Some of the positive reviews here include the word 'evocative', which is precisely what this book is not. As a child of the seventies, I hoped that I would be transported back to the sounds and smells of that decade, with thoughtful, maybe wistful, descriptions of how time passed in hazy domestic simplicity while the serious, adult world edged closer to atomic self-destruction. Instead, this memoir is filled with mundane statements like 'We always seemed to be out and about doing something' and 'We certainly travelled far and wide in our Viva'. The problem, I'm afraid, is that Derek Tait is not proficient enough a writer to pull off this kind of narrative; he fails to create any relationship with his readers because he lacks the skills to connect his particular childhood with the decade that we all shared as children. It was an extraordinary time, but he does not capture that. My mother gave me this as a Christmas present, with a 'Clunky Writing Style' warning attached. I tried to finish it, but could not get past Chapter 7, 'Music', in which Tait does little more than list the number ones for each year. Reducing one of the most flamboyant, creative and experimental periods in musical history to a simple roll call is criminal!!!!! (he also uses far too many exclamation marks). Sorry, mum.