous Daddy? Yeah, her. Anyway – Dad had a Greatest Hits LP and one of my earliest memories is a strange fascination with the cover of the record. Here it is, for your viewing pleasure:

Even the zombies in the Thriller video aren't scary enough for these mofos.

As well as your usual ‘These Boots Are Made for Walking’ malarkey, there was also a track called ‘Lightning’s Girl’ which used to scare the pants off me. Pay particular attention around about the 1min 30s mark – and switch the lights on just in case you’re at the computer in the dark right now. Sorry for the shitty ‘high school media project’-ishness of this video, but it was the best YouTube had to offer. Are you ready? And... go:



Now, I’ll bet it’s been at least 25 years since I heard that track, but I’ll tell you – I was instantly back to our house in 1982. The 6 year old me is playing innocently playing Yahtzee on the mustard yellow carpet of the living room floor, and the minute that record comes on I’m seeing spooky shapes in the effing spider plants which hang from macramé plant holders in front of the bay window.  Christ knows what is underneath the dining room table and I'm terrified.

I’m not kidding; abso-freakin’-lutely shiteypants terrified. Like... can't-turn-my-back-to-exit-the-room-I'll-go-out-backwards-instead terrified. Not-going-into-the-kitchen-by-myself-in-the-middle-of-the-day terrified.  Don't-linger-at-the-foot-of-the-bed-it'll-grab-your-ankles-and-pull-you-under terrified.  Not-even-admitting-to-my-Dad-until-28-years-later-on-my-blog-I'll-just-hide-under-the-covers-whimpering-instead terrified.

Terr.  Riff.  Eyed!  Is it just me?!

What kind of unearthly creature wears boots like that, I ask you? One who TOTALLY EATS PEOPLE, for sure. Eats little blonde girls, its grotesque figure stomping up driveways knocking banana seat bikes off their kickstands JUST BECAUSE. Thumping closer and closer to MY FRONT DOOR to the exact beat of that song. No cautionary “FEE, FI, FO, FUM’s” offered here, no siree... and don’t even think about trying to hide; that chintzy sofa ain’t gonna protect you now, kiddo, no matter how many 4-of-a-kinds you rolled that afternoon.

GAH! I'm a nervous wreck! And seriously considering sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs tonight.