I remember the planning, the plotting, the trepidation.
How to get a card to the boy of your dreams without him ever suspecting it was you? (A pointless endeavour if ever there was one). And then in the morning, waiting for the postman, sisters punching one another most unalluringly on the bristly doormat to be first to shuffle through the envelopes.
At school perhaps, something slipped in through the edge of the locker door? Or in the evening, dark early, a furtive shuffling of feet outside and something drops through the letterbox. In my most outlandish imaginings, a ring at the bell, no-one to be seen - but a bunch of roses standing proud against the doorstep.
I am reading my 1982 Letts Schoolgirl’s Diary. It’s the year of my O levels and Grade 8 violin, although these important events only merit an occasional passing mention. The year dragged agonisingly by in a series of mostly unrequited crushes (“Dave B. told me stop watching him at football practice. Could feel myself blushing like a beetroot and felt like crying”); boyfriends who let me down (“waited for John to come over but he never did”); desultory skirmishes with lads that weren't worth it (“snogged Mark C. But I don't really like him”); and concern about my weight (“oh no, I weigh 7 stone 7!!!!!! You pig!!!!!”)
I never received a Valentine card from a secret admirer.
At school perhaps, something slipped in through the edge of the locker door? Or in the evening, dark early, a furtive shuffling of feet outside and something drops through the letterbox. In my most outlandish imaginings, a ring at the bell, no-one to be seen - but a bunch of roses standing proud against the doorstep.
I am reading my 1982 Letts Schoolgirl’s Diary. It’s the year of my O levels and Grade 8 violin, although these important events only merit an occasional passing mention. The year dragged agonisingly by in a series of mostly unrequited crushes (“Dave B. told me stop watching him at football practice. Could feel myself blushing like a beetroot and felt like crying”); boyfriends who let me down (“waited for John to come over but he never did”); desultory skirmishes with lads that weren't worth it (“snogged Mark C. But I don't really like him”); and concern about my weight (“oh no, I weigh 7 stone 7!!!!!! You pig!!!!!”)
I never received a Valentine card from a secret admirer.
And I wouldn’t be sixteen again for all the world.
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