Wednesday, 9 February 2011
The start of a love story
It was about the time that this photo was taken. No, actually this is too early.
This photo is more like the right kind of time frame. Apparently the time when I had no neck...but a half decent tan. It was about the time when I could still get on the bus for 40p with my student card and the time when the most that I had to worry about was what I was going to wear to the dance that weekend and how much petrol money I should give to the driver. It was about the time that I listened to Ashlee Simpson and Panic at the Disco on repeat whilst I got ready for school and Shakira - Hips Don't Lie was played constantly. It's about this time that my love story started.
It was a Friday night and I was in Huddersfield at a dance with my friends. I was wearing dark jeans and a red chunky knit cardigan with a vintage style sparkling broach. I'd been dancing all night and generally been a silly teenage girl, obsessed with having perfectly glossed lips, having my equally perfectly glossed friends around me and whilst taking overly posed pictures of myself from an obscure above angle. I still cling to the fact that it's most flattering to have photos taken from above. But I digress.
The dance had finished and everyone was milling around in the hall, everyone suddenly very aware of themselves now that the lights had been turned on. I don't recall exactly what I was doing right then, but I could hazard a guess that it involved my perfectly glossed friends and a group of boys. In fact I'm pretty sure that it did. That was standard procedure really. Then, a rather tall boy in a green stripy hoody came over, took my hand and said "Sorry, but will you just come over here for a second. You look exactly like my friend and I want to stand you next to her to show just how similar you look." So I went over to his group of friends. He pointed to a blonde haired girl. A girl that I looked absolutely nothing like. I looked at the boy, a little confused and feeling slightly nervous. He flashed a cheeky smile and said "well, actually, you don't look anything like her. You're much prettier. I just used that as an excuse to get you away from your friends so that I could talk to you." Smooth. Real smooth. He than proceeded to ask for my name, which I gave and then asked if I have a number to go with that name. I did. So I gave it to him.
He told me his name that night, but I think for the next few days I just referred to him as the boy in the stripy green hoody. Original, I know. It didn't stick. But he still has the stripy green hoody.