Let’s turn back the clock 30 years. Yours truly was tubby, aged 10, and at infant school.
I was still happily playing with a tin of toy soldiers and nipping over the railings for a game of footie on the high school playing fields of a weekend (goalkeeper, obviously, because this asthmatic didn’t do much running about).
Then things changed. This was the year I looked beyond Sneyd Green and started to take notice of, well… other stuff.
I think this was because 1982 was a momentous year – for all sorts of reasons.
Indeed, I’m convinced it was the events of those 12 months which switched me on to current affairs.
No, I’m not talking about the arrival of the BMX or the ZX Spectrum home computer – I had neither.
Nor did I go in for Deely Boppers, ra-ra skirts or leg warmers – which all made their bow in ’82.
I’m not talking about the launch of Channel 4 with its first edition of Countdown, either.
No, what struck me when I watched the evening news was the crushing misery of real life.
Unemployment hit three million for the first time since the Thirties and I learned what a dole queue was.
Of course, there was no bigger story than the Falklands Conflict – which unfolded before our eyes on television from April to June.
For a starters, my mum suggested we stop buying Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies because of their country of origin. She only suggested it, mind.
As a 10-year-old I recall being worried as Maggie’s Task Force sailed off but I didn’t really know why.
The Falklands Conflict was the first ‘war’ which us Brits witnessed via nightly updates on the TV news.
For anyone who saw them, even a youngster like me, there are certain names and images which will be seared into your mind.
Mirage fighter planes, Exocet missiles, Harrier jump jets, Goose Green, Mount Tumbledown, the blazing Sir Galahad, the sinking General Belgrano.
For the 74-day duration of the conflict pictures were beamed into our living rooms every teatime – exposing for the first time the full horrors of war to us back home.
In the end, we won, but the cost was steep: 255 British military personnel, almost 650 Argentine military personnel and a handful of Falkland Islanders died.
Last year I met Simon Weston OBE – the remarkable survivor of that fire on the Sir Galahad – at a theme park in Cornwall of all places. He remains an inspiration.
Television also provided other vivid memories of that year for me.
In October I was one of more than 120 pupils at Holden Lane First and Middle who huddled around the school’s only beast of a TV and watched as King Henry VIII’s flagship the Mary Rose was raised from the murky depths of The Solent.
This was history at its most exciting and I was hooked for life.
I also watched virtually every game of the World Cup in Spain and very nearly completed the Panini Sticker album for the tournament – eventually giving up on a couple of Hungarian midfielders.
It was a year to be Italian and I recall the Boys’ Brigade lads playing football on the grass up at Wesley Hall Methodist church (trees for goalposts) all wanting to be Paolo Rossi.
1982 was also a year of contrasting royal stories. There was joy for the House of Windsor when Diana, Princess of Wales, gave birth to her son and future heir to the throne Prince William in June.
But a month later I remember being horrified that the Queen had spent 10 minutes chatting to intruder Michael Fagan when she woke up to find him sitting on the end of her bed.
Ten-year-old me was genuinely concerned about Her Majesty’s safety for several days after that.
Thirty years later and our Liz is approaching her Diamond Jubilee so I guess I needn’t have worried.
Happy anniversary, your Majesty.
Pick up a copy of the Weekend Sentinel every Saturday for 12 pages of nostalgia