My brother, and all those other children on that stage, don't know what tuition fees are. They don't know where Afghanistan is, they weren't born when September 11th happened, they don't know about all the hate and awful things that exist in the world, and they don't have any real responsibilities, bar going to school every weekday.
It's impossible of course, but part of me yearns to go back to my childhood. When it's football every lunchtime, where there's no exams, no worries about girls or money, where it's packed lunches, and cartoons, and spaghetti hoops for tea and Gerry Anderson programmes, where it's a good nights sleep every night and Saturday evening TV was great. It's Sharpe, Cantona and Schmeichel.
The funny thing is, the other part of me likes this age right now. Where it's fantastic games consoles, it's alcohol, it's having money, and freedom. It's knowledge, it's fantastic literature, gigs and adult humour. Where it's David Attenborough programmes, smart phones, Sky TV, HD TV, 3D TV. It's Evra, Nani and Rooney.
Perhaps it's too easy to reminisce. Too easy to look back and say "Everything was so much better then!". There's only so many episodes of Captain Scarlet I could watch, after all. Perhaps in life, we should never look back - only forwards, with occasional glances sideways. Or perhaps the great golfer Walter Hagen was right, when he said:
You're only here for a short visit. Don't hurry. Don't worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.
I don't know. What I do know however is that this blog entry has turned into an episode of The Wonder Years, it's 2am, I've drunk far too much sherry and I really need to stop this shit and go to bed. Oh, and it's my birthday. Happy birthday, me.