Nothing against him, I just wasn’t ready to French Kiss. Hence, we lasted only a few days, and I didn’t rush out for a new boyfriend.
~
Aged 13, feeling more mature and ready to date for real this time, I asked out James, a boy in the school year below me.
He was cute, with dark hair, blue eyes, and dimples when he smiled. He reminded me of Boyzone’s, Stephen Gatley; he was hot!
James said, “yes.” We’d go out on our bikes or to the park. We held hands and kissed a couple of times. We were both shy, and I don’t even recall him ever trying to grab my rear while kissing me. Pure innocence was the extent of a childhood romance in those days.
I liked him; he was funny. But out of the blue, he dealt a blow (delivered some bad news), “I’m sorry, but I’m leaving our school to go to Cannington, an agricultural school,” he said, a tinge of sadness in his voice.
James’ family owned a farm; he would continue their legacy and needed to switch to a farming school to learn the ropes.
Feeling like I would never see him, given he lived in Banwell village, a few miles away, I cruelly dumped him. We were at my mum’s house when James’ best friend, Toby, suddenly turned on the CD player, playing break up songs—somehow, he knew I was about to tell James “sayonara”—cheers, Toby!
I can’t remember my exact words; after all, I was only 13, but I did let him down gently. Hurting him felt dreadful, I felt nauseous and cruel. Despite me ending the young romance, I felt my heart ache for the first time—a dreadful feeling. I think he was gutted; I was older and made him look cool.
Toby found the whole thing hilarious, seeing his best mate get dumped by a girl. I suppose I learned that young boys could be very childish and were far less mature than us girls!
~
A year or so later, I’d become best friends with a humorous classmate named Stephen. He had a nice smile and dark hair but was different from James and Ed.
We’d sit by each other in classes. At the end of school, Stephen was voted the funniest male, and I was voted the funniest girl. Humour was our connection. He loved my stupid impressions, especially of the 90s Dime bar TV commercial featuring an unsophisticated countryman, saying in a West Country (regional Somerset accent): “I likes Armadillos, smooth on the inside, crunchy on the outside.”
One day he asked me out. He said we should be boyfriend and girlfriend, seeing as we got on like a house on fire (got on well). The problem was we had become such good friends, dating felt odd. We kissed, laughed, and went back to being mates. Eventually, Stephen married another school friend, Anya, and they had two kids. But he, she and I remain Facebook friends to this day.
~
As I grew up doing my “boy thing,” flitting from friendships to dates, the time came when I embarked on my first holiday romance.
Family holidays became a bit more adventurous. I have vivid memories of our first trip to Turkey. The traditions and customs were different from any other country I’d ever visited.
We bathed in the unofficial eighth wonder of the world, Pamukkale thermal pools. When we finished, I remember vividly how the ruddy, dark-skinned Turkish men would flock to touch my unusual blonde hair, as if I was an angelic icon. (All the Turkish girls I met had dark brown or black hair.)
My parents were offered 50 camels and a very nice yacht to buy me. Dad played along for a bit. I was terrified Mum and Dad would eventually agree. Fortunately, they did not. Thank you, Mum and Dad.
Other than fear of being sold, I enjoyed wonderful experiences in Turkey: holding a giant swordfish, then eating it, taking camel rides, and being soaped up in a Turkish bath which felt like laying on a marble mortuary slab covered in bubbles, then sliding around like a wet fish.
~
The holiday (vacation) also contained its fair share of “naughty” Porkie Pie moments. One of the most memorable, which I mentioned earlier, was when my sister Shelly and I told Mum and Dad we were tired and going to retire a bit early. I sensed Dad thought it was a bit strange since we hadn’t done much all day besides lunch and sunbathe on the beach. But he said nothing.
I was all in because I wanted to see Aaron again—a cool guy with floppy hair and muscular build who, a day earlier, had chatted me up at the bar. He picked me over Shelly, who was two years older (the same age as Aaron) and looked a lot sexier.
I liked the plans but had reservations. Lying and betrayal sat heavily on my chest, but I also wanted to be daring. “Mum and Dad are right next door. How are we ever going to get past them because our door creaks like crazy?”
“Out the window, of course!”
Minutes later, my butt was sticking out of the window, as Shelly waited so that we could head up the path.
We didn’t know Mum and Dad had decided to go for a romantic walk in the moonlight.
“Where do you think you’re going?” boomed my father’s familiar voice. Red-faced, stomach knotted, with no excuse for dangling half in, half out, we were marched straight back to bed.
Despite that little setback, Aaron and I did manage to meet up a night or two later. He walked me down to the beach, and we kissed beneath the stars. He was a delightful kisser. He also convinced me to puff on my first cigarette afterwards. I didn’t like the taste of cigarettes and never smoked again. But kissing was another matter!
It was also super-cool showing my friends photos of my “older” holiday romance hunk. That first kiss with an ‘older guy’ did wonders for my confidence. I wasn’t undesirable after all. I could be admired by gorgeous boys and the feeling was both exciting and terrifying.
5.
NICE TUSH
“You should be kissed often and by someone who knows how.”
― Margaret Mitchell
1996…
As a teenager, with newfound confidence, I grew up fast. Although some people—like Mum, Dad, and Shelly—would argue I was growing up too quickly.
After returning from the Turkish summer holiday, I sneaked a bottle of a heavy-duty 80-proof mint liquor into my suitcase. I took it to my friend Liz’s house party and got drunk for the first time. As naïve kids, we didn’t realize the strength of the liquor and drank it in coffee mugs. First, I had a fun buzz; then, people started to look fuzzy, then I had no idea what I was doing.
Next thing I knew, my best friend Lily said, “Your dad is at the front door to pick you up. We giggled like two silly kids—which we were.
Lily then passed out on the kitchen floor!
I tried to act sober as I headed to Dad, but I fell straight through the front door.
Dad, smirking, didn’t let on. He caught me in his loving arms, and asked, “Where’s Lily?
“Asleep on the kitchen floor,” I answered calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to sleep on the floor tiles.
“Is she okay?” he asked, looking rather worried.
“She’s fine. Just messing around!”
“Okay,” nodded Dad.
The ride home was eerily silent. I assumed the worst was to come when Dad told Mum. But, to my surprise, there was not a word. The next morning Dad woke me up with a gentle tug. “Time for work.” (Lily and I had jobs as ice cream sellers in beach huts in the school holidays, for £15 a day, a huge sum for us). So, I dragged myself down to the Weston seafront boardwalk with my first hangover. I noticed Dad laughing out of the corner of his face as I struggled to the door; I think he rather enjoyed my first hangover. That first day after my