Bit of a cheeky title this one as I am referencing my fourth favourite 80s song. Whenever the notes appear on my mp3 player I am reminded of our 89’ Christmas tree.
Stark needles bristling outwards and covering the floor like a natural green rug. Seven years old, my hands overflow with action figures from a long dead cartoon.
The telly is on, (but the telly is always on and ITV is the background audio to my childhood), and the ITV chart show is counting down the hits.
Lisa Stansfield begins to sing and my world morphs to the audio patterns swirling about my ears. I sit at the base of the tree and gently sway to music I love.
I take an action figure and place him on outstretched branch, clinging for dear life. He slides down the deciduous log flume and into the pile of sprinkles, amusing me and we start again.
This is a kind joy I can just barely remember the feel of. This is a level of contentment that only children ever experience.
Free from the tribulations of adulthood the world truly is theirs and anything that captivates them is the fullest of views.
I do miss the 80s, I do miss being a kid, I do miss the style of music, and the standard visuals of the media.
But I do not miss the growing up and the getting to here.
Here, where I am now, with my repository of experience and chunk of eighties stashed away, allows me to revisit the rosy parts of any decade whenever I press the button on my mp3 player.