She was my age; 52. No age.
Bernie Nolan lost her three-year-fight with cancer last week and to my generation it served as a painful reminder of our own mortality
I wasn’t a fan, but the Nolans felt like sisters.
They symbolised girl power long before the Spices. To every woman who lived and loved in the Eighties, the girls next-door in outfits that looked like they’d been made by their mum from a Butterick pattern seemed such unlikely popstars they inspired us to gun for whatever we were good at.
In their comeback years, the message was stronger; ignore the restrictions with which society shackles middle-aged women; accept the thickening waistline. There’s more to you than that. Bless you, Bernie.