sweets in 1990s

A day in the life in 1993

I wake up and run downstairs. My body is pure energy – sparks fly from my fingertips and lazers shoot from my eyes. I skid into the living room and turn on our rented TV-VHS combi. The Big Breakfast is on and I watch Zig and Zag with a massive bowl of Frosties. They’re not my favourite cereals – they’re not even actually that grrreat! – I only picked them because they came with a free neon spoke for my BMX. 

Once I’m done splashing milk all down my Count Duckula PJs, I change into my school joggers and my special T-shirt that changes colour depending on my body temperature. I put on my Clarks and my mum hands me my lunchbox. Thick brittle bright yellow Bluebird plastic with a lush Lion-O, sword drawn and ready, on the front – Thundercats ho! I know exactly what’s in it: a Penguin chocolate bar, haslet sandwiches, a packet of Tangy Toms and a flask full of squash that despite looking indestructible like the detonator of a nuclear bomb from a Bond film (by the way I love James Bond, Roger Moore is my most favoritest), it’s guaranteed to leak and soak all my sandwiches by lunchtime. 

I shove some Monsters in My Pocket into my pocket along with some broken biscuits from the big cardboard box in the treats cupboard. I will eat these on the short walk to school. 

At school, I read The Outsiders by S.E Hinton and help build a robot. I also write a poem about Victorians. 

At break, a girl runs over to me giggling and places a fortune telling fish in my hand. The transparent red fish curls up into a tight spiral in my palm. 

After consulting her notes and the mood ring that glows on her index finger, she tells me that it’s over between us. I hadn’t realised we were even going out, but that doesn’t stop the colour of my T-shirt quickly changing around my now broken heart. I call her frigid – whatever the hell that means – and run off to play What’s the time, Mr Wolf? 

It seems everyone is telling fortunes today. The posh girl with the American dad (actually Canadian) is taking appointments behind the bin with her Magic 8 ball. A consultation costs a Push Pop – and you only ever get one question and three goes at getting the right answer. 

I much prefer the homemade paper fortune tellers. Pick a number.  Pick a colour. Pick a number. Pick a colour. And it always says ‘you smell like poo’. At least you know exactly where you’re at. 

I try to climb the rope in P.E and fail for like the trillionth time. I decid