Twinkling Particles

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A nice thing about being a child in the early seventies was the absence of screens. No mobile phones, streaming TV, social media or other internet distractions. Looking back, life seemed a bit simpler back then.

My brother and I sit on a shiny 1970s mock-leather sofa. A large black-and-white television with clunky push buttons sits dejectedly in the corner of the small living room. Daytime television is still a thing of the future, so the heavy piece of electrical furniture is switched off, redundant.

From the kitchen come the clunks and rattles of food preparation. The noise is accompanied by music played from a classic Roberts R500 transistor radio. Until lunch is served, we are left to our own devices.

A low winter sun shines through the room's off-white net curtains. A few dust motes drift through the early afternoon light, some seemingly bouncing inside the shafts of sunlight, almost as if they were sentient.

We are fascinated by the additional dust we can create by beating the sofa cushions together. The more we crash the cushions together, the larger the shimmering cloud becomes.

Our ambition is unspoken but somehow understood: we want to fill the room with magical, dancing lights. Eventually, and to our delight, we reach our goal.

Our commotion and cries of joy have alerted our grandmother, who swiftly enters the room. She surveys the scene, not with the delight we had expected, but with a look of horror.

Within a few minutes, we find ourselves sitting in a quiet, somewhat chilly room. The living space is once again orderly, windows flung wide open, cushions back in place.

Our grandmother stands before us, amused rather than angry, duster and furniture polish clutched in hand.