Sir Cliff Richard has hit a rough patch lately..
(photo credit: SUE ANDREWS)
When I was 12, a very long time ago, no one in my class had ever been abroad. Only a few of our South African parents had ever left the country; no one could ski, no one could dive. There was no TV. It was a simpler universe; our pleasures, by today’s standards, seem quaint and tame. Yet we seemed always to be happy.One especially luminous memory from that golden childhood is our combined bat-mitzva party where we walked from house to house on a warm summer’s night, eating a progressive supper that culminated with an open-air screening of Summer Holiday. Remember: a gang of guys refurbish a London bus and set off to explore Europe. In one memorable scene, the clean-cut crew unwraps home-prepared sandwiches and sings along: “We’re all going on a (beat) Summer Holiday, / No more working for a (beat) week or two …”