Blonde's Eye View: My adolescent self
Angela Clarke's been hiding in Canary Wharf's Marks and Spencer
Today I got to do something that'll tickle me forever. I sent a professionally taken, perfectly lit, expertly dressed, retouched photo of me to my school's alumni officer.
My teenage self - spotty, terminally pale, enamoured with shapeless black jeans and lavender Adidas sweatshirts - is weeping with joy.
It's like arriving at a school reunion in a private helicopter, looking like Angelina Jolie, dressed like Victoria Beckham, with the smarts of Dorothy Parker and the success of JK Rowling.
It is the stuff dreams are made of. It also dispenses with all need to attend an anxiety-inducing reunion - the illusion would be shattered. In pixel form, I've won life.
I once saw someone I used to go to school with in the Jubilee Place Marks and Spencer, and hid behind the sliced fruit. It was instinct.
I hit the floor and then pretended I was looking for my contact lens (thanks, by the way, to the guy who helped me look. Confession - I've had laser eye surgery).
I know I'm not alone in being tragically hung up on things that happened when I was 14.
If I got to communicate with a teenage me I wouldn't write a letter of encouragement, as are often featured in magazine articles. Nah, I'd babywipe-off the orange foundation and then leave. What could be more tedious than hanging out with your adolescent self?
God, I was annoying. We wouldn't have anything in common. And there's the crux of the miserable matter.
We are not the same people we were at school. We've grown up. We have careers, partners, money, alcohol. It's time to move on.
If you want to discuss it further, I'll be in Waitrose - I no longer use M&S in case I bump into you-know-who.
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