Open Writing

With a meaningful wink at his two companions the denim-clad youth strode past our table towards the cuddly brunette opposite.

Nonchalantly placing his hands in a pool of brown ale, he waited patiently as she drained her glass. The pretty blue eyes gazed up into his and filled with tears. Obligingly, he removed his cigarette, ‘How about you and me . .’ was as far as he got before blue eyes exposed her sharp little teeth and sardonically advised him to ‘Get knotted.’

These heavily made-up bundles of female liberation must present a daunting prospect to young lovers. A psychiatrist hinted recently that parents should not discourage their sons from ‘chatting up’ the opposite sex. This could cause problems of violence later on. With girlfriends like this who needs discouraging.

I once managed to catch an earful of our son’s telephone rhetoric. ‘Listen sunshine, I’m not one of your local riff-raff,’ was as much as I heard before he threw the door at me. Judging by the telephone bill a little discouragement now would reduce Dad’s violence when it comes to paying it.

Where does an experienced adolescent learn his trade? Do young suitors ever compare their sweethearts with a summer’s day any more or are they inspired by the modern lyricists?

Twenty years ago girlfriends were wooed Frank Sinatra-style. ‘They try to tell us we’re too young,’ or ‘I’d like to get you on a slow boat to China,’ was crooned into receptive ears on the Town Hall parquet.

As mine only reached my partner’s top pocket, these advances were never made to me, or if they were I missed them. Being a reluctant sailor, I can’t think of anything more nauseating anyway.

Today’s pop song messages seem to be written in a different language, known only to teenagers. ‘I can tell by your eyes you have been crying forever’ sounds a shade unkind when a girl has spent a tedious hour painting and highlighting.

But we all have our own methods of projecting our feelings. Ogden Nash, the American humourist, tells his valentine:

‘I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than toothache hurts.’

Feelings used to be worn on hats. ‘Kiss Me Quick’ and ‘Hello Sailor’ were a couple of Blackpool favourites. Nowadays they are worn on sleeves, pockets, T-shirts, even on bottoms. But the message has altered.

I stood in front of a large lady in a coffee queue last week trying my best not to take her T-shirt slogan literally. She had the swinging message ‘Touch, touch, touch’ inscribed across her protruding parts. Another young woman with no visible protuberance to support her legend had ‘Detroit Tigers’ optimistically printed on hers.

One daughter has ‘Try it, you’ll like it’ stitched to the back pocket of her jeans. When we inquired what it referred to ‘Oh anything,’ was her disturbing reply. So there is no need to be stuck for words with all these talking accessories.

Our thirteen-year-old was eager to tell me of a message she saw in minute, hardly readable, print that said: ‘If you can read this you are standing too close.’ But she has forgotten what she was standing too close to.

Chatting up seemed a sadly onerous preliminary in my youth. During term time if a boy bashed you he liked you. Later on came the kissing stage.

In those days it wasn’t the way you did it but for how long. We used to hold competitions to see who could kiss the longest. Life was all sore lips, hot cheeks and good-hidings.

The next phase: A boy you adored asked you out and you spent all evening ignoring each other. This was followed by the teasing, where you ran off with his scarf, but not too quickly.

Then all too soon you reach the sweetheart stage and start speaking civil to each other. At this point mine sailed off to Germany with the army and we were apart for an eternity of twenty letter-writing months.

What we weren’t going to say to each other at our first meeting? Night after night I dreamed of it until the longed-for day arrived and we were walking towards each other from opposite ends of Lord Street, just like two cowboys in a Western film. The sun was glinting on his best-bulled boots, his familiar black beret was pulled so far down it made his eyebrows bristle aggressively.

A yard before we met I wanted to turn and run. It was like meeting a stranger. All those passionate promises and all I could manage to say was, ‘Can I carry your bag?’ A stupid question as it was an army kitbag and weighed a ton.

Teenage magazines are another source of advice. Our girls live for the magic moment when ‘Jackie’ and ‘Blue Jeans’ fall on the mat. These are full of ‘true-life’ experiences to weep over.

‘The past won’t let me go,’ says one forlorn blonde, who looks about twelve. This week’s edition tells us, ‘You know it’s not love when your parents approve of him at first sight and on second, you don’t.’

There’s the inevitable problem page. ‘Dear Clare’ (says one pathetic) ‘I am thirteen and really like this boy of twenty-one. I think he likes me because he said when I am seventeen I can share a flat with him.’

‘Film Fun’ and ‘Girl’s Crystal’ were never like this.

There comes a time in every mother’s life when her son displays signs of maturity. Ours comes home most Saturday evenings with sparkling eyes, ruby lips and his neck beautifully marked.

All our questions receive his stock answer, ‘Just freelancing, Ma.’ We can only surmise one facet of her personality. He is her favourite drink.

Our girls do not seem to be as frustratingly esoteric. ‘I may be going out with a coloured boy next week,’ announced our fifteen-year-old. Next week comes and goes without comment. What had been her decision?

Unable to swallow my curiosity any longer, I make tentative enquiries about her new romance. ‘Oh he hasn’t asked me yet!’ is the optimistic reply.

According to educational psychologists, girls are mentally more mature than boys and the gap widens in the formative years. True, and if you’re not careful there’s a chance it could expand again in the menopausal years.