We were inseparable, because we believed we were in love.
We held hands all the time - even when we went to the loo.
(I don't remember this myself - my mum recounted this to me.)
We would invite each other over for play dates.
Apparently I was very bossy. We watched The Lion King together and played with my toy ponies together, because that was what I wanted to do. He was the perfect boyfriend, because he always listened to me and did everything I said.
We both liked dinosaurs very much.
Then one day, his parents announced that they were all moving to America.
I can't remember whether or not that upset me, but I wouldn't put it past myself to have just been indifferent over that.
So he moved away, and the next time I saw him, we were about six or seven, the awkward age where girls are like: 'Ew, boys!' and boys are like 'Ew, girls!'
His family came to London to visit.
He'd gotten a little fatter. I gave him a present (a dinosaur sticker book).
We went to the Rainforest Café with our families, and his mother bought me a plush frog.
I didn't talk to him. I talked to his older sister, Christine, because she was cool and knew how to skip.
They left, and I've never seen them since.
It would be really cheesy to end on a paragraph where I wonder what he's like now, whether he's fat or fit, whether he's as perfect a boyfriend as he was fourteen years ago, so I'm not going to.
Although I kind of just have.
Instead, I'll talk about something slightly unrelated but still kind of related.
I'm an assistant to a Year 3 class, where all the kids are about seven or eight.
It shocked me when I realised that when these kids are my age, I'll be 27.
Yeah, I know.
I feel so old now.
Anyway, they're adorable, and they're always so happy.
I'm not going to lie, I have my favourites.
But already, even at such a tender young age, you can tell who's going to be a complete bitch when they're older.
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