Nostalgia

I remember seeing the film se7en in the cinema when it came out. Apart from the pretentious alphanumeric title and the repulsive tortureporn vibe, the thing that struck me most were the credits. They were like a rock video. Jittery, buzzing, energetic, packed with attitude. And the best part of the film as it turns out.

When the first Daniel Craig 007 film came out, those credits were the best I'd ever seen. They were hypnotic. A shifting maze of colour and movement and danger. Which was no small feat given they came after arguably the best Bond prologue ever.

I thought they couldn't be beaten. But the most recent Bond film's opening titles left me gaping. The blood in the water. The skeletal teeth turning into tombstones. The underground/drowning/death/shadow thing was some heavy shit, man. I wanted to go and see the film again just so I could see the title sequence. So I looked it up on YouTube and you know what? They were clever but not all that, sister. Too clever. Too many references to the film itself. Too cerebral. Disappointing.

But you know the best opening credits OF ALL TIME??? A children's program called In The Night Garden. The visuals and the music fuse to form a perfect image so beautiful that every time I see the show I nearly cry. The boat recedes over the waves, the stars burn bright in the sky, and as the string melody swells, the stars burst into flower and we are pushing our way through the blossoms and into the Night Garden.

It captures for me perfectly that feeling when I was a child of being lost in a dream and half knowing it, half not. Of feeling the bed roll and sway as you float up towards the ceiling. It's the music of a lost age.

I can't remember if I've mentioned before that the word "nostalgia" derives from concept of a painful memory, but now has come to mean a longing for a thing long gone. These credits trigger memories I never had. They are the best ever. And it's on TV every night at 6.30 pm.

Tune in, turn back, drop off.

Marbles

I was in a dreadful antique store today.  In fact it wasn't really an antique store, it was a "bric-a-brac" store.  "Bric-a-brac" seems to be shopkeeper code for "collections of horrid teacups and twee little bits of quilting".  As such, when drawn into bric-a-brac stores I usually jam my hands into my pockets, stare at the ceiling, and enter my own private world while humming Freddie Mercury songs to myself.

But today I was relieved of the tedium when I spotted a bowl of marbles for sale for 20 cents each.  Deluxe!  These were good marbles too.  Normally when you see marbles for sale they are just digs or catseyes.  But these were a good range of glassies, onions, bananas and snakies.  I bought a couple of digs and catseyes too, since just going for the high-end marbles seems a bit snobbish.

Rolling my newly bought marbles around in my hands brought back a lot of childhood memories.  Fads would sweep through the quadrangle at school every few months.  Most were never to return, but marbles came back every year.  I don't know where our actual marbles came from (as opposed to the marble fad itself, not that I know where that came from either), because with one exception I was never aware of them ever being bought from a store.  I must have pinched some from my older siblings, because otherwise I can't imagine how I ever got any.

The one exception to marbles not being bought I remember happened when some kind blessed spirit possessed my Aged Mother and she bought for us a small mesh bag of bananas and black bananas, mostly quarters but a few halves.  For about a week I was living large at school, being newly rich in marble wealth.  Of course, I was pretty crap at marbles so I pretty quickly lost mine to my less sensitive and more athletically gifted classmates.

A typical example was one time when I was playing a kid who caught the same bus as me.  I'm pretty sure I had put up a couple of banana halves for a snakey quarter.  I thought I was a good chance but he kept accusing me of fudging and awarding himself two shots.  I can remember thinking that this was unbelievable, and that this country was stuffed.  I attempted to call him on it but he threatened my physical integrity so I conceded.

A few words of clarification: we played proper marbles, not the stupid version that seems to be depicted in British children's books and TV programs.  In pommy marbles the objective seems to have been to knock marbles out of a circle with your own marble shot from a distance.  This is plainly absurd and pathetic and no fun at all.  Our marbles was more like golf.  We dug a hole in the ground and, starting about 3 metres away, we would alternate shots to get our marble into the hole first.  Whoever won the game kept the marbles which had been pre-agreed as the stake.  You didn't have to shoot with the marble up for grabs though - hence you could choose a marble appropriate for the terrain.

Of course, all sorts of shenanigans can and did happen, usually leading to disputes, thumpings, tears and shouting.  But that's what childhood is all about.  Buy some marbles for your kids today, then give them a thumping.  One day those will be cherished memories.

Finally, do not under any circumstances submit comments about "losing your marbles".  I will find you and destroy you.