I have a love/hate relationship with adolescence.
Having been one myself once upon a time, I know what nightmares teenagers can be. They’re mean, moody, obnoxious and tend to hunt in packs, roaming high streets, cinemas and shopping centres for prey every Saturday. Almost ten years on from my school years, I’m now that grumpy old person that silently rages at the school kids playing music out loud on the bus, and can’t think of anything worse than spending my weekends trawling round Westfield with six friends.
But I still carry a few teenage tendencies with me. My handwriting never developed past the age of 12, my bedroom still resembles a war zone every Friday night (makeup on the bed and all) and high-tops and baggy jeans remain my sartorial happy place. They instantly make me what to slouch over to Starbucks for a frappuccino before listening to music in my room, smoking out of the window and writing a diary entry with scented gel pens. Thankfully my tastes have evolved a little since then; for one thing I now have a whole, albeit small, flat to listen to music and smoke in (kidding mum). But a few of the best bits remain; a new Topshop purchase, messy ponytails, half-laced sneakers and sitting on stoops that don’t belong me. All of which take me back to those hair-twirling days of boredom when all you wanted was a fake ID, Miss Sixty jeans and time to pass quicker.
Could murder a frappuccino now though.