It was a wander through nostalgia lane, complete with a cerebral, inbuilt tour guide which spoke from the memories of seven years, efficiently compiled, lovingly and humorously dispensed before your weakening eyes. The contours of the Converse shoes pressed against the elegant long toes which splayed themselves over the gum stained pavements of the Broadway, the crescent, the asphalt of the former education facility. The Tesco where freshly baked baguettes were daily bought with their complimentary side dish of humus had been refurbished. It looked more elegant, sleeker than the former black streaked outer-shell which suggested a car had raced over its exterior. The buses didn’t trundle past this time, but the memories; after school racing, P.E. kits scrunched in sweaty bundles into to cheap, corded back packs that cut grooves into young shoulders, arms flailing akimbo, that still hovered around the corners of your exterior vision.
It was a relaxed amble down the well trodden, relentlessly beaten path of nostalgia lane. Yet all the colours, even the smell of the air before the summer rain – they had all changed. Different shadows inhabited this reverie, different children with different stories which didn’t include you – they were the dominant forces; this time round you were just passing through.