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Looking
Back
Sometimes, at night,
when it is so dark the darkness becomes almost smothering, I lie
awake listening to the cars outside and the endless crying of the
baby next door. I think back through my life, to try and comfort
myself into restful sleep.
I remember summers
from my junior school days. The images yellowy, orange, warm,
happy. Endless weeks abroad, the sun almost unbearable in its
cruel sunburnt heat. A time when swimwear wasn't a terrifying
thought. Flabby thighs, see-through bikinis were things I was
oblivious to. My parents, endless sources of ice-creams and
drinks, not the embarrassing, over-protective people they have
become.
Every year, I
went to summer camp, my sister, our two best friends, Lizzie and
Sara and myself. We awaited the holiday with desperate
anticipation. When I was 10, we went to France alone for the first
time, our previous camp experiences had been confined to a large
mansion house in Shropshire.
There we were, at the coach station on
the departure date. Armed with matching purses, our straw-blond
hair drew us together, a giggling, whispering bunch, the most
devoted Boyzone fans. We were an endless source of lies. We
were all orphaned quadruplets. We had been left millions and lived
on our own with seven swimming pools with dolphins swimming in
them. We were almost feminist in our approach to boys, the fat boy
who dared to send Lizzie a love letter obviously had not realised
the cruelty we were capable of. After arranging a secret midnight
liaison behind the archery course, we bombarded him with water
bombs and cruel chants.
We were
exclusive, we needed no one else. We scorned the other girls and
made up secret names for them that kept us awake until midnight,
giggling. The entrance to our room was taboo, out of bounds to
anyone other than ourselves. A place where innocent enquiries
could end up with your hand trapped in the door, and friendly
invites always had hidden agendas. A place where the boys from our
group would congregate eagerly, trying to guess the password and
secret knock. They were a gangly, nerdy crowd, and were endless
amusement to us. Toby mistaking the shower for a French toilet,
Ben who cried constantly for no apparent reason and Mark the
little, hairy one, an unfortunate target for our jokes.
I smile to
myself as numerous comical incidents flash randomly across my
mind. Just as sleep is beginning to tug at my eyes and my thoughts
are turning to dreams, a more sobering picture comes to me. My
innocent child-like memories are shattered. I think where we all
are now, the 'blond bunch' - 'friends for ever' - and come up with a
more recent vision. The fall-out, when the tables were turned and
I was the one they wrote spiteful notes to, the one they giggled
at, whispered about. Suddenly, those holidays don't seem so nice.
They were an omen of what we were to become, bitching, malicious,
ruthless teenagers.
- Fernanda Isherwood
(age 15)
Sheffield, Yorkshire, England.
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