130 days… and counting…

Nostalgia, they say, is a thing of the past. Of late, however, with respect of yours truly, it has been creeping more and more into the present. This could signify the onset of a mid-life crisis… or it could have something to do with the fact that I am going to be a dad in a little over four months time, a little short of my thirty-sixth birthday.

A dad! A progenitor! The creator (in part) of a living human being!

It is something I have imagined, and my girlfriend and I have discussed, on and off, during the course of the decade-and-a-half we have been, as they say, “together.” I could never have foreseen, however, the range and intensity of emotions which have arisen in the knowledge that it is actually going to happen. Me! A father! Someone with a son or a daughter! Mind-boggling stuff.

The nostalgia thing is an odd one. There’s that old chestnut that having a child means you will, to some degree, re-live your own childhood. Or at least revert to another, different childhood. Even before our mutual discovery of my girlfriend’s with-child-ness, I have recently been particularly missing aspects of my pre-adult years. This has now stepped up a notch… or two… or several. A tree will remind me of the woods behind my childhood home. The smell of brandy butter literally almost brought tears to my eyes. My Christmas treat of a small lump of Roquefort incited reminiscences of my first ever sampling of this most exquisite of smelly cheeses, when I was about fourteen or fifteen. I was even sent drifting into a miasma of memory, of family picnics by the side of the road, when a particular indefinable vehicular aroma arose from somewhere within the car recently, when we were on our way to do our weekly shop at Sainsbury’s.

And my recent reading of Stephen Fry’s autobiography, Moab is my Washpot, which describes a childhood which bears little resemblance to my own, but which nevertheless describes a childhood, nudged these internal reminiscences onto a higher plane of intensity.

I am reverting to my childhood… but it seems at times that I am actually literally reverting, in that my soul is physically transporting itself to an alternative sensory dimension, upon the occurrence of these nostalgic triggers. I feel that if I allowed myself, if I relinquished control of my corporeality, I would physically travel through a rift in the fabric of spacetime, a rift which I have myself created through the power of my consciousness, arriving at myself two or more decades ago.

Or perhaps I have just watched too much Torchwood and the like…