Sunburn

On Saturday morning I was woken at the disgustingly early hour of eleven thirty a.m. by the sound of a motorbike peeling down the road.

I’d hobbled over to my window in time to see a monster of a bike drive off with it’s passengers, who looked to be enjoying themselves immensely.

Sadly, I could not say the same for myself.

Caroline and Emma-lyn had tricked me into drinking ever greater amounts the night before, and I’d arrived home at three-forty, with the help of an equally drunk Emma-Lyn, who was currently stretched out on my bed, snoring lightly.

My head was, therefore, pounding, and my stomach was giving me not-so gentle hints as to its beliefs on excessive alcohol consumption.

I stumbled downstairs to try and find some heavy duty painkillers for myself and Emma— I didn’t doubt for a second that she would need them when she woke up.

My mum was humming to herself in the kitchen, lazily scanning through a magazine with a cup of tea in her hand.

“Good morning, darling,” she murmured, looking up with a slight smile.

“Morning,” I croaked back. It felt and tasted like a swamp had formed in my throat, slimy animals and all.

She watched me rummaging around in the cupboard where I knew for sure I’d be able to procure some Ibuprofen with a half smile on her face.

“Have a good night?” she asked.

“It was alright. We watched Battle Royale.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you had a nice time.”

I smiled as best as I could, and poured two glasses of water.

“Mum, I’m going to go back upstairs. A friend stayed round last night so…”

“Invite him down for breakfast Matt. I’ll cook.”

I fidgeted uncomfortable. “Er, it’s a she mum. Emma-Lyn. She helped me find my way back home last night, and it was late so I invited her in. And she was still sleeping when I came down.”

“Oh,” my mum said, and bit her lip. Then, as if someone’d flipped a switch, she brightened up. “Well when she wakes up, bring her down and I’ll make you two something to eat.”

She grinned at me, that mischievous grin she always got when she was going to embarrass me, but I decided to ignore it, and hauled myself back upstairs instead.

Emma-Lyn was still asleep when I got back into my room.

I decided that she had the right idea, so I swallowed my two Ibuprofen with a healthy gulp of water and then went right back to bed.



My sleep lasted only as long as Emma-Lyn’s did. She woke up about an hour and a half after I slipped between the sheets, and she tripped over a box promptly after getting up, which is what truly brought me back to the land of the living.

“Are you okay?” I asked, shooting up int a seated position.

She groaned, in what I took to mean a ‘not at all.’

I got out off bed awkwardly, trying to avoid all of the boxes and Emma-lyn, and pulled her back to her feet.

She groaned again, from the headrush, I assumed. I picked up the glass of water and the card of pills, and handed them to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled. Except she only managed to get out the second half of the word, so it sounded more like ‘nks’.

She sat down again, and fumbled with the glass and the Ibuprofen so pitifully that I had to take over and do it for her. She smiled gratefully up at me as I pushed the pills into her palm, and handed her the glass of water.

After swallowing the pills- which took her a good few times- she flopped back onto my bed, and shut her eyes.

I think it was fair to say that she had drunk a lot last night.



She managed to recover enough to stumble downstairs with me thirty minutes later. We found my mum in the living room, listening to Ben. E King sing Stand By Me.

“Hey mum,” I said sticking my head round the door. “Umm, this is Emma-Lyn. Emma-Lyn, this is my mum.” I propelled Emma-Lyn into the room and then followed after her.

“Hello love,” my mum said, standing up so she could get a proper peer at Emma-Lyn.

”Hi, Mrs Hilton. Thanks for letting me stay,” she replied, looking everywhere except at my mum.

“Call me Carol. Do you want anything to eat? I’ve got some haloumi, I think, and eggs- do you eat meat?” My mum made her way down into the kitchen and Emma-lyn followed, positively overwhelmed.

She cooked up a feast for us, and I think Emma-Lyn was a little daunted at first, but she quickly got over it, and we tucked in.

“So,” my mum said when we were about halfway through, and our months were stuffed full. “Emma-Lyn, are you Matt’s girlfriend?”

Emma-Lyn choked.

I choked.

“Mum!” I cried, when I recovered, scandalised but not really shocked. My mother loved coming out with things like that. She pretended not to realise that she was doing it, but I was sure that underneath she was cackling at my discomfort.

“What?” she asked, the picture of innocence.

“We’re not going out. We’re just friends,” I said as patiently as I could manage.

But my mother just ignored me completely and turned to Emma-Lyn instead: “he’s a bit shy, darling, but don’t be afraid to drop a few hints. He’ll get them, in the end.” She winked.

Beside me, Emma started coughing again, her face bright pink.

“Mum, stop!” I exclaimed, patting Emma on the back.

“I was just saying, Matty, no need to get all defensive,” she said, a hint of hurt in her voice.

We finished soon after that. I swear I could hear her laughing to herself as we left the room.



“She’s a pretty girl,” my mum said to me later, after Emma-Lyn had left, and we were sitting alone in the living room, sipping tea and watching Grand Designs.

“Yeah,” I replied, more interested in the build than the conversation.

“So is she the girl you like then?”

I huffed, displeased. “Mum, get off it. I don’t like her.”

“Well you like someone.” she sung, almost teasingly. “I can tell when you do. It’s a mother thing.”

“Clearly your mum senses are off then. I’m not interested in anyone or anything other than this build right here.”

My mum just shook her head at me, and turned her attention back to the Kevin McCloud.



Sundays are my least favourite day.

Well, I think actually Sundays are everyones least favourite day, but they were even worse for me.

On Sundays, the banks are shut, and so my dad is home all day.

Back in T Wells, I’d spent Sundays with Benny, a friend who’d lived on the next road to me, but seeing as he was now a two hour long, twenty quid journey away that was less viable. I’d spent every Sunday since moving to London holed in my room, doing homework or trying to get up the will to unpack.

This Sunday, however, heralded an unwelcome change. Family dinner, in a restaurant in the village.

My dad always made eating out such a big thing. I had to wear a suit, as if spending time in his country wasn’t torturous enough. He’d probably even insist on a suit even if we were just going to MacDonalds. He’s always stressing about how others perceive us as ‘a unit’. Clearly, he wasn’t them to think we’re all anal ponces.

The restaurant was called Bouga, and it was quite nice, although my appetite was marred by my dad complaining about my eating habits. Half the time, I wasn’t even doing anything wrong, but he’d find something to moan about.

We got into a mini argument over dessert- he said I couldn’t skip because it’d look bad, and I’d replied that it’d look better than me throwing up all over him, which he didn’t take to well.

My mum suggested a family walk afterwards, but I declined, and stomped home by myself instead.

Which, funnily enough, is how I first met Jessica Priestly’s father.