Saturday, 23 April 2016

Blue Hair, Writing Squad and Supernatural Bonding

So firstly I now have blue hair, as one can see from these atrocious selfies. 



Second of all, I GOT ACCEPTED ONTO THE WRITING SQUAD YOU GUYS!
(I seriously can't believe it I'm so happy!)
And third I'm in London and watching Supernatural with my cousin so all is right in the world.
(She may not ship Destiel though. So all may not be right with the world.)

Friday, 15 April 2016

at half eight, memories change


I didn't expect my mother to walk in a few weeks ago at half eight in the morning and tell me the kid who used to sit next to me in primary school was downstairs in the hallway, but that's exactly what happened.

So you don't think my life is an 80s teen film, his dad works for my parents as a builder and on this occasion he'd decided to bring his son with him. His dad's lovely. His son isn't so lovely. Or wasn't, to be more accurate.

This was mainly what was sticking in my head when my mother half-shoved my bedroom door open and hissed "He's brought K (name changed to protect the not so innocent) with him!" at which point I nearly hid in my wardrobe and counted down the minutes until I passed out from lack of oxygen.

Of course, I did not do that because I was meeting friends for brunch and hunger won out.

So I went downstairs. I said hi to M (K's dad.) And then I was greeted with the sight of K.

To be fair, K was polite. Someone else might have said he was good-looking. I could still see the kid he'd been so I couldn't. ("Has he had his teeth fixed?" was my perhaps uncharitable first remark to my mother, when she had informed me of this news.) I would have been happy being polite back and waiting for him to belatedly remember who I was after he'd left my house and so suffer the sort of awkward moment he'd previously visited upon me in primary school. (He used to love taking the piss out of everything I said. So I hated him. We were eight and that was enough for me to hate him.)

But anyway, I appeared in the kitchen and K was there and my mother decided to ask "Do you remember Lydia?"

To be fair, she did this with the best of intentions, imagining it would break the ice, but I would have vastly preferred the ice to remain unbroken.

He blinked, then blinked again. "Oh my god."

I smiled, which seemed to be the only thing to do.

"How-how are you?"

I did the usual, which I am good at. I'm fine, how are you. Oh, you're studying Law, brilliant. Where? University round the corner, great. Oh, I'm writing, doing A Levels, hoping to apply for Oxbridge, LSE, etc. When you're not born with all these social skills naturally, sometimes you get really good at imitating them.

He nodded at me and then our parents began talking and his dad called him away to help with something. I promptly did the only thing I could do, which was have a silent panic attack in a chair and message my friends, liveblogging the whole event for them.

I say the whole event but there wasn't too much of the rest of it. He was working and I had plans so we weren't forced to speak to each other. I made sure the door to my room was closed when he went past. He ignored the posters I've Blu-tacked to the door and the extra bookcase my parents have been forced to install for me on the landing, because I own enough books to break the floorboards. I escaped to brunch and detailed the whole saga in the diner to my friends who found it hilarious.

The other part of the event was that he stared at me. Every time I looked up, he'd be looking. We'd both look and then look away.

I'm not complaining about him looking at me. I wasn't uncomfortable by it. It was just a change, from the way I'd expected him to treat me. I'm not saying I would have expected a repetition of when we were eight. But I suppose I expected it to be a shadow of that time in some way. The fact he was nice leant it a certain surreality. Whenever I'd thought about running into him again, I would have expected that I'd be able to return happily to my memories of despising him in primary school. As I messaged my friend later, in indignant block capitals, WELL, MR. NICE HAS PUT PAID TO THAT.

But it's a strange thing, anyway. I'm not sure, on balance now, if I'm glad it happened or not.