The first boy I ever kissed

Some friends and I used go to a Youth Club every Thursday night. There were three boys there; Tom, Tom and John, who we were all in various stages of having crushes on. We were twelve years old and it was all very exciting.

Then some new boys came to Youth Club, Michael and Oliver. I liked Michael and my friend liked Oliver. Something happened one week when he was coming to Youth Club, he got into a fight or someone beat him up or something. He was an easy target as he was really very short. So he wasn’t at Youth Club that week. I missed him and got all Jane Eyre about it and realised I really really liked him.

There was one major problem though. He was in the year below. O. My. Goodness. Liking a year seven boy when you’re a year eight girl is sooooo not the done thing. The girls in school said I’d get called a Cradle Snatcher. I got even more Jane Eyre about it and promised myself this wouldn’t keep us apart! (Yes, we were 11 and 12 years old… What of it?)

There was lots of chatting and what I perceived at the time to be ‘flirting’ but nothing much else. I mean, past that, what is it ever at age 12?

Until there was a school disco. As I went to a girls’ school, the discos would be together with one of the boys’ schools. It just so happened that Michael went to the boys’ school that we were having the disco with that time.

My friend, the one who liked Michael’s friend, and I were walking to class that day, excited for the disco, declaring loudly about how ‘I never thought I’d like a year seven boy,’ and realised all the classes had already started and were sitting in silence and a lot of them had their doors open into the corridor. God knows what they must have thought of our inane chat about year seven boys, like we were such grown ups and year sevens are really little.

Anyway, the night of the disco and there we were, Michael and I, holding plastic bottles of Panda Pops in illunimous colours, bobbing about unrhymically a little bit near each other. At one stage, we took it further by putting our fingertips gingerly on each others’ shoulders and stepping from side to side in time.

And therein lay the problem. I was taller than him to start with and I had put high heels on for the evening. They weren’t mega high but enough to make a difference.

A bit later we were standing separately, each with our gang of friends and there was a flurry of messengers back and forth. This was how things worked at discos.

You saw a boy you liked the look of. You asked your friend to ask him if he wanted to dance. There was some running back and forth until it was eventually decided. You’d linger around until a new song started or until he’d finished his dance with another girl and then you’d walk over, each raise your hands, the girl tended to put her hands on his shoulders and he would put his hands on her waist, all done from afar, mind you. And you would step or sway from side to side for a few minutes then separate and scurry back to your friends. It was the height of excitement for a twelve year old.

If you had decided you wanted to kiss a boy, the same system of messengers ran back and forth to establish a yes or a no and then you approached each other, awkwardly snogged a bit while everyone gawped, then maybe had a little hugging dance afterward, then parted and ran off to tell your friends about it.

Michael and I had decided it was time for the next stage. His friend approached me and asked if I wanted to kiss Michael. I, the classy girl that I am, said alright, but as the height difference would make it awkward, I had spotted some chairs by the wall so we’d have to perch there to even out the height difference. And so we did. We perched, guffawing a little and waiting for the other to start the process. We then kissed a little bit, parted, smiled, unsure of what to say and then stood and each walked off to our friends.

And that was it really. The romance ended pretty shortly after that. I think I’d decided a relationship that consisted of sitting down kissing was a bit too high maintenance for me. I was off to find a boy I could kiss while standing up!

Feedback from Day 1 of getting excited

I just wrote this post and then it deleted itself. I’m trying not to be angry right now. I’m trying quite hard to find this event exciting in some way. Erm. It’s exciting because now I get to relive how great my first day of getting excited was…. Stay calm Laura….

Ok, let’s start again and hope I don’t miss anything out.

So yesterday was my first day of getting excited. I wore a yellow dress, a red jumper and a blue coat and I went on the Jubilee line in the underground. Actually, that’s incorrect. Maybe I should stern from the top.

I donned my yellow dress in the spirit of Her Maj and set off for work. Now I’m bot sure where I’ve got this idea that the Queen wears yellow dresses from. Does she wear them often? Or had I seem one picture ONCE where she was wearing yellow and I’ve got it in my mind that she ALWAYS wears them? Actually, we mustn’t count out what’s quite probably happened. I’ve got my yellow dress washed and ready to wear anyway and am trying to find a way it seem regal.

Anyway, I knew people would notice and compliment me so I got ready for the tidal wave. I prepared a suitable demure Queen-like response and waited. Would you believe it, not ONE person said ‘Wow, Laura, that yellow dress is magnificent. You know something? You really look like the Queen in that dress.’ No-one! SHOCKED! I was just shocked. So I started pointing it out to people and got a few ‘mmm’s. All that effort for an ‘mmm’?! I’m starting to think that maybe these people of the ‘mmm’ variety ought to embrace a getting-excited project of their own.

Also, I shed my red jumper and blue coat early on cause I was quite warm.

Then I was discussing my planned journey across London and a friend said the Victoria line would be much faster.

“But I need to go on the Jubilee line,” I protested. “For the Jubilee.”

“No, it’s ok, because it’s the Victoria line. Queen Victoria.”

“You’re a genius!” said I. “The Victoria line it is!”

It was a long while later before either of us remembered that OF COURSE the Queen is not called Victoria! You know when you just say something without thinking? Then later you suddenly realise what you’re going on about?!

Sorry Lizzie, for forgetting your name.

I decided to take the Victoria line anyway because she was a queen of England, so it kind of fits with the theme.

As I was really getting into the whole excitement thing by this point, I leapt onto the train enthusiastically. Kind of. I stepped on with a slight bounce, I guess. I chose a seat and sat down. In my yellow dress. On the Victoria line. Thrilling.

The carriage was about two thirds full. No-one was talking. I took out a book in an excited lively manner and read it. At Euston, two women got on different doors and headed toward the same seat. The lady to my left, with a rucksack and walking shoes, was quite speedy and she easily beat the lady to my right, who, in high heels and small dress, was ill-equipped for the challenge at hand. When she realised she had been beaten, she just passed by at the same speed and pretended she didn’t care. I wasn’t fooled though. I could see she was gutted.

I was on the train for about six stops and I exited it in much the same excitable way as I had entered it.

And that was my experience of being excited about the Jubilee by going on the Victoria line. It was pretty cool.

So my thoughts about my first day of the experiment are that it’s nice being excited about things. It adds a bit of variety. I’ll have to put some thought into what I can get excited about next. I’m open to suggestions.

PS Today I am going swimming. This probably doesn’t seem very epic but in my world it is. For a girl who hasn’t got into a swimming costume in years, it’s pretty big news. I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s like being told that the next time you go out, you’re only allowed to wear your underwear. I’m not used to being so undressed in public! Will spend the next hour or so psyching myself up. Wish me luck!

O is for…

OLD!

Now I’m not going to patronise anyone born before me by suggesting that I’m ‘old.’ I’m not. It’s my 27th birthday today and should I avoid any more life threatening situations (my recent one is still fresh in my memory), I’ve probably got a good long while to go yet.

But 27 is older than I’ve ever been before, and as a girl who thinks of herself as ‘still a bit of a trampy student’, it’s quite a shock to realise I’m only three years away from 30. I guess I’d better get on and actually do some ‘life things’ then!

I wonder if people think I look almost 30? I don’t. I think I still look a bit silly and young. Should I take to wearing ‘power suits’, maybe? Stop finding swearing and the word ‘boobs’ so hilarious? Pre-empt middle-age-ness and start using anti wrinkle cream? Join a gym? Start wearing make up? Own a pair of high heels? Own a little black dress? Do something with my degrees? Any suggestions?