02 // 07 // 2003. The day I passed my driving test. 

It’s sunny. It’s 3.15. School is over. Everyone clambers into my black 1998 Fiat Punto, reg. R598 CFC. Flicking through the plastic sleeves of my alphabetised collection of CDs, the Sony stereo lights up red as I hit play.  We fiercely believe that we are in a music video. 

Driving through the mean streets of St Albans, a quick Maccy D’s Drive Thru at the bottom of town.  Then to Lauren’s house for The Transformation.  We pile on the eyeliner and coat our lips in foundation, silently praying that someone of the opposite sex will show interest in us (for me, it’s Graham Hill. He has a Ford Escort).  We pile back into the car and drive into town for £1 vodka redbulls at Casa.  Then, an excitable drive up to Batchwood nightclub for a few hours of dry humping. And finally, a spliff and a snog with the boys in the carpark. 

Freedom.