Not so swinging after all

Yesterday, my fifteen year old niece asked me about the sixties (the decade, that is; not my age bracket). The sixties are, apparently, now material for history projects ... which is, I suppose, fair enough since they are more temporally distant from her than the second world war was from me when I studied it in history at the same age.

I was somewhat deflated to discover that a rich period full of event, possibility, promise and terror boils down to this: I talked politics, wore flared jeans, had long hair, sang silly songs, and am of an age with the bursar at her school...