On a sunny afternoon, a friend phoned to ask about my day. I told her I had spent it well: repotting sunflowers and batch prepping chocolate cornflake cakes. She chuckled. This was precisely how she entertained her toddler.
“Good on you, you big kid,” she said. “A bit of nostalgia is lovely at a time like this.”
For the first time, I agreed. I have always thought of nostalgia as a redundant emotion. I figured, life is best lived in the present, which makes it sad to live in the past. Although small doses can be comforting, prolonged exposure could force a retreat from life, warping our memories and colouring them rose.
I especially did not understand the logic of nostalgic totems. If certain items from the past evoke joy, why leave them there? Especially when – like childhood sweet treats or television repeats – they remain readily available. I wondered if we use nostalgia as a way of excusing ourselves from liking things we think of as embarrassing. And that seemed sad, too.
But in a Carpetright car park, I had a realisation. My local Burger King drive-through had reopened and I was delighted to eat in the retail park, the shuttered storefronts my riviera. It was as I remembered, tasting “like yesterday”.
That’s because it was yesterday, or near enough; mere months since my last BK, shovelled in at a train station. How quickly nostalgia sets in, I thought. I counted the memories that came to me daily in lockdown: swimming pools, beer gardens, my mum’s house. They are my optimism, and remind me of a carefreeness that will be seen again.
So I have finally learned the value of nostalgia. And another big lesson: the unending joy of a chocolate crispy cake, whatever your age.
