The story of the skinhead by the bridge

I’ve been asked for more real life stories from my past, so here’s a little one for you that’s quite funny.

I got my first proper boyfriend when I was 15. He was 16 and went to the corresponding boys’ grammar school to my girls’ grammar school. He was kind and decent and funny and smart, and we went out on-and-off for the next seven years. However, he was also a total coward and was always more concerned with appeasing people than with doing the right thing.

One day, we were standing on the Northbound platform of Pinner Station, near my home, waiting for the train that would take us to his home in Croxley Green. I was wearing sexy clothing, including a low-cut top. And, as befits a young couple in love, we were holding hands.

Suddenly, my boyfriend dropped my hand and moved away from me. I glared at him, confused. In response, he nodded almost imperceptibly to his left, where a large burly skinhead was stood a few metres away, near the bridge between the platforms, eyeing us. In the 1980s and 1990s, being a skinhead was associated with being racist.

‘I don’t want to antagonise him!’ my boyfriend whispered. ‘We’re a mixed-race couple.’

‘Oh, for the sake of fuck!’ I snapped, rolling my eyes. My parents had been a mixed-race couple, and for all his many faults, my dad would never have been that cowardly.

‘Fuck off back to Croxley if you’re going to pretend you’re not with me!’ I told my boyfriend, and walked up to the bridge between the platforms to start my journey home.

And as I passed the skinhead, he looked me up and down and winked at me.


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