The Budding Roses

Castaway

Saturday 26th September

You can write it down. I Simone Rose have been to the pub. An actual grown up, adult pub, without a designated area for children in sight. Which is a good job really, since I would no doubt have found myself submerged within the deep end of the ball pool, if only to escape the awkwardness of standing at the bar, pretending to know which drink I was supposed to order.

'Just get a Castaway; Hooch is so common, and stop panicking!' Natasha guided me through my confusion, as I worriedly questioned what would happen if the Police were to suddenly storm the establishment. 'It's quite normal to go to the pub when you're in Sixth Form. Of course when you look as young as you do, you're bound to get asked for ID, and knowing you, you'll probably just blurt out that you're only sixteen. So you may as well just sit back, relax and let me get the drinks.'

How is it possible that Natasha looks any older than I do, especially considering that she is actually two months younger than me? Maybe if she hadn't insisted that we wear such debauched attire then we might stand more of a chance of getting served, as I sincerely doubt that anyone who is actually over the age of eighteen would voluntarily select to wear a polyester mini skirt skimming a mere inch below their vagina, and in November too!

'Good grief you look like a prostitute!' Mother exclaimed as we departed for the evening. Why thank you for your support, dear Mother, being paid for sex was always my intention, and I'm not in any way simply conforming to the fashion stereotype which my youth dictates of me.

I clutched at the bottle of Castaway, happy at last, and mesmerised by picking away at the label which had a picture of a palm tree on it.

'You know what they say about people who pick at bottle labels?' Harry rudely interrupted my day dream.

'Enlighten me.'

'They're sexually frustrated.' Here we go; Harry had been stealing the most stinky cheese that Natasha's fridge had to offer.

'What does a bottle label have to do with sex?'

'It's true, I read about it. Well I guess it's picking at anything really. It's all your pent up sexual energy, spewing over, subconsciously expressing what you are too afraid to. So you might as well just admit it.'

'Admit what?'

'That you're in love with me.'

A yellow fountain of alcopop projected from my mouth,

'and just how have you reached this conclusion? Did you read about that somewhere too?'

'No silly,' he wiped my drink from his face, 'of course I didn't read about it. I don't need to when it's so obvious. You can't keep away from me.'

'I can't keep away from you?'

'Totally. The way I figure it, when we kissed it sparked sort of frenzy within you, and now you're constantly battling to restrain yourself from jumping me. I can tell that you want to do it, even now, so you really should just accept it, and we can seal the deal.'

'But do you remember what happened on each of the occasions that we've kissed?'

'Of course. You couldn't believe that my kissing prowess was of such excellence, and that it exceeded the expectations of even your wildest fantasies.'

'Not quite, in fact the way I remember it is that I ran out of the door to get away from you. Or have you conveniently edited this bit out of your little story?'

'Okay, so you might have made a somewhat hasty exit, but that's because you were so overcome with passion that you needed to go home to make wild love to yourself, and dream of how you would ravish me. So instead of running away again, you should just have the guts to express your true feelings to me in person.'

'You're right, I admit it, I touch myself whilst thinking about you all the time, every day, sometimes twice, except it's when I'm punching myself in the face, trying to forget about how much of an arse you are.'