I met a boy last week, or at least it seems like last week, in reality it was a lifetime ago but reality is so boring, don't you think? 'So what?' I hear you all cry, 'People meet each other by the millions, every day. What was so special about this boy?' I would have to answer that I'm afraid I do not know; haven't the foggiest; couldn't tell you if I tried. Yet there was something, intangible yet manifestly present...but I am getting ahead of myself, forgetting to tell you the important things. Not that of any it is really important, mind you. In the grand scheme of things, world hunger, poverty, war...you see where I'm going with this don't you? I'm going to share it with you anyway you understand, it is, at least, important to me and you...well you're a captive audience for the moment aren't you? No getting away from it, you want to know where this is going, what craziness is just around the corner. You may be disappointed I'm afraid, it's all rather mundane when revisited, what's that? You'd like me to get on with it and bring this circular rambling to an end? Well there's rude for you, here I am, trying to share my thoughts with you and you're just not interested. Very well then, if that's the way you want it, I shall stop being polite and put you out of your 'misery'. I must tell you though that I maintain the right to do it with bad grace. Anyway...

Picture this, Brighton beach...yes it was a beach in those days and a proper one too, not a power kite in sight thank you very much and everyone kept themselves decently covered up. None of this wandering around with your midriff exposed in too-tight shorts. We were sitting on the sand, on those brightly coloured stripy deckchairs, you know, the ones like hammocks that you could lose yourself in. It was a baking day, one of the hottest on record, the kind of the day where the sand is too hot to walk on and you burn your feet hopping to sanctuary. My mother was there; when I look back on it it seems like she was always there, in the background, never saying much but always disapproving about something. Anyway, I must get back to the point, we were lying on the beach in our deckchairs, idly watching the world go by. You can imagine the scene for yourselves, a packed beach on a hot summer's day; families squabbling with each other about suncream and sandwiches, workers escaping from their offices to catch a little sun, the young, beautiful and aimless just existing for a while. So many people that the beach resembled an anthill, a seething mass of life; yet I spotted him instantly, moving towards us from halfway down the beach. My mother must have noticed me staring because she followed my gaze down the beach.

Smooth golden skin, glistening in the sun, black windswept hair, all the usual stereotypes you understand. I've always said that if you're going to do something you should do it properly, by the book so to speak. Why should falling in love be any different? He really was my tall, dark handsome stranger; not that your generation would understand anything so cliched. And no, I don't think love is too strong a word, I knew, right from that instant and I see no reason to be ashamed of that, no reason at all. We both watched him loping up the beach, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world (which he probably did, I can't imagine him undertaking anything so mundane as employment). I could see him watching us, watching him and we watched him, watching us watching him and so on and so forth and all the while he came closer and closer. In a way I wish he'd stayed like that forever, in the background, a vision coming closer and closer but never close enough to touch. That was not to be, my mother had grown bored of watching and settled down with her eyes closed, sleeping, or so I thought. When he reached us and smiled it was me that greeted him, politely and asked what his name was, where he had come from, how long he was staying, all the social niceties one must observe on such occasions. No, I won't tell you what he told me, I must keep some secrets for myself and I wouldn't want you to try and find him through some silly, misplaced romantic notion. What's done is done and that's fact. Anyway, we chatted for a time of this and that, inconsequential matters, the sort of things that you talk about when you're 17 and you've just met a boy and you want to find out what he's like and he wants to find out what you're like. By the by he asked me whether I'd like to walk along the beach with him, grab an ice cream, you know the script. So I turned to my mother to ask her, tell her, I don't know, whatever I planned it was a mistake. I can still see her now as she stretched, lithe limbs splayed and peered up at us through shuttered lids. She dismissed me, as usual, and turned to him, opened those innocent blue eyes wide and smiled, like a lioness on the prowl, 'So, young man, 'What do you intend to do with my daughter?'

And that was it, in that instant I had lost him. I don't blame him, no-one ever could resist her when she turned on the charm. I don't think she even wanted him, not really. She just wanted to know, wanted me to know, that if she wanted to she could have him in a flash. As if I didn't know that already. So she played with him for a while and then let him go, as you might do with a kitten. Later that afternoon we went for a walk, down to the pier and then I saw it; the boat, square-rigged and seemingly without a crew, wallowing in the slow-moving tide. Well, you know what happened next, what I did, what I shall have to answer for some day soon. I don't regret it though, not really, I mean, how could I? She looked so funny, wallowing in the water like a whale, clutching at the boat for dear life. Someone really should have taught her how to swim. It's not as if I did any lasting damage, the life guards pulled her out in the end although it did take them a while. I guess her sense of humour just wasn't as good as she thought it was.