Measuring my life in World Cups

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I've thoroughly enjoyed this year's World Cup. It made my heart swell to see the planet come together and enjoy some decent sportsmanship.

But despite the optimism and camaraderie, there's a certain melancholy that comes with the global contest. Because it reminds you just how fast life moves. Ferris Bueller was right, the bastard. I've tried to stop and look around once in a while, so I don't miss it.

We chose not to have children, so I've not measured time through them. No changing shoe sizes, school years or pencil marks scratched up a door frame. I don't have that particular yardstick for the passing years. Instead, I get the occasional jolt when I realise how much older we've all become. The World Cup happens to be one of those markers.

It comes around every four years, and suddenly you're reminiscing. What year was it when Gazza cried? When Roger Milla danced by the corner flag? When Beckham got sent off? You watch the old footage with your mouth hanging open, unable to believe how long ago it all was.

Cul-de-sacs and summer barbecues. French cricket and water pistols. Red trainers and Naf Naf jackets. Tammy Girl and Topshop. The smell of nearby farmers' fields and suburban pine trees. Hot concrete pavements and the distant chime of the ice cream van. Playing in the park until your dad appeared at the top of the road, hands on hips, and you knew it was time for tea.

I remember my own dad coming home after long days spent driving his company car around the country. During Italia '90, he happened to be in Italy on business and somehow managed to take a client to the final. He came back with a signed football covered in the players' autographs – what a hero – and three giant Toblerones in flavours we'd never even seen in Britain.

Back then, our England players seemed like gods. I had posters of Lineker and Barnes on my bedroom wall. That summer broke our hearts – I don't think I've ever quite recovered – but what stays with me now are the memories.

My eyes sting with wanting to step back into those days, if only for a minute. To see the people who are no longer here. To feel the uncomplicated excitement of a summer that seemed endless, when the biggest worry in life was finishing your homework or getting told off for drinking all of Nana's holy water from Lourdes because you thought, like Indiana Jones, it might grant you eternal life.

So I'll take the melancholy. It comes bundled with the good stuff – the swelling heart, the daft hope (now 60 years of hurt!), an entire planet paying attention to the same thing at once. The next one's four years off. I intend to notice this one properly.