Hey, it’s your boy. – By @AlexTaylorHello

By Alexander Taylor


Hey, it’s your boy.

If someone’s nice to me I’ll pour my heart out to them. This week’s winner was an unsuspecting waiter at Pizza Express (Where the Pizza ain’t express, but it sure is, Pizza).

You see, I’ve been called immature this week.

For those that aren’t aware, being immature is a bad thing. It’s not only terrible, but also very bad. There’s nothing worse than a man-child. A hybrid boy to be preserved in a museum. Well embalm me up Daddy and shove me in. Because I’m Peter Pan. Sans outfit.

I got into SCA a year ago to this day. And on the train home, I sent a thrilled text to my girlfriend.

Hey, just to let you know the school was amazing. Completely crazy. Full of falafels and macbooks. My kind of jam. Home soon love you xx

I looked out at the racing countryside and rested my head on the window. The speed of the train had a funny way of melting the colours together like a countryside panini. I watched the world whizz by and hoped to god the eccentric man with the blue hair thought as highly of me as I did of him. My phone buzzed.

I’ve been doing some thinking and things haven’t been right between us. It’s my fault too but I think you’re quite immature and I need a break.


(That was a full stop. Not a beauty spot* on my sad face.)

(*To paraphrase Rory Sutherland, a beauty spot is just a mole with an advertising budget.)

The very next morning I got a call from Marc. He said my license to be a full-time child was in the post. I gushed out a thank you. I really couldn’t have been happier. He then told me the license costed near seventeen grand and I calmed down a bit.

But I couldn’t wipe the smirk off my face at Tesco’s. Giggling round the isles looking for anything fun. Jammie dodgers, party rings, monster munch, cheese and onion anything, cheese-strings. I felt like Willie Wonka but with an actual risk of Diabetes.

I saw her.

We shuffled up to each other and exchanged our hellos. She was a cheese and wine kind of girl. A roast meat, perfectly steamed veg and dinner party kind of girl. She was, in retrospect, not my kind of girl.

She saw my shopping basket and her suspicions were confirmed. I think before finding SCA that would have bothered me. I was the man who got the ruler out to measure how far her eyes had narrowed. Just to see how much trouble I was in.

But I wasn’t really bothered. Being an adult is over-rated. I’m not a plant. I don’t have to grow up.

And yes, I think I could do with a top up. Warm Ribena.

Thanks, waiter.

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