too much. The opening for a hello-who-are-you? conversation is right in front of me but I ignore it, smile again and walk away.
Two hours later I find myself in conversation with a group of people from the history and geography honours course, who are friends of Nick’s. Anne suddenly appears at the edge of the group. I notice her immediately but don’t make eye-contact. After a while the conversation gravitates to a forthcoming field trip so I turn to my left to speak to Anne and I’m pleasantly surprised to see her smiling at me.
‘I’m Jim,’ I tell her. ‘I think I’ve seen you around.’
‘I’m Anne. We met in the kitchen.’
We fall into conversation, covering such general topics as who we know at the party, what courses we’re studying and where we live. Soon, however, under Anne’s direction, the conversation becomes less general and more personal. Unprompted she begins telling me about her life: the odd snippet about her ex-boyfriend, bits about her parents’ divorce, and about how she’s never really got on very well with her sister. For the most part I listen and occasionally respond with the few nuggets of wisdom I’ve collected during my life on earth. They seem to have the desired effect of either cheering her up or making her laugh.
Saturday, 27 April 1991
12.23 a.m.
Anne and I have been out at the Varsity. Since the party back in February we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Most evenings she’s at my house or I’m at hers. Everyone, including Nick, and Anne’s ex-boyfriend, believes that we’re an ‘item’ or, at the very least, on the verge of being together. Flattered as I am I tell anyone who will listen that there’s nothing going on and we’re just good friends. The reaction is always the same: they laugh as if they think I’m lying. I can’t blame them because as time has passed I find it more and more difficult to believe it too.
Anne has taken it upon herself to flirt with me outrageously.
We walk around hand in hand.
But nothing ever happens.
I’ll stay over at her house and sleep in her bed while she wears nothing but a bleached-out Stone Roses T-shirt and a smile.
But nothing ever happens.
She kisses me on the lips for no reason and on one occasion even puts her tongue into my ear.
But nothing ever happens.
Tonight, however, as we have both had too much to drink, I decide that something is going to happen. So, when we’re sitting on the sofa at her house, half watching Central Weekend Live , half falling asleep, I lean in towards her and kiss her lips.
It’s better than I ever imagined. But just as I’m about to start enjoying it she pulls away from me. ‘Jim,’ she says, startled. ‘You know I like you, don’t you?’
Not that old one. ‘Yes.’
‘The thing is, I don’t like you like that.’
Yes, that old one. ‘Like what?’
‘Like this,’ she says, gesturing towards me with her hands, indicating that the space between us is ‘that’. ‘It’s really sweet,’ she continues, ‘and if things were different I’d love us to be together but I’ve got a lot of things on my mind and now’s not a good time to begin a relationship.’
‘No problem,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders as if the idea of getting off with Anne has only just occurred to me. ‘Of course that’s okay. It’s fine. I understand.’
I don’t understand, of course. I don’t understand at all. Whatever game she’s playing I don’t know the rules.
Saturday, 4 May 1991
2.02 a.m.
I’m listening to ‘Strangeways Here We Come’, on my record-player, and considering writing a song about Anne. Despite my best attempts to make things between us as free of awkwardness as possible, I haven’t seen her at all during the week following our kiss. Suddenly she’s busy every night and I decide that we both probably need some time apart. My train of thought is broken by the sound of the arm of the record-player returning to its resting-place, signalling the
Two hours later I find myself in conversation with a group of people from the history and geography honours course, who are friends of Nick’s. Anne suddenly appears at the edge of the group. I notice her immediately but don’t make eye-contact. After a while the conversation gravitates to a forthcoming field trip so I turn to my left to speak to Anne and I’m pleasantly surprised to see her smiling at me.
‘I’m Jim,’ I tell her. ‘I think I’ve seen you around.’
‘I’m Anne. We met in the kitchen.’
We fall into conversation, covering such general topics as who we know at the party, what courses we’re studying and where we live. Soon, however, under Anne’s direction, the conversation becomes less general and more personal. Unprompted she begins telling me about her life: the odd snippet about her ex-boyfriend, bits about her parents’ divorce, and about how she’s never really got on very well with her sister. For the most part I listen and occasionally respond with the few nuggets of wisdom I’ve collected during my life on earth. They seem to have the desired effect of either cheering her up or making her laugh.
Saturday, 27 April 1991
12.23 a.m.
Anne and I have been out at the Varsity. Since the party back in February we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Most evenings she’s at my house or I’m at hers. Everyone, including Nick, and Anne’s ex-boyfriend, believes that we’re an ‘item’ or, at the very least, on the verge of being together. Flattered as I am I tell anyone who will listen that there’s nothing going on and we’re just good friends. The reaction is always the same: they laugh as if they think I’m lying. I can’t blame them because as time has passed I find it more and more difficult to believe it too.
Anne has taken it upon herself to flirt with me outrageously.
We walk around hand in hand.
But nothing ever happens.
I’ll stay over at her house and sleep in her bed while she wears nothing but a bleached-out Stone Roses T-shirt and a smile.
But nothing ever happens.
She kisses me on the lips for no reason and on one occasion even puts her tongue into my ear.
But nothing ever happens.
Tonight, however, as we have both had too much to drink, I decide that something is going to happen. So, when we’re sitting on the sofa at her house, half watching Central Weekend Live , half falling asleep, I lean in towards her and kiss her lips.
It’s better than I ever imagined. But just as I’m about to start enjoying it she pulls away from me. ‘Jim,’ she says, startled. ‘You know I like you, don’t you?’
Not that old one. ‘Yes.’
‘The thing is, I don’t like you like that.’
Yes, that old one. ‘Like what?’
‘Like this,’ she says, gesturing towards me with her hands, indicating that the space between us is ‘that’. ‘It’s really sweet,’ she continues, ‘and if things were different I’d love us to be together but I’ve got a lot of things on my mind and now’s not a good time to begin a relationship.’
‘No problem,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders as if the idea of getting off with Anne has only just occurred to me. ‘Of course that’s okay. It’s fine. I understand.’
I don’t understand, of course. I don’t understand at all. Whatever game she’s playing I don’t know the rules.
Saturday, 4 May 1991
2.02 a.m.
I’m listening to ‘Strangeways Here We Come’, on my record-player, and considering writing a song about Anne. Despite my best attempts to make things between us as free of awkwardness as possible, I haven’t seen her at all during the week following our kiss. Suddenly she’s busy every night and I decide that we both probably need some time apart. My train of thought is broken by the sound of the arm of the record-player returning to its resting-place, signalling the
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