And then I was nine:
My first boyfriend was called Nourdin. Or rather, Noodles.
Noodles was his ‘streetname’, and his grafitti tag. Noodles and I got together in the same way that everyone else seemed to at that age; someone told me that Noodles had decided that I was his girlfriend.
We never kissed, we never held hands, I’m not sure we even talked from the point we became ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ until the moment we broke up. It was a very modern relationship that way.
I have to admit that the ending of our very special time together was nothing but my fault. Mine and my crazy attempts at fashionability. Apparently, Noodles couldn’t be the boyfriend of anyone who would choose to wear a tennis skirt in the rain. And that was it, my first, formative thing, over. I have to say, it taught me something, relationship-wise. And you can check with my beloved. I’ve not worn a tennis skirt in the rain for the whole of our relationship.
This was the year that John McCarthy was kidnapped in Beirut (he was released in 1991). This was the year in which, in Ukraine, one of the reactors exploded at the Chernobyl plant, causing thousands of deaths in years to come. This was around the time my parents finally decided to seperate. I don’t remember exactly when that was. This the year that my father became very ill, spending three months in hospital. This was the year in which a postal worker in Edmond, Oklahoma turned ‘postal’ (thus the term?) killing fourteen of his co-workers before killing himself. And the Oscar winning ‘best song’ was Take My Breath Away by Berlin.
I apologise. I didn’t actually think about it enough beforehand, but even wearing the rose-tinted nostalctacles, some years were never going to be funny. I’m sorry.
This is the end of the doom laden.
It’s just that some years are less funny than others, aren’t they?
(What is this ’28/28′ thing? What the hell is going on? Confused? Ah, well then, you should read this. It will inform you. Also, it has important birthday information)