I was born in 1969. So, apart from the less-than-3 months in which I cried, poo’d and drank my way through the 60’s, I was a child of the 1970’s.
As soon as I was old enough to get weekly “spends” (10p a week) and be allowed to walk to the nearest shop, I learned that the greatest value for money that a 5 year-old could realise was to exchange 10p for a mixed bag of 3-per-penny chews.
Three-for-a-penny chews came in two varieties:
- Black Jacks: Turned your tongue black. Tasted of an unidentifiable fruit-based chemical. Were vaguely racist.
- Mojos: Were fruit coloured. Tasted of chemically-enhanced fruit. Weren’t socially questionable.
So, I spent my money on Mojos. Every week.
Now I’m 42, I can’t buy Mojos at three for a penny. As far as I’m aware, I can’t buy them anywhere. So, on ride nights and every other Saturday, I have to look for my Mojo within myself.
Sometimes I find my Mojo. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes other people find it for me, and sometimes other people drag me out on my bike even when I can’t find my Mojo. At these times I’m grateful.
At other times, when I can’t find my Mojo, I sit on the sofa in my riding gear, wondering where my Mojo is. Those aren’t the good times.
Where do you find yours?