Every wall in his room was clad in scenes from Return ofthe Jedi. It was the first film Kent had ever seen at the cinema in thesummer of 1983, and he had pestered his dad for weeks afterwards for the wallpaper.Sent to stay at his grandparents for a couple of nights in August, he returnedon his birthday to the delight of discovering his newly decorated room.
He glanced to his left to see the Charlie Brown clock he hadlearnt to tell the time from. It was half past eight. Then he looked down athis body.
The Star Wars theme extended to his pyjamas but itwas what was inside them that shocked him. The hairy, fat belly, peeling drylegs and gnarled old toenails were gone. The smooth skin that met his gaze confirmedhe was well and truly back in his seven-year-old body. The angel had been trueto his word. He was young again! This was really happening!
He felt incredibly alive and full of energy. Spontaneously heleapt up and started bouncing up and down on the bed with joy. Had the forty-two-year-old,eighteen-stone version of Kent done that, not only would he have broken theslats on the bed, he may possibly have gone through the floor as well. Even so,his youthful exuberance was enough to attract attention from downstairs.
“Hey! How many times have I told you to stop bouncing up anddown on that bed? It’s not a trampoline, you know!”
It was a comforting voice, one that Kent had not heard formany years. His mother had died, a victim of early onset Alzheimer’s, not longafter the heart attack that had claimed his father. Overwhelmed with joy at thethought of seeing her again he raced to the bedroom door, turned right and downthe stairs, noting the hideous orange and yellow patterned carpet that had beenfashionable when they had bought it in the 1970s. He hurtled around the 180-degreeturn where there were four triangle-shaped stairs he used to call the cheesewedges, and on down into the kitchen, straight into his mother’s arms. “Mum!”he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Well, where else would I be?” she replied. This was a reasonablecomment. His mother hadn’t worked; she had stayed home and looked after her childrenfull-time, as many more women did in those days. His father had worked full-timein the management team of a local factory, earning enough money to pay their mortgage,food and bills. Such a scenario would have been unthinkable in 2018 when houseprices had spiralled out of all control in their local area, but the world wasa very different place in 1984.
And now here she was, forty-three years of age and stillbeautiful, her long, straight, dark hair cascading down over her shoulders ontothe red woollen jumper she so often wore. All Kent wanted to do was grab holdof her, squeeze her tight and never let go. She was standing at the sink,washing up, and seemed huge in comparison to his diminutive stature.
He gave her a quick hug, wrapping his arms around her waist,and then reluctantly pulled away. Should he be overdoing the displays ofaffections? Perhaps he ought to play along properly with the scenario he nowfound himself in and not do or say anything out of character. He didn’t want tobetray that he wasn’t who he appeared to be.
But then what was out of character? What was he like as a seven-year-old?Had he hugged his mother much when he was that age? It was so difficult to rememberafter so many years. His fat, unhealthy forty-two-year-old self had about asmuch in common with his seven-year-old persona as an astronaut might have with someonefrom the Stone Age. Yes, he was the same person, but how much difference hadthe intervening thirty-five years made to his own mind and body? He had changedcompletely, and mostly not for the better.
Thinking about it further, he decided that it ultimately wouldn’tmatter much what he said or did. From what he remembered about his own kidsgrowing up, a lot of nonsense came out of the mouths of seven-year-olds. He shouldjust relax, enjoy the day and try to rediscover naturally his childhoodpersonality.
He tried to think of what the best thing to say was and allhe could come up with was, “What’s for breakfast?” It seemed a sensible enoughthing to ask, something that anyone of any age might say. And it was a genuineenough question. He really did feel hungry. Now was that because his seven-year-oldbody was genuinely hungry, or was it his adult mind telling him he was? Hedecided it must be the former. One of the reasons Kent had put on so muchweight was that his bored mind was constantly telling him to go and raid thebiscuit barrel at home. That was comfort eating, but right here and now hecould genuinely feel the hunger in his stomach.
“Sit yourself down,” replied his mother. “I’m just doingyour eggy soldiers.”
Soft-boiled egg with soldiers! How long had it been since hehad had that? Kent could see that today was going to be one long nostalgia festand this was only the beginning.
He dipped his bread into the gooey yolk and popped it intohis mouth. It was absolutely delicious! When did food ever taste this good?
He knew that his mother used to buy her eggs from an oldlady across the road who kept chickens and she baked her own bread. Might thatbe a factor? He had often heard older people say that in the 21st-century worldof mass-produced goods, food didn’t taste as good as it used to.
Kent usually dismissed this as part of the older generation’stendency to go on through rose-tinted spectacles about how much better life hadbeen in the old days, even though he was fast becoming one of them himself. Hisgrandmother had been particularly adept at spinning out these clichés, claimingthat when she was a girl there had been a heatwave every summer and that it alwaysused to snow at Christmas.
Now that he was back here and enjoying this amazing breakfasthe began to wonder if his grandmother had been right. He hadn’t even consideredthe
