Nostalgia

I hooked up with an old friend on Facebook earlier today.  So far - so ordinaire.  I say friend, but in reality we were part of a large cohort of then recent graduates who worked for the University of London Exam Board for a time in  the mid-nineties.  

It was a joyous time for all concerned.  The weather was good; the pop music was good.  And all of us knew we had a long and carefree summer ahead of us, our last in all probability, before the po-faced and sober realities of middle-class adult life kicked-in.  Michelle, my new FB pal, was part of that golden generation, as was I.  We weren't particularly close, but she was a really kind and good companion to have during those weeks and months - funny, generous and wise.  So when I saw her name on a mutual friend's FB timeline, I had a Proustian swell of happy memories.  I spoke to her a few moments ago.  She lives in Exeter, like an grown up might.

I really dislike nostalgia.  I gives me the yips.  I find it difficult to stop the flow of thought and images once I've given in to a bout of mental-over-shoulder-peerage.  It's like my brain is struggling to process all the data I've asked it to dredge up at once, like Excel having a spazz when you exceed a million rows or something.