Over the last few weeks I have been gorging on the five series of Cold Feet, a programme that I used to love watching, with its believable characters, quirky playfulness, and real emotion. The revisits made me laugh and cry, once again. I remembered how good it was. How original. And that not only was it northern, but the women had an equal footing with the men.
I’ve let myself indulge in this escapism (quite a lot of dedicated hours) as I have just finished my latest novel and because I wanted to be prepared for the new series of Cold Feet, which came back to our screens last night after an absence of thirteen years.
I was really nervous and excited. Would it be a disappointment? A let-down? Would it be more than nostalgia?
Well, it was actually really good. The characters stayed true to themselves. Older, somewhat jaded, but instantly knowable. When we last saw them they had young children, like me. Now they have older teenagers, like me. They’ve grown up, like me. A little wiser? That remains to be seen.
In a couple of weeks I am going to a 30 year university reunion. (Which is a bit weird as my third novel, Bright Stars, published last year, is about a university reunion.) I can’t believe it’s really been three decades since I left my home in Devon to be a student at Lancaster. Although I still have good friends who’ve grown up with me, there will be people I haven’t seen in thirty years. I’m nervous and excited. (And very much hoping the reunion isn’t as disastrous as my fictional one.)
And I’m wondering which one will have a new head of hair. Or a much younger spouse…