All Of Us.

I was seven. Seven and a half. On this day in 1969, I watched humans land on the moon, walk on the moon, bring the moon and the whole of the universe down to us.

Mum and Dad had bought me an Airfix Apollo 11 rocket the day before, which must have been so expensive for them. It stood proudly on the dining table next to us as we watched the weird grainy pictures and listened to the weird grainy voices and we breathed quietly together and I knew something magical was happening up there and something magical and poetic was happening down here too, here in grey, prosaic Enfield. I imagined I was Neil Armstrong. I wondered what Buzz Aldrin was thinking. And I felt a bit sorry for Michael Collins because he wouldn't be able to say he landed on the moon. I knew I'd probably never be an astronaut but I thought I might one day be an American if I tried hard enough.

Every year on this day I wonder why no-one's really making more of it. That evening my parents and my sister and my friends and the neighbours and Neil and Buzz and Michael and me and the rest of the world shared something we can be so, so proud of. Today’s one of the anniversaries we should all celebrate with pride and awe and joy.

I really wish I could be back there with Mum and Dad, sit on that hideous yellow and black sofa of theirs, watch it happen all over again. And I wish they were here now to read this and to talk to about it. But it's OK. They helped me walk on the moon once, just for a while.