We were in Oxford the day the Olympic flame came through last month, so my wife and I joined the crowd lining the roads to watch.
Policemen on motorcycles zoomed by, and suddenly the torch appeared, borne by a smiling, middle-aged woman having the moment of her life, cheered on by the people of her city.
In the days before the London Games started, even in austerity-wracked Britain, the atmosphere was buzzing. The daily news kept us updated on the latest heroes carrying the Olympic flame through their neighbourhoods - the old, the young, the war veteran amputee, the tireless servants of local communities.
I don't usually get around to watching big, global sporting events, but we were in London as part of our summer holidays. And I have to say, we've been deeply inspired by the Olympics.
On the evening of the opening ceremony, as we walked to our local community hall to watch it on a big screen, the sky suddenly boomed and the legendary Royal Air Force Red Arrow stunt planes streaked across the sky. This was new to me - the restricted fly-zone rules of London officially being broken.
And then in the ceremony - with the 'queen' jumping out of a helicopter and Mr Bean messing up a London Symphony Orchestra performance - royal permission was given for us to leave our jadedness and cynicism behind and become children again, to join in the giant global celebration of life and nerve and muscle that was about to begin.