In my fifth year, my out-of-school social life takes a turn for the uneventful. Trips into the city with friends end abruptly. I can imagine that this must have been a pretty miserable time for me, but my diaries are too stiff-upper-lip for me to be able to confirm that. I spend more time at home, with my family, probably annoying them to high heaven with my surliness. In January, I buy this CD that has been out for a couple of months. It’s called Different Class and it tells me everything that I ever needed to know about my life. I retreat from the world, watching, nay, obsessing over Red Dwarf and inventing more imaginary girlfriends to keep awkward questions at bay. I also get obsessed with Pulp and hunt down their back catalogue.
I develop a crush on a beautiful blonde girl called Nicola with a phenomenal music collection and perky breasts. Things start to pick up in spring, as I find a friend in a short chap called Adam who had been quietly (well, actually, quiet is not an adjective often used to describe Adam) getting on with his life ever since we were roommates in France for a week in the second year. We spend hours at a time on the phone. I’m not his only friend, but he’s everything to me. I’d say that he’s my first real friend since I started at this school – the first person that I’ve chosen to spend time with because he’s exceptional, not just because he’s convenient. The first person with the sensitivity to actually take an interest in me as a person, to recognise my low self-esteem, to talk about it openly and honestly, and subsequently to help me get over it. I guess I’ve realised my priorities at last.
In June, my sister offers to drive me round to the pub on a Friday night. I’ve never been out to the pub before. *It’ll be fine,* she says, *you’ll have no difficulty getting served, and whenever I go out I always see loads of people from your year, and you can hang out with them.*
I believe her, and so begins one of the worst nights of my life. True, I have no difficulty getting served, and it’s true that there are loads of people from my year, but they are the in-crowd, and I am not, and I can not bring myself to talk to them. I find a corner of that packed, noisy pub where I can nurse a pint of John Smiths (£1.35) without getting too jostled. I then get a bag of chips from the chip shop (60p) to kill time until my sister leaves the pub.
In July, I join the gym.
*This is part 5 of a 7-part series called “My Teenage Years” which documents my school days between the ages of 11 and 17*
5 replies on “My Teenage Years: 15”
Ok for this post I have to leave a comment.
I already knew this one would be coming through some back channels. Not it’s exact content but knew it would be here at some point.
So here I am basking…oh yeh that feels good!
But seriously now, Pete has a much better memory than me. And, of course, he has this tendancy to document everything which probably helps. I can’t recall an exact moment we became friends. I remember France and I remember us being friends but never a gap in between.
He was an odd chap at times, but then weren’t we all. I didn’t do anything special that I remember. So by the end of this comment I will end my basking.
I wish I had known more (maybe I did and have forgotten) about our “missing years”. It seems silly that I didn’t know about aspects of your life untill recently.
Bernard when you read this, which you undoubtedly will at some point (let’s hope your Dad remember’s to back it up – I had to think about this comment!), all you need to know (because you will have doubted it at times) is that your Dad is a great guy. He was my best friend at school and he’ll be yours too and you’ll be able to go to him for or about anything. He’s that type of chap.
He told me during a rather nostalgic day that he was in my debt. As I am in his. He was the first, and one of only, proper male friends I have. At that time in my life befriending the same sex was as tricky for me as befriending the opposite may have been for Pete, but he was there for me. So we’re quits ok?
Basking over..
I have just read your comment to Bernard, and he’s giving a knowing grin. He agrees that his dad is awesome.
This calls for a group hug.
I’m tearing up.
awwwwww