Read Online Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy by Lucy-Anne Holmes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy-Anne Holmes
Ads: Link
crowd.
I’d go out to a gig or a club with Philippa every night if I could. I love experiencing the dark hours in rooms with loud music and no windows, my best friend leaping sweatily about at my side. This hasn’t always been the case. When we first started to go out to clubs and gigs, Philippa and I would shuffle about on the edges of the dance floor desperately trying to fit in and not make prats of ourselves. But after about six months of regularly doing this we realised that we weren’t really having a good time. We loved putting music on at home and going bananas to it, we could do that for hours. So we thought that nightclubs would be fun like that, but with more people and without us having to do the music and pour our own drinks. But when we did eventually get let inside we became too self-conscious to have a good time. Anyway, rather than give up on them altogether we decided to pretend we were in Philippa’s bedroom and vowed not to give a stuff what people thought of us. It took us a while, but eventually we mastered it. We found that alcohol helped. Although, the correct dose took us time to establish. The key is to drink enough to feel uninhibited, but not too much so you lurch into people. Lurching into people when wearing high heels isn’t a good idea. It causes injuries, as Philippa discovered on her twenty-fourth birthday, when she sprained someone’s ankle.
Nowadays, our gig etiquette is nothing short of perfection. We let rip and dance, although when we say dance we don’t mean it in the MTV sense of the word. We don’t do restrained conventional dance moves. We do throwing our bodies about in whichever way feels good at the time. Our first mission is always to create some space for ourselves on the floor, because when things get going we like room to move. We do this now, both falling into the classic rock march and nod of the head, trying to claim a bit of sacred dance floor space for ourselves. When the track finishes, Philippa leans toward me and whispers in my ear.
‘To fervent sexual chemistry and wherever it may lead.’
‘Philippa!’ I protest, just as the lights black out and a spotlight falls on Joe King’s face up on the stage. He’s got his eyes closed in a perfect pained rock expression. He starts singing on his own. No music. ‘I want you,’ he starts. It’s an Elvis Costello song. I love this song. Philippa and I do a good version of this too, no tune or rhythm but plenty of passion. Philippa screams when she realises what the song is and puts her arm around me.
Joe King starts playing the guitar which hangs around his neck and the lights go up on the drummer and the bass player as they join him. We separate, Philippa starts playing her air guitar. I do my rock stomp with head bob, arms in the air, mouthing the words.
‘Do your whistle! Do your whistle!’ Philippa nudges me when everyone’s screaming at the end of the song.
‘It’s a wolf whistle.’
‘Just do it.’
I do some wolf whistles as instructed.
‘Hello, Tiddlesbury!’ Joe roars. Everyone laughs. We’re in Nunstone. Bless him. I do another wolf whistle. Joe spots me and puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles back at me. The sound screeches through the speakers and causes the whole audience to groan.
‘Sorry, what could I do? She’s beautiful.’ He shrugs in apology. I worry Philippa might combust with delight.
The band crashes into another song and in seconds we’re all jumping around again. At the end of the song Joe waits for the screaming to subside.
‘This one’s for my new friend,’ he says, and then gives me the shyest of smiles.
‘It’s Kings of Leon. Oh, my God! It’s “Use Somebody”!’ Philippa, now exploded, screams. ‘He could use someone like you. He’s wooing you!’
I freeze there on the dance floor. I don’t think I should see this man again. Well, truthfully, I’d very much like to see this beautiful man again. But I really don’t think it would be a good
I’d go out to a gig or a club with Philippa every night if I could. I love experiencing the dark hours in rooms with loud music and no windows, my best friend leaping sweatily about at my side. This hasn’t always been the case. When we first started to go out to clubs and gigs, Philippa and I would shuffle about on the edges of the dance floor desperately trying to fit in and not make prats of ourselves. But after about six months of regularly doing this we realised that we weren’t really having a good time. We loved putting music on at home and going bananas to it, we could do that for hours. So we thought that nightclubs would be fun like that, but with more people and without us having to do the music and pour our own drinks. But when we did eventually get let inside we became too self-conscious to have a good time. Anyway, rather than give up on them altogether we decided to pretend we were in Philippa’s bedroom and vowed not to give a stuff what people thought of us. It took us a while, but eventually we mastered it. We found that alcohol helped. Although, the correct dose took us time to establish. The key is to drink enough to feel uninhibited, but not too much so you lurch into people. Lurching into people when wearing high heels isn’t a good idea. It causes injuries, as Philippa discovered on her twenty-fourth birthday, when she sprained someone’s ankle.
Nowadays, our gig etiquette is nothing short of perfection. We let rip and dance, although when we say dance we don’t mean it in the MTV sense of the word. We don’t do restrained conventional dance moves. We do throwing our bodies about in whichever way feels good at the time. Our first mission is always to create some space for ourselves on the floor, because when things get going we like room to move. We do this now, both falling into the classic rock march and nod of the head, trying to claim a bit of sacred dance floor space for ourselves. When the track finishes, Philippa leans toward me and whispers in my ear.
‘To fervent sexual chemistry and wherever it may lead.’
‘Philippa!’ I protest, just as the lights black out and a spotlight falls on Joe King’s face up on the stage. He’s got his eyes closed in a perfect pained rock expression. He starts singing on his own. No music. ‘I want you,’ he starts. It’s an Elvis Costello song. I love this song. Philippa and I do a good version of this too, no tune or rhythm but plenty of passion. Philippa screams when she realises what the song is and puts her arm around me.
Joe King starts playing the guitar which hangs around his neck and the lights go up on the drummer and the bass player as they join him. We separate, Philippa starts playing her air guitar. I do my rock stomp with head bob, arms in the air, mouthing the words.
‘Do your whistle! Do your whistle!’ Philippa nudges me when everyone’s screaming at the end of the song.
‘It’s a wolf whistle.’
‘Just do it.’
I do some wolf whistles as instructed.
‘Hello, Tiddlesbury!’ Joe roars. Everyone laughs. We’re in Nunstone. Bless him. I do another wolf whistle. Joe spots me and puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles back at me. The sound screeches through the speakers and causes the whole audience to groan.
‘Sorry, what could I do? She’s beautiful.’ He shrugs in apology. I worry Philippa might combust with delight.
The band crashes into another song and in seconds we’re all jumping around again. At the end of the song Joe waits for the screaming to subside.
‘This one’s for my new friend,’ he says, and then gives me the shyest of smiles.
‘It’s Kings of Leon. Oh, my God! It’s “Use Somebody”!’ Philippa, now exploded, screams. ‘He could use someone like you. He’s wooing you!’
I freeze there on the dance floor. I don’t think I should see this man again. Well, truthfully, I’d very much like to see this beautiful man again. But I really don’t think it would be a good
Similar Books
