I was having a cup of tea with some much younger colleagues the other day and one of them said, “Look at this lovely old music book my grandparents brought me at the weekend.” I had a look at the photo, “Oh Moore’s Melodies, how nice,” I said. “Who?” said the young people. “The Last Rose of Summer, Believe Me if All Those Endearing Young Charms, The harp that once through Tara’s Hall?” I asked in growing alarm. Nothing. They hadn’t heard of Percy French either (for reasons I cannot explain – possibly because my mother used to sing both a bit – Thomas Moore’s work and Percy French’s sit in the same cabinet inside my head). I regarded the group aghast. A philosophical young man at the table pointed out it was horses for courses and said, “Anne, Wu Tang…?” “Clan,” I said proudly but given that they were formed in 1992, that is not quite the achievement it might have been. Had he chosen to mention any band at all formed after the children were born, it would have been a different story.
Anyway, my horror was as nothing compared to the security guard’s at the airport the weekend before last. As I went through the scanner she said to me, pointing at her younger colleague, “He’s never heard of John Wayne, tell him that’s crazy.” I obliged but I could tell that he thought we were crazy. Truly, it’s like being the elves going into the West.