We were in Liverpool for the day. This was 1968; I was eleven.
My mother’s friends had no children, and the conversation held nothing for me. I went outside.
The flat sat opposite a football pitch where a handful of boys were passing a ball back and forth. I stood and watched. One of the head boys ambled over and looked me up and down.
‘What’s your name, then?
I told him. My bohemian mother had blessed me with a made-up, vaguely feminine name. Thank god.
A pause; then—
‘D’you want to play?’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘S’alright luv, c’mon then.’
I hesitated. I’d never before had boys want to include me. This was a strange, unsettling, exciting experience.
Nervously, I smiled.
My girlhood is covered in more detail in my Girl series.
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