The ‘Roche’ boy and how I looked like a paedophile

I had no idea that this sequel was going to happen. The ‘Wright’ girl and how I messed up was meant to be a one-off. A bittersweet tale. As per usual, the sequel had to pop up and wrap up a story that had already finished beautifully. Oh well. As a warning, this sequel follows the cliché of being shit like a sequel should be. I’m quite proud.

Honestly, I couldn’t leave you in the dark much longer. The quest has finally been completed and we got our happy ending. Remember the “Wright girl” and how I … lost her number. Well, fate would have it that we stumbled into each other again. Well, stumbled isn’t the word. I looked her up on my Facebook contraption. Not as romantic or fate driven as I’d have liked it. However, there is a major twist. You are all aware that I wrote something about her. What you don’t know is that she wrote a story called the “Roche boy” around the time that I wrote mine. This was definitely not written when I showed her my post yesterday

 She wouldn’t lie, right?

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away (2013, Switzerland) I met a boy. He had long brown hair and a boyish charm that manifested itself in scout scarves and white vests.

He was funny, I’ll admit. However, a year later he was not who I remembered when reminiscing about the never-ending forests and mountains of Kanderstag.

A year later, I saw a vaguely recognisable face at Gilwell24. Whilst this was not in fact Mr. White Vests, it was still someone who I had met a year ago -The ‘Roche boy’.

With a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and burnt orange hair, we recognised each other immediately. The invitation of my “Free Hugs” sign was all that was needed for him to approach and almost knock me over with a forceful hug. 

Where Mr. White Vests had been funny, he was funnier. We decided to meet up later and talk about our lives past-Switzerland.

Lying on the floor with the Hobbit playing in the background, we talked. We talked until the sun rose early morning, still laying in the grass (yes, the Hobbit IS that long).

We departed to our camp that day and I never heard from him again- he must have flushed my number down the loo :((

-Amy

This is her side of the story. She would like you to know that she is not a paedophile. Yes. I know. The witch hunt can end here. I’m just glad you didn’t find her first. Now, let’s compare the story to see if  me from a year ago is a dirty liar.

Ok, so Mr. White Vests is Derrick. The memory floodgates were opened up yesterday. He always used to dress like a recently divorced man. The fact that he had shoulder length hair really didn’t help this look. I can also confirm that I am indeed funnier but I think that the title of “boyish charm” should have gone to yours truly. I just think that it would be a much more truthful representation.

There is a discrepancy. I have checked up the the relevant information. The Hobbit is not, in fact, 12 hours long. The Hobbit is three hours and two minutes. That’s one strike against her. I mean I’d be severely worried if the sun began rising at 1 am. I’m fairly sure that’s the first warning that some sort of apocalypse is on it’s way. Or the sun’s just really eager to  see if everyone in Europe is doing alright.

Lastly, I’m glad that 14 year old Amy had some idea of the tragic fate that befell me. When I was praying on my knees in that cubicle, it seems like someone heard and relayed the message. I did, indeed, flush it down the loo. I just need to be really careful not to flush my Facebook contraption down the toilet or their may be a part three to this tale. I’d suggest hoping against hope that this doesn’t happen.

Here is the evidence.

You’re welcome. I had to squint at this for a while.

 

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