Condensation makes me Nostalgic

Condensation on the windowpanes. Through the wet white fog on the glass, I can see sunlight on the hidden angles of the house next door. The light that falls on the bed is a bluish-white. A cold light. Reminds me of Christmas and old Januaries back at school; 1986 perhaps, school day weekends, drawing A4 posters for imagined horror films ('Frankenstein + zombies = horror!' was the tag-line for one such attempt) trips into Ickenham or Uxbridge for comics or computer games on cassette tapes. Losing afternoons in bad graphics landscapes, losing every game but not minding because who was ever meant to complete Jet Set Willy anyway with that attic bug..? Condensation makes me nostalgic. Back to Burnside, Kinloss, 1982. On the window panes of my room, clearing a space in the condensation. Letting the water drip down. Lines through the white. I used to imagine that what was left was some kind of alien creature, some sub-Lovecraftian monstrosity (I had only read one Lovecraft story at the time and hadn't come across the Cthulhu Mythos yet). I would imagine the house was under siege by the Martians from War of the Worlds (The Jeff Wayne musical version). Hide under my bed with my Star Wars figures and Action Men until I started to think about the possibility of spiders. Spiders seemed much more common back then. Things as monstrous as those creatures I made in the condensation on the window panes. Black bodies and cruel, spiky legs. Black bodies that didn't seem to have eyes. They were like body organs from some nightmare organism. Genuine fear when I would first sight a spider, scuttling along in that nightmare-terror way of movement they have, or hanging next to an air vent on my wall, waiting. This terror lasted right up until I was about twenty when it seemed to vanish, but so did the nightmare spiders too, as if they had been feeding on my phobia the whole time. Without terror they starved to death. I must clear the glass of condensation, open the windows and clean the sill. Don't want mould getting a hold of things in here. Entropy, of kinds, again. I can hear voices from outside. Cold words on these oddly consolatory January days.