In the summer before university, I rode a minibus to Blandford Forum in Dorset to attend a Greek summer school. Sitting next to me was a boy with Scout badges pinned to his polo shirt. ‘I like your costume,’ he told me, eyeing my blouse. ‘You look just like an air hostess. Or a Barbie doll dressed as an air hostess. All my girlfriends look like air hostesses.’
Poor Sebastian. He didn’t need to tell me that he came from a boys’ school in a remote corner of Kent. It was painfully obvious that he had never spoken to a girl in his life. But the sad truth was, I wasn’t much more experienced. I’d just mastered the art of concealing it.
I hadn’t taken a gap year. Too many of my friends had found the world too exciting ever to settle into university afterwards. So my little Dorset adventure with Sebastian was the closest I came to preparing myself for the transition from school to university life.
And so we rode on, he scaling an even higher wall of mock bravado, me dreading the next fortnight.
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