A year in people #16 – the boy with no name

(because I can’t remember it)

I was 14 years old, on holiday in Tunisia. It was exotic, my second ever holiday abroad and I was allowed to take a friend.

Of course, at that age, we thought we were So Grown Up. Just the age where we’d started to notice boys, we’d hang around the pool in our bikinis eyeing them up. We got chatting to some kids our age, and there were two boys a year or two older. I think we told them we were 15 or 16, not wanting to appear immature (because of course we weren’t).

I liked the tall one, whatever his name was. He had slightly sticky-out-ears and a cute face, pretty much the only pre-requisite to me fancying someone at that age.

We all hung out for what felt like ages, but in reality I think it was just a couple of days. We were there for two weeks, and they were going home at the end of our first week. Obviously this was TRAGIC.

One night, I think it was their last night, at the hotel disco, we Slow Danced. Oh! To be a teenager again. This was a Big Thing and although totally awkward and shuffley, it was also divine. We may have also had a little snog, whether in the disco or later, I can’t quite remember.

Afterwards we walked out of the hotel disco, arm-in-arm through the hotel lobby, right past my parents. GOD HOW EMBARRASSING. I probably totally ignored them; pretended I didn’t know them. No doubt my Dad would have had a smirk on his face and a raised eyebrow. Parents are SO embarrassing at that age, for no particular reason apart from just existing.

I don’t remember a gushy goodbye, or even swapping any contact details, but I will always remember that slow dance as an awkward teenager. As adults we skip that kind of stuff, rushing through dating. I’d like to be wooed please. Take me dancing and don’t try to get in bed with me straight away.

I’ve got a picture of him, but it’s an old skool printed photo, in a box somewhere in a storage container in the UK.

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