STOCKHOLM
I’m at the ABBA museum, posing behind a lifesize cut-out of Björn, when it happens. Like a super trooper, I’m smiling, having fun, feeling very much like a number-one, and then the news breaks. For the first time in 35 years, one of the most iconic flare-wearing bands in pop history is squeezing into their satin jumpsuits once more. That’s right folks, ABBA is getting back together. Mamma mia, here we go again. I feel giddy and slightly confused. It’s just such an extraordinary coincidence. Have I somehow conjured an ABBA reunion into existence by stepping behind Fake Björn and humming Take A Chance On Me? Could the universe have sensed my lifelong devotion to Gimme Gimme Gimme A (Wo)Man After Midnight, sparking some kind of Freaky Friday time warp, resulting in ABBA grapevining their way back into the limelight where they belong?
In all seriousness, Chiquitita, I don’t know why I haven’t visited Stockholm sooner. I’ve been an ABBA superfan since I was knee-high to a dancing queen (#ThankYouForTheMusic), I consider meatballs delicious enough to merit their own food group (#ThankYouForTheMeatballs) and what self-respecting queer woman doesn’t feel most at home spending Sundays in IKEA (#ThankYouForTheFlatpacks)?
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