It has recently come to be speculated, among certain cultural commentators, that the Eighties are “coming back”. The two prongs on this pitchfork of reasoning are as follows: 1) sales of home-perming kits have doubled, thanks to Keeley Hawes, in the current retro TV series Ashes To Ashes, sporting a particularly ferocious strain of the beast; and 2) while certainly not something that you'd bet your first-born on (unless the kid was a bit wonky, and clearly more of a prototype, now that you come to compare it with its subsequent siblings), there's a vague chance the Tories might win an election at some point. Or, even if they don't win, at least they don't quite give off the vibe of being a party consisting entirely of the 12,000-year-old vultureoligarchs in The Dark Crystal, as had previously been the case. I mean, one of them has a father whose wealth isn't from running a orphan-blood mill in the colonies, or hitting foxes with a stick, but designing razzy wallpaper, you know! So they must be all right!

So that's it. Tories and perms - and, in a minute, a whopping great recession. The Eighties are BACK BACK BACK!

For me, the idea of the Eighties “returning” is a not-unintriguing one. As I technically qualify as a “Child of Thatcher” - I was 6 when she became Prime Minister, and 16 when she finally wept her way into the big “Bye-bye Thatch” van - my views of the Eighties are necessarily visceral, but not, in any way, I must make clear, informed. At the time, my understanding of the political situation came from my father, who explained that Thatcher (and, indeed, the entire Tory Government), was “a great Satan, sent to punish the working classes for the brilliance of the Beatles”, and it is not one that I've greatly updated yet, to be honest.

I recall at the time feeling, very strongly, and without any doubt, that this was the absolute ending point of society and culture. I simply couldn't see how, when I became an adult, I was going to make “it”, “out there”. “They” - at the time, the population of Wolverhampton, but, really, everyone in Britain - were obsessed with bleached denim, jazz-funk and Top Gun. Everyone was into cuddly aliens, buying a synthesiser and then moving to Miami,where, let's face it, they would have been shot in the face in a matter of minutes by Crockett and Tubbs. It was a terrible time. As a nation, we've never been more stupid.

In addition - and here is the real nub of the problem - the entire population of Britain, men and women alike, had contrived to have hair which, if it didn't rise vertically out of their scalps (see: the perm; the quiff worn by Nick Kamen, the Levi's model), at the very least extended horizontally, thanks to mousse and hairspray, for some inches to either side (see: Dex Dexter on Dynasty; Sarah Greene on Going Live!).

Surveying this thrusting, big-haired jazz-world, I felt emotionally distant from every single aspect of Britain. I was a hippy in a poncho, with hair like Neil from The Young Ones, and a strong central belief that denim should be - as a bare minimum - darker than your teeth. Cast culturally adrift for nearly five years, you can't imagine how relieved I was when the 1990s finally happened, and brought about a world of straight hair, dark denim and guitars that didn't sound like the between-scenes sting in Seinfeld.

This was all when I was still a teenager, though. I was a different woman, in a different world. I have to admit, now I'm an adult, that I actually quite fancy the idea of having another go at the Eighties. As if it's some great test I so signally failed the first time around, and could now retake as a mature student. This time around, I reckon I'd ace it.

Obviously, the Eighties were no good to someone poor, and living in the North. I was never going to enjoy it then. Now, however, I live in soft, prosperous London, have assumed middle-classness by dint of shopping in Waitrose, and could easily become vulgar and totally socially insular after just a few short months of encouragement from a right-wing government. I'd have a great old “Second Eighties”. I'd ride around in a boxy sports-car drinking champagne, shouting “RAH RAH RAH” and banging my “wedge” (it could be either the haircut or my money: that's the Eighties for you!) on the dashboard. Indeed, if there were any nationalised industries left that could be flogged to me at a bargain price, I'd probably, given the parlous state of my pension, vote Tory, as well. And get into Huey Lewis & The News. It would be amazing.

The thing is, though, when you think about it the whole notion of the Eighties “coming back” is oxymoronic. However many Knit an Organic Grandma booklets The Guardian gives away, this is not, by and large, a country full of people engaged in homely crafts, enjoying simple pleasures, saving up for their luxuries and keeping an eye on their neighbours. Anyone who had looked at our country recently would quickly conclude that the Eighties never actually ended; it's just that, for a while, during the recession of the early Nineties, we couldn't afford them. What were the hallmarks of the yuppie era? Cocaine, conspicuous consumerism, soaring house prices, overextension of credit, social insularity, pixie boots, social division, a vilified working class, job insecurity, the longest working hours in Europe, and everyone buying stuff. Just stuff. Anything really, so long as there was lots of it. Given that list, I reckon you'd be hard-pressed to fill a jug with the clear blue water separating the Eighties and the Noughties.

We might all be sitting in Starbucks, 2st fatter and listening to Amy Winehouse, but it's still, emotionally, the Eighties. It's the decade that will not, whatever the sales of home-perming kits, curl up and die.

An airing: just what dirty laundry needs

Due to recent domestic upheaval - we and the children swapped bedrooms- my husband and I haven't had wardrobes for three months. During this time, I have made an important, nay revolutionary, discovery. For as the lack of hanging-space has meant that all my clothes, clean and dirty alike, have been scattered over pot plants, ornaments and the end of the bed, certain elements of their nature have become known to me. To wit: that the dirty clothes after a spell just stop being dirty. A blue poloneck that, on Monday, was a bit, erm, armpitty, had, after being left tented over a chair for five days, become fresh and wearable again. Maybe out of despair, they just start to sort of clean themselves.

Obviously my laundry breakthrough doesn't cover stains. This is, let's be honest, the re-discovery of “airing”, not a perversion of the laws of physics. Still, I feel this is an important moment in the history of household management, and one I felt compelled to share. Were I a huckster American, I'd no doubt come up with a fabulous phrase for this - “air washing”, perhaps - and accompany it with an expensive 300-page book explaining how to do it, related in terms of “getting in touch with your inner Air Goddess”. As it is, I'm just a feckless British slattern with her tights draped on the doorknob, and I'm probably not going to take it any farther.

How to needle Nato

Have you seen those two-page adverts that the Government of the Republic of Macedonia has been running in the national press? Stridently entitled “Republic of Macedonia deserves Nato membership”? Although they give what appears to be a sterling list of qualifying attributes - did you know that the current account deficit is only 2 per cent of GDP? Ace! - I do feel they might be coming across as a bit needy. Play it cool, Macedonia. Get a new hairdo, have a girls' night out with Turkey and Ukraine, and let Nato think about what it's missing out on.

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