Dear Mr Faulkner. I hope you don’t mind me writing like this – not that I ever cared what you thought before, of course.
But I’ve been thinking about you a lot recently. Actually, I’ve been thinking about your son, Eric. And I thought that as it’s four decades since Rollermania took off, now might be a good time to say sorry.
Sorry for standing outside your house at the crack of dawn singing Shang-a-Lang in a very high pitched voice.
And apologies for squealing hysterically whenever a slightly nicer car than the ones that usually drove around our neighbourhood happened to pass by. It must have been quite disturbing to hear a blood curdling scream outside your door just as you were settling down to watch Coronation Street.
I owe those drivers an apology, too. I don’t suppose they appreciated having a hysterical chubby girl in tartan trimmed trousers and blue satin bomber jacket attempt to throw herself across the bonnet convinced that inside it might be HIM. Oops.
Sorry too for stealing the roses in your front garden because I was certain that at some point Eric MUST have touched them. Swoon.
And for all those hours spent staring into your living room window, forcing you to keep your curtains shut for an entire year. Still, there was always that spell around 7pm on a Thursday evening when I headed home for Top of the Pops.
You can tell me now, did Eric wait until then before he’d visit? Is that why I never actually ever SAW him despite staking out your home day and night for months on endl?
Of course I now realise you might not have had any connection at all with Eric Faulkner of Bay City Roller fame. It is, I accept with the benefit of hindsight, very likely indeed that you just happened to share his surname – after all, this was deepest Falkirk, nowhere near Eric’s childhood Edinburgh home.
If this was all a dreadful case of mistaken identity, then double apologies, but it was the P7 girls who started the rumour, not me.
That said, bet like me you can hardly believe it’s 40 years since all that Rollermania stuff? Now there’s to be a special convention at the Roxburghe Hotel to celebrate. The mere hint that the lads might get back together is the stuff of a once Roller-mad middle-aged mother-of-two’s wildest dreams.
So Mr Faulkner, if you hate me after what I say . . . well, can’t put it off, any longer . . . dreadfully sorry.
Don’t suppose you have a couple of convention tickets going spare and, pretty please, Eric’s phone number?