Walk All Over You

No one talked about crazy Aunt Val but she left me a suitcase full of outrageous Mary Quant miniskirts and her collection of Sixties vinyl ‘45s, all of which were going straight to eBay.

There was this cute record player inside a travel case, so I chose Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made for Walkin’ and listened to that thrilling bassline going down, down, down…

Later, I felt awful. The entire flat was clean. There was a strange man sleeping on the couch. He explained his name was Mitch and he’d sold me speed then I'd given him permission to stay. I told him I was ordering him to go.

I went straight to bed, homework unmarked, no lessons prepped.

The parents’ evening went badly. I treated myself to a glass of wine while I sorted Val’s wardrobe. I dropped the needle onto Nancy’s song and waited for her sultry voice to lift my spirits.

I woke up in bed. With Mitch. There were girls sleeping in the living room and a man passed out in the bath. The flat reeked of cannabis. I had a meltdown, drove out the shrieking girls; Mitch manhandled the other man out. He wanted to stay, but I pushed him out, sobbing.

Called in sick. A stranger banged on the door, demanding money. My doctor prescribed something to help me sleep.

But no sleep came. I stalked the flat, restless as a cat. I tried on Val’s groovy clothes, her spicy underwear, her vinyl boots. I watched the needle drop onto the vinyl. Relief flooded through me when Chuck Berghofer’s sexy sliding bass jumped out of the speakers.

I awoke in a flash of pain. The flat was trashed. The mirror showed my black eye.

Mitch was in the bath, dead, his throat slit.

No need to freak out. I knew Val could fix it. I started the turntable. The compact mirror in the case showed my swollen face, wearing Val’s lashes, Val’s frosted lipstick. 

I screamed, "No!"  I smashed Val's record against the wall.

The police treated me kindly. I sat in the back of the car and the younger officer, his eyes on my miniskirt, turned on one of those FM golden oldies stations policemen love. Nancy Sinatra’s 1966 hit uncoiled from the speakers and I laughed wildly as the bassline tumbled down, down, down.

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"Are ya ready, Boots?" It's a great song that draws an uncharacteristically sullen snarl from Nancy’s normally mannered vocals. Supposedly the producer ordered her to deliver the song like "a sixteen year old who likes to **** truckers" and that gave me my impression of Crazy Aunt Val back in the Sixties.