Monday, November 21, 2005

I was reminded of this story at the weekend.

My early pre-teenage years were at the tail end of the Abba era, and we were all "thank you for the music" and flicky hair.

In the last year of junior school, me and my then-best-friend, (whose name I figure I shouldn't publish on the internet, although I did hear an unsubstantiated rumour that she'd had a long standing affair with the managing partner of a top tier law firm), were very into them.

Let's call her Miranda Green. There are two things I remember about her: one, when we were like twelve and her older brother went off to university in Edinburgh, her parents were unphased. He left in October, and sent them a postcard at christmas. They didn't think he was dead or some tragedy had befallen him, they just thought he must be having a good time. Two: her Dad was a QC, and when he got his letter from the Queen he said to us "now, no cutting this up for school projects."

Anyway, Miranda and I bonded over our shared love of all things Swedish, and made each other compilation tapes.

Aside: there was one girl in our class who came in one Monday morning and told us that she'd spent the weekend making "all her tapes blank." Like, recording nothing?

I think she's an investment banker now.

Anyway, we were buddies, and fluffy round the edges, and did formation dancing and singing.

When it got to the (competitive) entrance exam at eleven, we were both hoping to stay on into the senior school (we were at the prep). Both our parents sat us for other schools, including Cheadle Hulme School, a mixed school with a scary green uniform and unfriendly prefects at the exam.

Miranda was more strong-minded than I was (then). She didn't want to go to Cheadle Hulme, and most of the exam was multiple choice (of four, as a I remember), so she just put A B B A all the way through the exam.

She got a reserve place.

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