It was sudden.
It was unexpected.
It was overpowering.
It happened in the canned meat, canned fish, condiments, and cooking-oil aisle at ASDA.

I was dutifully following behind my wife, pushing the trolley, when over the Public Address system came the sweet, smooth, soulful sound of the late, very late, great Jim Reeves singing “He’ll have to Go.“

© Beechwood Music Corporation

Instantly I was transported to another place in another time.
Gone was the 75+, bus pass carrying, geriatric granddad with dodgy knees, wrestling a a shopping trolley with going left-biased wheels through a Cardiff supermarket. I had returned to the nineteen year old randy airman I once was, full of vim and vigour, fuelled by testosterone and anticipation, and supping Amstel beer in the Keegalpalais Bar in Herleen while eyeing up the delectable ‘Cloggie’ crumpet on display.
It was that real I could taste the beer, and smell the perfume and the ciggie smoke. Saturday night heaven -- Jim Reeves on the jukebox and me on the pull and a promise.

Just as abruptly I was whisked back to the present.
A harsh, grating, Rhondda Valley accented, female voice broke in over the mellifluous voice of Jim.
“A colleague with a mop is required at checkout number three immediatley. Thank yew.”
Jim resumed singing but the moment had gone.
It was probably just as well as my wife was looking at me with a quizzical expression on her face.
“You didn’t hear a word I said, you were miles away, “she said.
Guilty on both counts, M’lud.

She held a tin of mackeral fillets in each hand (buy two get one free), and repeated her question. “Do you want them in oil or in brine?”
I thought of replying ‘do they do them in Amstel’, but instead said, “which ever you prefer, my love.”
55 years of marriage has endowed me with a modicum of common sense.