My wife returned earlier than expected and caught me in the act, in my boxer shorts, ready to climax. I was about to hit the high note in Oasis’ ‘Wonderwall’.
There I stood, in front of my replica jukebox, hands behind my back, virtually naked, psyching myself for the big moment.
“Because maybe… You’re gonna be the one that saves me,” I sang. “And after all… You’re my wonder— oh, you’re home early.”
“I see the midlife crisis is kicking in nicely,” my wife sighed, dropping the keys on the table. “Put some clothes on, Liam Gallagher. Your daughter’s bringing friends over.”
I blame Covid-19, Netflix, the Oasis documentary Supersonic and my age, all coming together at the same time; a confluence of events that only further indulged my nostalgia addiction.
Supersonic took me back to simpler, innocent times, when test kits sounded like a packet of condoms (there are similarities: they are both required before any kind of pleasure; they touch sensitive areas and, if applied roughly, make your eyes water).
In truth, I have always spent far too much time wallowing in my past; like being a tourist in my own childhood. Everything is a potential trigger. The salty sea air of East Coast Park and the smell of sun cream instantly transport me back to Essex beaches and the sepia-tinted images of Cockney parents whacking sunburnt children.
Just as the public toilets along East Coast Park remind me of childhood swims in the North Sea. We used to crap in both.
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