Why didn’t I know the things I know now when I was young? Why was I scared of being young? Why was I so scared, full-stop? Why did my age paralyse me? Why did I care what other people thought? Why did I hold back on the things I wanted to say? Why was I scared of the reaction of others? Why didn’t I just wear what I wanted to wear? Why didn’t I Say what I wanted to say? Why didn’t I say things to the people I wanted to say them to? Why didn’t I just listen to the music I wanted to listen to? Why didn’t I play it as loud as I wanted? Why didn’t I dance to it? Why didn’t I go out for a drive at midnight and just forget I had work the next day? Why did I waste the week away waiting for Friday? Why didn’t I just live for the day? Why didn’t I take more risks? Why didn’t I tell people my secrets?
I can’t get used to that number. When I was growing up as a child I loved science-fiction. Books, films, television – you name it and I enjoyed it. 2001: A Space Odyssey, Space: 1999, Gerry Anderson’s marvellous UFO. They all predicted the future where space travel was common place. We drove round in these fantastic, futuristic cars and no one worked; we just had one long holiday with cyborgs looking after us. Now all those dates are in the past and none of the predictions came to much.