NORTHERN PLANNER

A long time ago, back when the internet was still something only a few scientists and computer geeks used, when John Major was Prime Minister, Clinton hadn't soiled that dress and millions of young (and not so young boys) avidly sat down on an early Saturday evening to enjoy a Terri Hatcher in Superman and lots of slow motion lifeguards in Baywatch, I was a malingering politics student.

Time was pretty much divided up between drinking, swimming, eating and studying; in exactly that order. There was daily training sessions in the swimming pool, land training with the rowers (I always won the bleep test) and a ridiculous amount of time spent in the gymn.

Now I've never been the most self-confident of people, I certainly wasn't then. You know that song, 'Ask' by the Smiths? That was me, and largely still is. I got to meet girls through sport (most of my teen girlfriends were swimmers, they had bigger shoulders than me) an thanks to a training ground of growing up with two older sisters, having a few girls as best  friends and having the introductions done for me…

So when I saw this girl in our gymn for the first time, it was torture. She was perfect…way out of my league, but our eyes kept meeting. Every time she looked up, she caught me looking, every now and again, the Spidey Sense would kick in, I'd feel like I was being watched and catch her stealing a glance. Could I go up and talk to her? Could I hell.

Weeks went by with the almost daily torture. Then it got worse. One day I walked through reception to find her on the desk where you swiped your gymn pass, she'd got a bloody job to pay for beer ro whatever. Now, at least twice a week, there was a meek hello from me, a similar muted greeting from this girl I was sure liked me, but could never talk to. I'd walk past the desk, face burning, suddenly feeling clumsy, tongue tied and useless.

Then the day came, in a walked. She smiled at first, then the welcoming expression faded to indecision, before lighting up again. She's thought of something to say, to break the ice, to take pity on both me and her. 'Nice top' she commented. Observing the comely nature of my hoodie. 

I cannot describe the rush of relief, my response would be an easy one, before asking her if she played a sport or just wanted to keep fit, ask her what course she did, ready to listen intently to her every word. Mike and Darren were with me, I could sense their relief, bored as they were with the whole saga, sick to death of endless nights out where Dutch Courage could have provided the impetus for finally seizing the day.

So, my first words to her, beyond "Hello", or "Goodbye" came out.

"Thanks, it's from Gap".

Her eyes lowered, she looked at once embarrassed and confused, not knowing what to say. Mike and Darren looked on with a potent cocktail of horror, derision and sympathy. I looked down and realised why. This is what the sweatshirt looked like:

She quietly responded, "I know". Face crimson, head hung in shame, I legged it into the gymn, followed by my bastard comrades quietly giggling.

We never attempted contact again, left to wonder what might have been. And that my friends, is what it's like to be The Northern Planner.

And why I hate Gap.