Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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I'm due to meet Mel out in the college carpark in ten minutes and trust me to have only now noticed that a biro pen has leaked all over my new jeans.
Actually, I was pretty oblivious until one of the canteen ladies pointed at my backside and said, "You might want to change those dear," leaving me red in the face, more so than normal, and with a red bum like a baboons.
Why there was even a red biro in my backpack is a mystery, but it might well have something to do with my mum insisting on chucking spare pens in when I'm running late for college.
And now I'm in the old Media Studies block, in the girls toilets due to be bulldozed down in the summer, with only a flimsy jumper wrapped round my waist hiding my modesty as I scrub away the bright red bled ink from jeans that Libby had commented favourably on during late Friday's practice.
Ruining the only pair of jeans that have earned me any compliments and standing in my knickers isn't quite how I pictured my time back at college to go, especially not after a montage-worthy half term and all the time spent with Max, and Mel and Libby, but at least I managed to escape without anyone else but the canteen lady noticing.
Thankfully there's a reason no one uses these toilets anymore: The giant cobwebs, the broken cisterns and latches and the weird could-be-blood stains by the sinks, to name but a few. Everyone's too creeped out to venture in, which is all the more reason for me to be in here and not near the busy main toilets by reception.
Once upon a time, when I first started at Southbrook I used to claim the last stall and eat my lunch with the toilet lid down and my feet up against the door.
And if you squint you'll see my doodles still etched into it, masked by layers of rust and neglect.
As I dab the jean fabric under the hot tap, I push my backpack with my sketchbook poking out away from the splashes. I've been rather neglectful to it due to kissing and sweaty gigs and band practice and just not caring enough to worry about what Mr. Cockburn/Jamie might have to say about it being half empty.
Which is a first.
And for once I didn't get the crushing Sunday Dread about walking into a lecture without finishing my coursework or still having a pile of it to get through at home.
I've been far too busy living.
Laughing.
Singing.
And riding in cars with a boy whose cheeks make mine feel a little less rosy and a whole lot cooler whenever we're together. No matter if we're kissing or kicking ass in Libby's garage, riffing off each other's melodies and special moments only we know about.
