Living Delights

Whilst JamsBio hasn’t quite taken over my life, it has started making an impact in funny little ways.

Yesterday, I decided to write some meaningless twaddle about Roger Moore and the movie North Sea Hijack. As the soundtrack for North Sea Hijack was unavailable for selection (and quite frankly, it is awful, if memory serves correctly, so no bad thing), I chose my favourite track from the Live And Let Die album.

Browsing through the album list on JamsBio, I noticed that all the Bond LPs had been remastered, reissued and in some cases, extended. This was lodged for future reference.

Following a typically unexciting day at the office, I decided to treat myself and head up to Piccadilly to buy some new trainers (which I did need anyway). The shoe-shopping trip was unsuccessful, so to pick myself up, I went to the record store intent on upgrading to the new version of Live And Let Die OST. My credit card then got excited, so I treated myself to a mini-splurge, coming home with a few other albums as well.

Now I seemed to recall The Living Daylights soundtrack being a bit ‘80s and crap, yet I was hit by an overwhelming urge to buy it. I think it was essentially a nostalgia trip – The Living Daylights was the first movie I can actually remember going to the cinema to see, although I used to have stickers on my bedroom wardrobe proving I had been to see Return Of The Jedi a few years earlier.

As I popped the CD in the machine, I was transported back to Brighton 1987: the pebbles, the seagulls, the smell of fish and chips, the good pier, the dodgy pier, the dodgy knees after a long walk along the beach, the crumbling Odeon and James Bond stealing a kiss from Kara in her dressing room at the end of the film…

And then this track came on and a tear started to roll down my cheek. And another. And then another - to the point where I was crying audibly and it was physically hurting so much, my face was starting to ache.

I’m not exactly sure why I started crying. I don’t wish to be eight years old again particularly, although care-free, youthful innocence has its appeal. So was it just that because I had had a decidedly average day at work, promised myself some retail therapy and then been unable to get the trainers I wanted, I started to feel sorry for myself? Was I crying on behalf of my mother, who I had spoken to earlier, and heard she had had a truly awful day - far worse than mine? Did I feel sad that, despite all the bumph in the papers, I was unlikely to be proposed to today? Or did I just I need a damn good boo? Whatever the reason, I felt much better for it.