We had no friends
because we'd just moved to a backward god-awful Yorkshire backwater from the relatively cosmopolitan Somerset. Yep, Somerset was less hick than this place. The new town makes Royston Vasey look like LA

Couple that with some pretty strong oo-argh accents and being pretty posh (next to farmers' lads who still took days off to help with harvests) and even my parents realised my older brother and I had a job to do making friends. So, at the ages of 14 and 16, they let us have our first house party. On New Year's Eve.

Of course being over-protective of a) us and more importantly b) their ancient pile of a town house currently in the process of being re-Dickensified, they weren't actually going to let us take over the place. We negotiated them down to staying in the "drawing room" while the kids got the run of the rest of the house, barring the parents'/smaller siblings' rooms.

Great - much drinking, shagging, dancing ensued. Midnight rolls around and everyone's shouting and jumping off sofas, welcoming in 2001. We're having a party, and people like us, and I'm even a bit pissed. Great!

Til my Dad walks in. At 00:03.

"TIME OUT KIDS, TIME FOR BED"

Including the universal timeout "T" hand signals.

Cheers Dad.
(bolshevette, Wed 16 Sep 2009, 15:43, Reply)