Thursday, 23 February 2012

Me and Quick Worker

It is the summer term; I go to a school disco with my friend Faith: she is the Holmes to my Watson, the Queen Anne to my Sarah Churchill, the Rachel to my Monica  -  we are the bestest of best friends.  This manifests itself  by us wearing  the same clothes, having the same hair cut and colour (courtesy of Clairol) and even buying the same type of knickers - generally decorated with the days of the week or dodgy cartoon characters - such is our desire to be the same.

On this particular evening we are dressed in identical navy blue jumpsuits - think Tom Cruise in Top Gun (I can hardly believe I am admitting this).  They have zips that go down to the navel - obviously being good girls we are  zipped up to our collar bones.  When apart we are both quite shy, but when together become a total pair of exhibitionists; we dance when everyone else is still shuffling around the walls, before the teachers herd them into the middle, we also make an awful lot of noise.  I'm sure some of this showing-off was down to me not wearing my specs - I take the line that if I can't see, then no one can see me. Of course we do identical dances; probably practised while watching Top of the Pops and spend quite a lot of time declaring our undying devotion to each other.  I am about to change schools, but we will remain as one and no man (if we should ever be so lucky) will come between us.

A boy keeps trying to break in on our twosome, muttering strange things about twins (the charmer...).  Then Faith needs to go to the loo - instead of going with her as I would normally - I stay and talk to Quick Worker ( for it is he).  I have no excuse for my disloyalty - it was not his scintillating conversation, a mutual love of music or reading - no, I suspect it was his DM's  - you may call me shallow, but ask yourself if you would have behaved differently.  Faith was then dumped for the evening - but don't feel too sorry for her as I think she enjoyed the experience of dancing with one of our geography teachers.

It is time to go home. Quick Worker and I say good night - this involves grappling in a corner (a compulsory activity) and then there is just time for one last trip to the loo before Faith's Mum arrives to take us home in her yellow Honda.  When in the brightly lit room Faith takes one look at me and laughs gleefully. 'Well, he was a Quick Worker', she snorts.  Somehow I have the most enormous, disfiguring love bite on my neck.

Despite the ensuing heatwave I spend the next two weeks assuring my mum that I am cold and need to wear a polo neck sweater (not a great look for those of us who are lacking in the chin department).

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