She’s hip! She’s mod! She’s boss, but not in the upper-management sense! And she has all the Anglophile affectations of teens in the early-mid sixties; she would just die to be born in someplace impossibly romantic, like Liverpool. We presume she’s being tossed by some Beatle-type fab quartet, since they have matching suits, right down to the ill-considered blue boots. The musicians – sorry, the mates, but not in the sexual-coupling sense – have been designed to cover all the basic hair-color food groups a young girl might fancy.

“This RUG daze beats the FRUG craze!” I can’t get that sentence out of my mind. And I know I’ll never have an opportunity to use it. Unless someone comes up to me in the street and wishes to dicuss this cover. Let that be your greeting, and I’ll know exactly what you mean.