Roberta

A lawnmower marked "COLONIALISME" sits upon a lawn in a suburbia of a certain sort, Seventies soft surrounds in contrast to fresh wood panelling and electronics resplendent in veneer and brushed metal. Cream liqueur and hoovering, daytime television and bon-bons and barbituates. That last a guess, admittedly - the bag of drugs hidden in the sofa contains treats of all kinds, a chemical counterpart of that convenient commute, a heaping helping of grandmother's little helpers.

Elder figure titular, in fact, a dancing occupant of a snakeskin polyester jumpsuit, gold jewellery, silver hair, disco-era grandma glamour.

This is a world where the yellow and brown and white and orange of the credits is appropriate, where chrome dinosaurs loiter in racing beige unaware of the oil shocks to come, where stereo components and glass ornaments work in perfect warbling proto-synthesiser driven harmony. Soap opera adultery completes the picture, a solid picture of a place that children might love to visit but that cannot sustain life. Is this what Red Riding Hood risked wolves and woodsmen for? No matter. Like a quaalude driven into a cherry-centred chocolate it is a dreamy treat.