It's Not What You Think by Chris Evans

teacher on duty at the time was not so much into it.
    ‘Can you please stop that kissing, you two?’ said the master in question.
    When we pulled apart I remember him being visibly shocked to see who it was. As I said before, Tina was a model pupil.
    ‘And Tina, you should know better.’
    Without missing a beat, she replied, ‘Sorry sir, we weren’t really kissing, we were practising for later.’
    And with that, the coolest girl ever to walk Planet Earth grabbed me by the tie and said, ‘Come on Chrissy, this way.’
    Shit the bed, I had a girlfriend and she was the greatest woman in the world.

Top 10 Schoolboy Errors
10 Setting my pyjamas on fire whilst playing with matches. I was still in them at the time
      9 Not being grateful for my first big bike one Christmas morning (I went on to love it)
      8 Not going to see Queen at the Liverpool Empire (big big big mistake)
      7 Smashing my toy garage up with a hammer in a make-believe bombing raid
      6 Playing willy guitar and getting caught by my mum
      5 Lending my Scalextric to Andy next door and never asking for it back
      4 Thinking Mrs Tranter wanted to go out with me even though she was married with two children and I was only twelve
      3 Thinking Jill from the chemist ever even noticed me at all
      2 Listening to Mandy S. in the playground that day
      1 Succumbing to the allure of the dreaded netball skirt
    Tina and I were to enjoy the most idyllic of teenage courtships —sexless but beautiful. Maybe it was beautiful because it was sexless, I don’t know. Sure we messed around a bit but no more than that. What we did do, however, was love each other madly—twenty-four hours a day madly, seven days a week madly. Madly, madly, madly.
    What is it about ‘first love’ that makes it so incredibly special? It should be bottleable. (And while we’re at it—why doesn’t the word bottleable exist? We need to be able to bottle more good things in life, what with all the terrible things that are going on. But how do we stand a chance, when the word that defines its very possibility is not even in our language? If things that can be negotiated are negotiable and things that can be done are doable, why can’t things that can be bottled be bottleable.)
    Anyway I digress—I used to see Tina all the time. Before school, during all breaks and lunchtime, after school, every evening—usually at hers, and then every weekend. And when I wasn’t seeing her I was thinking abouther. She consumed my mind, my heart, my soul, my very spirit, my whole being. I couldn’t get enough of her and she couldn’t get enough of me. We did everything together—except the rude stuff, as I’ve just mentioned but for some reason felt the need to mention again. And we kissed, boy did we kiss, we kissed all the time. We couldn’t imagine ever not kissing and ever being without each other. We were going to die together and we didn’t care if that day was tomorrow or the next, as long as we were side by side.
    I remember one night Tina had to go off to Manchester to watch a play with her class as part of her English literature coursework. As I walked her to the coach, we were both in floods of tears at the thought of being parted for even just a few hours. It was as if one of us was going off to war never to return. We were inseparable yet we were being separated. Who had dared dream up this cruel fate?
    Who had thought to deny us our usual evening round at ‘hers’ snogging furiously on the bean bag in her parents’ spare room, listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits and Meat Loaf ’s Bat Out of Hell as well as, for some strange reason, an old King’s Singers album! These three vinyl wonders were the soundtrack to our very own love story.
    Tina was so sophisticated and clever and funny and energetic; her completeness was her beauty. And again that smile, so big and warm and welcoming. Her joy and abandon was infectious, she was naughty, too, cheeky and fruity in a way.