What did you do in the summer, they will ask me in April.
And I will reply that I worked in the dim underbelly of the Regent Theatre surrounded by dust, must, and thousands of old records.
The Regent Theatre music sale, which split from its book parent last year, is upon us, and I have once again foolhardily offered to do the sorting through to sale day, Saturday, March 7.
For a man whose frail body was put on this planet for nothing more taxing than collecting stamps, this is demanding work.
Vinyl is a weight created by Satan.
And, for most of the time, the sun has poured down like honey outside.
My friends all look healthy and tanned and think the recession is over.
I have a furrowed brow, tired arms and RSI fingers.
This is what you get from working with what has lived in attics, basements, and under the beds of children who have gone overseas.
Why do people store old records in the dank and the dark? Records are special; they are rare and wonderful things.
They should be kept in specially-made cabinets in the lounge, shown off like china cabinets of crystal.
But this solitary underground job beneath the laughing carefree Octagon cafe scene above is proving a fascinating experience.
The music sale will have plenty of modern entertainment formats like DVDs and CDs, but it is the records that will dominate.
And they are by far the most interesting.
The vinyl that is coming in is chilling evidence of how obscenely fecund the music industry was in the 1970s, when record companies suddenly twigged to the power of TV advertising.
The Solid Gold Hits series started then, the first one deemed such a risk it was not even given a number.
They finished up doing 36.
That decade began with Heintje, the boy soprano from Germany who was inexplicably lapped up by everyone with a working cochlea, grandmothers especially.
Lederhosen rock.
I suspect Heintje is still with us, only he's now called Andre Rieu.
And then there was Pam Ayres, who sold stupendously despite having the poetic talent of an anvil, James Last, Richard Clayderman and George Zamfir.
How the memories flood back! Did I mention the dreadful Hooked On series?I take particular delight in sorting Barbra Streisand albums.
Nobody over-sang a song like Barbra, and to find stacks of her wretched albums at the Regent is the sort of thing that keeps me going beyond exhaustion.
I should add that so far I have come across only one Dunedin Sound record.
What is particularly fascinating are the brilliant '60s album covers and their concomitant Mad Men liner notes.
So many people made albums about having a party then, life must have been truly thrilling.
New Zealand party album covers were among the very best - pianist Jack Thompson looked like he had been at his party for three weeks, cigarette dangling, eyes shot, while the art director for Allan Gardiner's Accordion Band arranged the balloons on the cover of their party album in the shape of male genitalia.
Incredibly, nobody bought Dylan Thomas reading A Child's Christmas In Wales last year, so this one is back for another crack at Dunedin's aesthetes.
This is a magnificent record that will make you cry.
That nobody bought it for 50c last year underlines what a shockingly facile world we now live in.
But then again, records, I know, gone for all money.
Such a shame.
Every holiday home should have an old radiogram with a whacking big 15in woofer and its insides packed with vinyl.
Throw out the television.
In years to come, we will miss these things, trust me.
People will pay money at museums to watch someone send a Collaro arm surfing through the grooves of an old LP.
It is such a lovely sight. - Roy Colbert
