The June night was still just light enough to show a pyjama clad girl throw a Sainsbury’s bag out of the dormer window, before she cautiously climbed out backwards, flattened herself on the tiles and wriggled sideways until she could get on to a lower roof, then a wheelie bin and down to the ground. Closer examination would reveal that despite the pyjamas, she was heavily made up. She grabbed the plastic bag and disappeared behind a shed before emerging dressed to kill and slipping out through the garden gate.
A similar escape was occurring down the road. This one was less dramatic, but still involved a change of clothes worn underneath pyjamas, after the escapee had casually sauntered into an empty kitchen and scooted out of the back door. Both could be seen texting as they went to an appointed meeting spot.
“We did it!” was the triumphant greeting they gave each other, before they skittered up the road towards the thudding sounds coming from their small town’s rather modest music festival.
The girls had been there earlier in the day, but parental approval for spending the night in a sleeping bag in the field behind a pub had been firmly denied. They had met some great boys, who offered them space in their tent – and probably quite a lot more. Oh, how they wanted to be there.
Knowing they would never get permission, a plan had been hatched. They both reported home, to the surprise of both sets of parents, just after eight. They did quite a lot of slightly over-the-top yawning over supper and repaired to their respective bedrooms for ‘early nights’. Being at the festival for most of the day had really tired them out, they claimed.
Emily, had she been spotted climbing out of her window, was going to say she was sleepwalking, should she get caught. Getting a glass of water was Olivia’s cover story.
Their tryst with the cool boys was not quite so satisfactory as, when they finally located them, they were all over some other girls. That didn’t matter much. It didn’t take long to run into someone they knew, who was with a whole load of boys who seemed pleased to see them.
There was cider. There were some pills. The music carried on. This was living.
By four in the morning, it wasn’t quite so much fun. The loos were appalling. One of the boys was sick. It was a bit cold. Neither wanted to be the first to suggest going home, although both really wanted to. The boys were flat out, sleeping peacefully. How could they, on the hard ground, now well covered in dew?
Olivia gave Emily a look and they nodded and got up. Emily was OK, in her ballet shoes, but Olivia’s heels were very difficult to wear as they picked their way between tents, sleeping bodies and rubbish. Eventually she took them off and Emily took hers off out of solidarity. They drifted through the town, still acting spaced out, although they both secretly thought the pills they had taken were paracetamol rather than anything more exciting.
During the walk home they were slightly competitive about how wonderful the night had been, forgetting the sanitary arrangements and discomfort in favour of the entire adventure being the coolest thing they had ever done.
“We should commemorate this. Like leaving a time capsule in a new building.” said Olivia. Somewhat short of souvenirs, it struck them how incredible funny it would be to leave their shoes somewhere. Sniggering, they deposited one of each outside the Natwest Bank, before tottering home barefoot and sneaking back to their beds, where they slept for a very long time.
Trouble would not have happened, had someone not taken a picture of the abandoned footwear and posted it on a local Facebook page. Emily’s mother, already suspicious about her daughter’s ‘early night’ causing her to sleep until two the following afternoon, popped into town and retrieved both shoes, which confirmed her suspicions. She had a word with Olivia’s mother, who identified the heels.
Grounded until after Abe’s 16th birthday party, which they badly wanted to attend, with their phones suffering from parental blocking apps and newly installed tracking, the girls were still permitted to meet and complain to each other. Their main topics were how long until they turned eighteen, what they would do when they turned eighteen, the cruelty of parents and how to sneak to the festival again next year.
A similar escape was occurring down the road. This one was less dramatic, but still involved a change of clothes worn underneath pyjamas, after the escapee had casually sauntered into an empty kitchen and scooted out of the back door. Both could be seen texting as they went to an appointed meeting spot.
“We did it!” was the triumphant greeting they gave each other, before they skittered up the road towards the thudding sounds coming from their small town’s rather modest music festival.
The girls had been there earlier in the day, but parental approval for spending the night in a sleeping bag in the field behind a pub had been firmly denied. They had met some great boys, who offered them space in their tent – and probably quite a lot more. Oh, how they wanted to be there.
Knowing they would never get permission, a plan had been hatched. They both reported home, to the surprise of both sets of parents, just after eight. They did quite a lot of slightly over-the-top yawning over supper and repaired to their respective bedrooms for ‘early nights’. Being at the festival for most of the day had really tired them out, they claimed.
Emily, had she been spotted climbing out of her window, was going to say she was sleepwalking, should she get caught. Getting a glass of water was Olivia’s cover story.
Their tryst with the cool boys was not quite so satisfactory as, when they finally located them, they were all over some other girls. That didn’t matter much. It didn’t take long to run into someone they knew, who was with a whole load of boys who seemed pleased to see them.
There was cider. There were some pills. The music carried on. This was living.
By four in the morning, it wasn’t quite so much fun. The loos were appalling. One of the boys was sick. It was a bit cold. Neither wanted to be the first to suggest going home, although both really wanted to. The boys were flat out, sleeping peacefully. How could they, on the hard ground, now well covered in dew?
Olivia gave Emily a look and they nodded and got up. Emily was OK, in her ballet shoes, but Olivia’s heels were very difficult to wear as they picked their way between tents, sleeping bodies and rubbish. Eventually she took them off and Emily took hers off out of solidarity. They drifted through the town, still acting spaced out, although they both secretly thought the pills they had taken were paracetamol rather than anything more exciting.
During the walk home they were slightly competitive about how wonderful the night had been, forgetting the sanitary arrangements and discomfort in favour of the entire adventure being the coolest thing they had ever done.
“We should commemorate this. Like leaving a time capsule in a new building.” said Olivia. Somewhat short of souvenirs, it struck them how incredible funny it would be to leave their shoes somewhere. Sniggering, they deposited one of each outside the Natwest Bank, before tottering home barefoot and sneaking back to their beds, where they slept for a very long time.
Trouble would not have happened, had someone not taken a picture of the abandoned footwear and posted it on a local Facebook page. Emily’s mother, already suspicious about her daughter’s ‘early night’ causing her to sleep until two the following afternoon, popped into town and retrieved both shoes, which confirmed her suspicions. She had a word with Olivia’s mother, who identified the heels.
Grounded until after Abe’s 16th birthday party, which they badly wanted to attend, with their phones suffering from parental blocking apps and newly installed tracking, the girls were still permitted to meet and complain to each other. Their main topics were how long until they turned eighteen, what they would do when they turned eighteen, the cruelty of parents and how to sneak to the festival again next year.