'Stop! Turn it off! This is giving me the ick. Please no!" Ah, who remembers the rite-of-passage that is stumbling across a sex scene while watching television with your parents and cringing with mortification? Pretty standard stuff.
ack in the day, even a raunchy gyration by Legs & Co was enough for hot waves of shame and generalised Catholic guilt to sweep over me.
Fast forward to 2020 and I am now that parent - but I'm also the one recoiling in horror. Talk about cognitive dissonance.
How did that happen? Normal People happened, that's what.
Two episodes in and the hyped adaptation of Sally Rooney's bestselling novel has officially given me the proverbial ick - I can't countenance watching a moment more in case another tenderly gauche sex scene rears up to traumatise me.
My 17-year-old was the one telling me to get over myself, to grow up and stop hiding behind the cushions sobbing: "Marianne's breasts! They are too young for television! This isn't France! Why don't they let her put a vest on?"
To explain: Normal People has been heralded as a real television event, which is quite ironic really, as the not-quite love story is entirely eventless.
It just comprises two young characters, Connell and Marianne, ruminating, wallowing, yearning to belong, occasionally having sex, money and mental health issues and, of course, misunderstanding each other.
I'm Irish. I've been young. I've yearned. I've had my heart broken and wrestled with some pretty ugly, if unexceptional, mental health issues.
I ought to have loved it. Instead, I wanted to shake the protagonists and shout at them. "Get a grip!"
But there was something else darker at play too; even while I read the novel, I felt like an intruder. It's a highly accomplished, technically smart story. The adaptation is ravishing to look at and immaculate in tone.
But I can't help wishing this hermetically sealed examination of first love had come with some sort of "nostalgic millennials only" warning because I feel horribly prurient looking at Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal's young bodies. OK so she's 21 and he's 24 in real life, but the pair wear school uniforms (although, in later episodes, it moves to university).
And worse, there's nowhere else to look; no sub-plots. Few cameo roles. No backdrop of seismic geopolitical change. Maybe Normal People is, as many claim, the ultimate zeitgeist masterpiece reflecting the inner soul of millennials - who are already looking nostalgically at their youth.
If so, it turns out their inner soul is every bit as solipsistic and self-absorbed as the outer one.
Call me abnormal, but these just aren't my people.