A Letter to My Sixteen Year Old Self / Charley Lucy



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A Letter to My Sixteen Year Old Self

Dear me,

I know you are currently having a killer time in Venezia with your Year 11 art set - and that's great. You're sixteen now. Even if the very first thing you attempted to do once touching down in the UK failed miserably (the lottery ticket kiosk was closed) - but this doesn't mean that everything you set out to do this year will be a miserable failure.

For example, you know that strange boy you added on Facebook just a few weeks ago, you know, the one who you thought had really cool hair. Yes, him. You're going to become absurdly and irrevocably attached to that poor boy over the next four years. He'll put up with you dying that hair of yours various shades of red (by the way, don't worry that absurd bob and fringe you had cut will painstakingly grow out over time and you'll have learnt a very valuable lesson in the process, namely never to do it again. Ever).

On the down side you're pretty much never going to be any taller than you are now and will forever have those half-size just too narrow feet that will become a huge drain on your bank balance. Good luck with that. Especially as this year, you're going to have a string of tweenie birthday parties (in which Smirnoff Ice is considered positively taboo) in which a lot of your friends will make a whole bunch of bad kissing decisions whilst you sit on the sidelines but all that level headed thinking will do you good some day, or so I'm told.

No matter what you think you will get through GCSE (and A-level) art and come up with some quite 'profound' and 'off the wall' pieces which OCR subsequently snatch up and take on tour. I hope you realise this means you will never see them again. Much like people refuse to be seen with you ice skating ever again, Miss Bambi on ice. However, this doesn't stop you having an absolute blast of a year with some truly awesome people. It's a shame it doesn't last...

Talk to you when you're 17.

(cause that's how we spell our name now)

P.S I'd like to thank my wonderful flatmate Hannah for the late night fruit tea teen talk that inspired this post. You're the only person whose 16th year was more mortifying than my own. Just.

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