Ive rinsed out my 'Frankie says...' T-shirt and have booked myself in for a bubble perm a week on Thursday. Well, if we're all going to be transported back to 1984 it's only right that I make a bit of an effort, isn't it?

It wouldn't be fair on everyone else if I turned up at the time-travelling party as my glamorous, sophisticated 21st century self. You may scoff, but it's not everyone that can pull off the 'Weetabix encrusted cardigan' look with as much panache as yours truly, you know.

No-one would recognise me as the painfully uncool lanky lass who used to wear a donkey jacket and eye make-up so dark and thick that it can only really be described as 'raccoon with a hangover'.

You see, I've always been something of a trendsetter. I was the first girl brave enough to wear knee-high stripy pop socks, shiny black Doc Marten shoes and a purple mohair sweater in my school. Needless to say I was also the last.

But this was back in 1984 when people wore ridiculous clothes and had stoopid hair (Flock of Seagulls anyone?) and no-one so much as batted an eyelid. Even the most supposedly stylish people looked pretty daft 20 years ago.

Which is why I'm a little unnerved at the prospect of going back. If you haven't seen the signs for yourself yet, let me enlighten you. Morrissey and the Duranies are back in the charts; the 20th anniversary edition of Purple Rain was released last week; and Band Aid are already being tipped as a dead cert for the Christmas number one spot.

Any minute now I'm expecting Maggie Thatcher to grab her handbag, slip in her best false teeth (the ones she borrows from Jimmy Young on his day off) and announce she's heading back to Downing Street.

Much as I enjoyed the delights of being a teenager - the acne, the door-slamming, the sulking, the shouting and the astonishing mood swings - I'm not sure I want to wing my way back to 1984 again. And it's not just the thought of having to deal with Thatcher and volcanic zits that is putting me off.

My best friend and I had our first perms in the summer holiday of '84. We thought we were going to look like a pair of pre-Raphaelite goddesses with tiers of auburn curls cascading down our backs. Instead we looked like Barry and Terry from Brookside.

And that was before we got our hands on the Sun-In. This was a kind of pump-action bleach spray that was supposed to give your hair that much sought after sun-kissed look.

Unfortunately, after a giggly afternoon in my bathroom, my chum emerged looking like a skunk with a creamy-white stripe running along her parting and I stumbled into the living room with a ginger fringe - to the obvious delight of my already proud parents.

Our clothes weren't much better either. For some reason I thought my ridiculously skinny legs would look fantastic if I wore jeans so tight I had to sew myself into them from ankle to knee every time I wanted to sashay down the street to lurk about outside the chippy (oh, the glamour of it all).

Occasionally, we were actually allowed inside someone's house, usually when their parents were on holiday, preferably somewhere far, far away. Then of course it was out with the bottles of sweet cider - particularly yummy, I found, when mixed with blackcurrant - and on with The Young Ones tape.

Actually, if I'm honest, I still like The Young Ones now. Maybe 1984 has got it's good points after all. I suppose it was the year I discovered The Smiths and travelled abroad for the first time. And it was the year I discovered what boys were really for.

Oh, what the heck, let's party like it's 1984 (sorry Prince). I'll bring the Strongbow, you bring the Sun-In.

Updated: 11:06 Monday, October 25, 2004