My first boyfriend at school and he was a score: the bad boy in our year, taller than most, tawny hair longer over his eyebrows, a good fighter, smoked weed, bunked off class with aplomb and had the best pair of lips in the whole school. We would kiss for days, laughing together at how long we could do it without being bored. One day we were at my best friends’ house in her living room that had doors opening to the garden and it started to pour with rain. A classic English Summer rain bucketing down fast and with giant fat sloppy drops that stops as quick as it unexpectedly starts. He and I rushed out declaring it was time to kiss in the pouring rain. I remember the feeling, the sensation of snogging like crazy the guy you love in the pouring rain, lips all wet and hair plastered to our faces and grins as big as melon slices in between our breaths as we looked at each other and sucked in the life right there between and to and from each other.
Parchment House now has french doors from the living room to the outside where there were once windows and a chunky pair of bookcases. Was the decision to install these doors perhaps subliminally driven by this formative experience? I doubt it and it doesn’t really matter does it, because now and forever more these new doors are fondly imbued with a memory from my youth and well, gracious, when it rains I will be mesmerized, awash with thought and a melon size grin thinking of childhood kisses.