I am definitely in my nostalgia era. I know I have said it before but I will say it again: anecdotes keep throwing themselves my way and reminding me of stuff I haven’t thought about for years. It’s weird – almost as if my life is flashing before my eyes (sporadically, and rather slowly it must be said) and I am choosing to take that as a sign of a life so far well-lived, as opposed to a sign of my own impending demise. I do hope it’s the former.
Either way, these anecdotes are proving quite entertaining and thought-provoking. And I definitely think nostalgia is à la mode at the moment. How else can we explain the fervour surrounding the fêted Gavin and Stacey Christmas special? Several generations of people now one or two generations removed are excited to meet up with these familiar faces once more, whilst struggling to believe that it was seventeen years (Little Seymour Number Two’s lifetime) ago since we first made their acquaintance.
I am so unbelievably excited!
But it’s not just Gavin and Stacey. Bridget Jones and her fogies have been doing it to me , too. And Strictly Come Dancing – that’s twenty years old now, would you believe, with I’m A Celebrity being even older still… it’s hard to ignore the fact that the years are galloping along beneath our feet, and popular culture is not letting us forget it.
So. I have been pondering if this is a new thing – us growing up alongside these sorts of shows? Is it only happening now because technology has moved on? Because the reach of TV and film is so wide? Or is it because most people in our country have devices these days? I don’t remember any such long-running programmes happening when I was young (Blue Peter and Newsround, maybe, and Dr Who perhaps but they didn’t have the same familiar characters year in, year out and didn’t seem to generate the same level of hype). Book series have been a thing for ages – Winston Graham’s Poldark saga a case in point, and The Archers on the radio must have been going since the beginning of time. But there is something about seeing stuff on a telly screen that can really transport you, like a magic portal.
Not everyone is into TV, of course. And even for me, the days of sitting down to shows in the evenings are few and far between. There is always something better to do, so my watching tends to be done sporadically, on my phone, whilst folding the laundry or making sandwiches. Or in bed, with a hot water bottle. I catch up with the watching trends eventually and in my own time. But I won’t lie to you: I love telly. Always have. Always will.
When I started school, I had a little routine: get home around 3.30, dump coat, kick off shoes, sit in armchair, be served slice of chocolate Swiss roll on saucer, watch Ragdolly Anna. There I would sit, in thrall at the square box until tea time, when I would drag myself away to kick my brother under the table during our dinner, after which I had to practise my cello, feed Goggle-Eye the fish and get ready for bed. I actually think telly was the highlight of my day. That magic cuboid in our orange and beige living room with the floral curtains taught me so much about the world. I remember sitting on the floor in front of it, so close my eyes went square, on what must have been 19th Feb 1985, for the first episode of something called EastEnders. I had the Radio Times open on my lap, and the ancient cat, Tabitha, curled up with me, as I made a conscious effort to remember her before she died. Tabitha and I learned about these new characters who lived in Albert Square and it felt like it was the start of something big. And later that year, there was Live Aid, where I just could not believe what I was seeing there on stage; America and London and Madonna and scary men with tight trousers and lots and lots of people… I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my safe position, agog three inches away from the screen.
Even before that, in 1982, I recall watching with baited breath as old bits of tudor wood bobbed about in a green murky sea, decidedly underwhelmed as I had been sold on it being a galleon that would emerge, glorious. And the year before, when we watched Princess Diana marry Prince Charles – all I could think about was how I wanted to wear one of those bridesmaids’ dresses. I literally wanted to climb in that box and get on that balcony.
The TV paved a path for my imagination, and sucked me in, and I love it. And the amount of stuff we now get to choose to watch is immense. Once one show is done, and leaves you feeling bereft, it won’t be long until there’s another one to entertain you. And the catalogue isn’t going anywhere – nuclear Armageddon notwithstanding.
Of course, nothing replaces reading – that is far superior; a much more highbrow pastime. And I am currently reading a book (slowly) but there are just so many distractions… and you can’t exactly read a book whilst folding the laundry, can you? I’m reading One Day, by David Nicholls. But only because I watched the Netflix adaptation of the book and fell in love with it. I am starting to think about New Year’s resolutions, and reading more should be on that list, but so is to stop beating myself up about watching more than I read. Stories are stories. And I love stories in every format. The End.
It goes without saying that maybe I like stories because I am living vicariously through their protagonists. When I watch Rivals, I am on a balcony in the Malaga sun, getting sloshed with Rupert Campbell-Black. I am starting out at Cambridge alongside Oliver Quick, sussing him out from the start. Or I am a tattoo-adorned, enigmatic, well-travelled and highly intelligent Welshwoman from Barry Island, speaking as I find and being totally unapologetic about it.
Sadly, I am not Nessa Jenkins. And I prove that point now as I apologise for this incredibly dull blog post. It is not my finest, and has been dragged out of the annals of my brain slowly, and with difficulty. But it gives me the chance to write my resolution list, and hereby declare that I shall endeavour to do better in 2025. For in 2025, my blog will be ten years old, and I am determined not to give up on it before then.
To add to my nostalgia bug, my youngest child, Mini Seymour, has just announced to me that in 2025, we will be closer to 2050 than we were to 2000. I don’t know how to feel about this. Initially, I suffered a wave of panic. Then, I wondered what it’s got to do with her. She’s twelve. The year 2000 is none of her business. But now it has sunk in, I realise that it is just another thing that is beyond my control, and there is literally nothing I can do about it, apart from remember the good times, blot out the mortifying errors and push on through.
It’s as good a strategy as any. Happy New Year, everybody!
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