My life is one of utmost resentment at present. Granted, this is hardly the way to start any letter, let alone to one to whom you profess an undying and unquestioning love. Let it not be in question; I am certainly beginning to question it. A kiss? With Hugo? The body shivers.
Speaking to others, namely Arnold, but with a discerning twist of Ms. Castleford to boot, I am led to believe that some are enamoured by the tempestuous relationship; that they actively seek out an experience with highs and lows, volatile extremes of romance that place meaning on a typical boy-girl interaction. I suppose, therefore, that this point in our relationship represents one of those ‘lows’.
Of course, what niggles at the back of the mind having, as yet, never experienced the highs, is that perhaps one would be better off taking the Blairite approach. Balls to clause 4! Adopt centricity! People like average, and I, I suspect, am one of those people.
So, enough of this nonsense. If we are to progress in our relationship to the next ‘high’, or preferred ‘average’, then I command you to cease and desist with your dalliance with Hugo!
I have been wandering the hallways of our school, meandering through a perfect storm of adolescent individualism and low-brow lust, contemplating a conclusion which seems apt for the occasion. The facts, as loosely interpreted by yours truly, are thus:
- My pursuit thus far has garnered me approximately 5 fleeting exchanges, numerate furtive glances, one moment of earth-shattering disappointment and a pile of unsent letters.
Aesthetically speaking, I would have done better to separate those points into some sort of bulleted list.
I am at an impasse! And when Martin Applegate finds himself at an impasse, he is decisive. I must find Arnold. He will know what to do.
It seems that if seeing a girl I have barely spoken to kiss another boy is earth shattering disappointment, per Arnold, I have lived a sheltered, carefree existence which has scarce prepared me for life on any level.
I’m no doctor, but I will seek a second opinion.
I have just been to visit Terence. Terence lives next to Mr. Kimble, so one must be stealthy and visibly svelte to avoid the barrage of self-narration that accompanies his gardening routine, for it has been known to swiftly transform to a brand of rhetoric unseen this side of modern politics. Terence once told me he spent a good half an hour, safely secreted behind a Mulberry bush, listening to Mr Kimble direct one way traffic towards an unsuspecting rosebush. It was, I am told, a very comprehensive lecture on the ills of our year 8 class. Terence learnt no fewer than 4 new expletives. You may be safe to assume that I don’t visit Terence often, despite the recent upturn in his sanitary routine.
I found Terence, expressionless (were he not a friend, I might stretch to gormless), gazing at a popular computerised game. When my pleas for assistance were not met with the urgency they demand, I became a boiling pot of rage. One day, I promise you, I will be able to articulate my rage into a format that is accessible to all comers. As it is, Terence and I remain on the exact same terms on which we were when I entered the room.
It was as I was beating a hasty retreat from a torrent of petunia related curses from Mr Kimble towards the confines of Engineering Monthly, which was bought for me when I accidentally expressed an interest in bridge to Aunt Majorie, when I came across the increasingly present Anna Castleford.
My mother says that when I grow truly comfortable with being in regular contact with women I will drop the surname. I think her lacking something of the romance of yesteryear. If Mrs. Robinson was simply named Jilly, I posit that she would lack some of her allure.
Nevertheless, I digress. I ran into Anna as she was waiting for a bus. I tried to weave my path behind a nearby bush and simultaneously took an uncommon interest in the fine grouting done on the pavement but she was keen to my methodology and spotted me in a glance. Following the usual social pleasantries, Anna was quick to note in my face a certain downtrodden aura. Being all too well aware of my situation and current gripes with secondary school societal standards, she was quick to ask me a series of questions which I found both belittling and enlargening. Sometimes it is difficult to find the words.
She had what I believed was the guile, and sense, to ask me the following:
- Have I ever engaged in a sustained conversation that transcended the niceties available to every average Joe?
- Have I ever told you that I am in the slightest bit interested in you?
- Do I really know why I am interested in you?
You are as aware as I am that she has me on the first two. But the third? I mean, honestly. Who wouldn’t be interested in you?
I find myself pulled by the opposing emotions of irksome despair and beguiling hope.
Yours finding a third way,
I opt for hope. The perennial optimist, I refuse to see the sometimes glaringly obvious. So you have kissed Hugo! Well, touché sir, I accept the challenge. Throw down the gauntlet! Pistols at dawn!
Consider this a pact. This is a contract between Martin Applegate and the higher deities of social mobility. I hereby acknowledge that Hugo must have some certain qualities that I cannot see. I must overcome these.
- Have a conversation spanning myriad genres that touches a deeper level, as defined by Arnold as ‘something more than idle titter-tatter’.
- Demonstrate my intent, without any doubt.
- Deduce exactly the source of my attraction and focus my efforts upon it.
As Arnold is my witness, these will be done before Spring Term is out. I feel a certain sense of déjà vu, but I can’t put my finger on it. This does all feel very exciting. Perhaps this is the roller coaster they have all been talking about. First the lows, and now the highs.
I feel so exhilarated; I think I need a nap.