The first birthday when I chose what to do and where to do it – alone and without a leader, as Rumpole would say – was my 13th. My choice was to see a Scottish indie film called Gregory’s Girl.
Eccentric teenagers taking their first blundering steps in love. That’s who we were and to see it reflected on the big screen was a delight. Gregory was tall, gangling, innocent, clueless about women and with hair that did little for him. He was me.
And yet he got the girl. He got THE girl. Clare Grogan. A beautiful, stylish and clever Glaswegian pixie who spotted the potential in Gregory beneath the shambling exterior and so gave hope to the rest of us. That Summer she was everywhere, helped by her band Altered Images releasing a series of hit singles.
It’s said you never forget your first crush and Clare Grogan stuck with me. The proof was that, 32 years later and a father of two, I spotted her on the Tube and was returned to that gawky teenager.
I was desperate to go and talk to her and explain the impact she had on my life but, like Gregory all those years ago, was struck dumb. One station went by, then two and then another. I’d missed my stop, I was late yet again for my meeting with my short-tempered boss who regarded me as suspect because I had kids. But I’d waited three decades for this opportunity so come on, Dom! Carpe bleeding diem!
I walked up to Clare. She was sitting, blonde and radiant, talking to people on either side of her who may well have been her sisters. As they clocked me walking up their faces set in a look that said, ‘Oh aye, here we go again.’
One nudged Clare and she looked like a musician forced to play her biggest hit for the thousandth time.
I stepped forward and felt I said articulately ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but you made such an impact on my life with Gregory’s Girl and I just wanted to thank you for it.’
What actually came out made the Minions sound like they were in the Royal Shakespeare Company.
I tried again and was even less coherent. Clare knew what to do. After all, she’d been here so many times.
She took my hand and asked my name.
‘Dom. Sometimes Dominic. Officially Dominic but usually Dom,’ I said, strangely proud of being able to tell someone my name at the fourth attempt.
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Dom. Thanks for coming over and saying hello.’
She released my hand. The audience was over. I thought I could regain some dignity by avoiding speech so I nodded, turned around and smacked my head on a pole. The ringing sound had people wincing at the other end of the carriage.
I got back to work and the reception from colleagues expressing sympathy for an imminent, unavoidable and vicious bollocking.
Keith, my boss, was furious and laid into me about how this was the third 1-2-1 in a row when I’d turned up late, we had the Mostar governance principles to revise, no one knew where I was and what possible justification could I have?
“Well, I don’t know if you ever saw a film called Gregory’s Girl…”
“Yes. So what?”
“Well, I was on the Tube and I saw an actress from it -“
“Clare Grogan? My God, she was gorgeous. I kept going back to the cinema to see her.”
There was now an air of teenaged wistfulness about the prissy little bureaucrat. “And you saw her?”
“Spoke to her, actually.”
“WHAT? So, tell me, how much has she changed?”
“Well, it’s been three decades –“
“But she was still gorgeous?”
“Of yes, she always will be.”
“Of course, yes. Foolish of me. Sit down and take me through it as many times as you like. Could someone get Dom a cuppa and some biscuits, please?”
Dom the Rambler 