78 rpm.

I was getting on a bit, but everything still worked the way it was supposed to; just a wee bit slower.

Our local council, in a bare-faced attempt to get reelected, brought in a scheme whereby old-timers like myself were given access to one visit a week from the professional of our choice.

Some people chose ‘meals on wheels’ which had disappeared with the last round of cuts to essential services. The bloke over the road chose to have his lawns mowed every couple of weeks. The crazy cat lady who lives on the corner decided to have her house painted.

I took a different tack.

I saw an advertisement for a service called, ‘Young woman with Record Player’.

Catchy name for a business.

“Are you old and shut-in. We can help. Here at ‘Young Woman With A Record Player’ we know how hard it can be, so we provide a service that is guaranteed to cheer you up. All our ‘young women’ are young and pretty. They carry a fully functioning wind up record player and a comprehensive collection of 78 rpm records. You’ll think you are back in the days of your youth. All we ask is that you keep your grimy hands off our highly trained operators.”

I rang and made an appointment and bright and early on a Tuesday morning there was a ring on my door bell.

I opened the door dressed in my best and there stood a beautiful young woman dressed in a purple dress with teal green edging. Her top button was undone revealing exactly what you would think it would reveal, and they were perfectly proportioned while being supported by a black lace bra. She was wearing black open toed high heel shoes and her blond hair was down almost to her shoulders.

The record player and her collection of disks were trailing behind her in a neat little cart which folded up into a space-saving shape when not in use. I’m assuming that her underwear was also black lace but at this stage I could only surmise, but later, when she bent down to pick up another record, my supposition was confirmed.

This beautiful young person had a remarkable knowledge of swing and jazz from the late 30s through the 1940s. I wondered where she should have obtained such insight. She explained that her grandfather was a musician ‘back in the day’ and he had passed on his love of music, as well as his record collection.

She visited me for several months and I counted the days until her next visit.

The local council was defeated at the election and the new council, which was elected on an austerity platform, promptly cancelled the program that had brought this beautiful young lady to my door.

I miss seeing her sitting on my couch.

I miss the sound of the old wind-up record player.

I miss the occasional flash of her black lace bra, and I miss her gentle conversation.

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