Andrew has tagged me with a meme about the particulars of my first kiss.
I let a miniature groan out of me when I saw it in his comments while, at the same time, being glad of the opportunity to write more than a list of half thoughts and nonsense.
Why the groan? Well, it arrived late to me, is all.
I spent the teenage years thinking that first kisses and all resultant gropings were things that happened to other people, while I listened to Dave Fanning and fantasised about the girl on the bus.
I was all over the Smashing Pumpkins, in love with my own sadness, while the lads were making up stories (some of which turned out to be true) about moochings at band practice. Bastards. A boy without a hobby and a student of the Jesuits, where would I meet girls?
Not in Kev's back garden, that's for sure. I was 16 or 17 and she was a couple of years younger, Ciara was her name, when I finally made the move to tentative hand-holding.
Such was a marker of my fear. Pearl Jam t-shirt, a brown suede jacket and shit scared in Glasnevin while drinking stolen Bulmers.
So it went, and went, and went with plenty of teenage keening until one night in the Back Gate. I'd recently shaved my head for the first time and the epiphany of 'Budweiser as piss' was just around the corner.
Fitzbollix's reign of terror had just begun and a troupe of us headed for Cathal Brúgha Street, where I'd definitely get in because I was of age, of a sudden, still without anything to tell the lads about.
She was from Gort, her name was either Marion or Marian, she wore glasses, she was a friend of a friend. It was grand. I spent more time making sure the boys could see me than I did registering the good and the bad of it.
I made some joke over on Rosie's blog about MC Hammer's 'U Can't Touch This' playing in the background but that was a lie, it was Nick Berry's 'Every Loser Wins,' which you don't hear nearly enough on the wireless nowadays.