The Unmistakeable Reek of Nostalgia

Coming back from a curry last night our local station opened up a platform it never uses and a stairway to the Exit which emerges, Danger Mouse-like, from a doorway in a wall you never realised was there.

Man, that stairway took me back.

Long disused, it had managed to dodge yellow paint on the steps (obviously, I stumbled down them); helpful notices telling you to be careful on stairs (without which I was reckless, and even took two at a time – you simply can’t replace good advice when it’s gone); and no signs offering a call centre number to deal with all those late night stair-descent emergencies (“Hi there – I’m having trouble putting one foot in front of another. I think this is probably more my fault than yours, but can you help?”)

Best of all, it smelt like stairways, telephone boxes and car parks always should smell: of male piss. Ah, the nostalgia! Ah, those heady days, when no wall laboured without graffiti, and no street thumped to the bass from No 47 without black bin bags and dog turds!

And all the other long-gone strengths of this proud nation. People in what we would now call customer service jobs genuinely enjoying being snappy, dismissive and dumb. Trains with ripped seats in desperate need of a paint job. A general feeling that helping other people is basically suspect, and a bit weak.

Things ain’t what they used to be. What a stairway.