I wasn’t sure what to do next. I’d tried chanting “he loves me, he loves me not” as I pulled the petals, one by one, off a daisy. The daisy wasn’t keen on my chances, stupid flower. So I found a clock dandelion and, huffing and puffing and fervently wishing, tried the same thing. With one stubborn filament left he didn’t love me, and try as I might the last one wouldn’t bloody blow off. Apparently it was three o’clock, too, which was a lie as it was still pre-lunch.

Dice didn’t help, either. Apparently I was doomed to be lonely or I was a rotten dice player. I didn’t want to work out the odds.

Regrouping, I decided the only thing left was a full on frontal assault. I vaulted the garden fence and tapped politely on the kitchen door.

“He’s in his room, dear,” his mother said, smiling distractedly as she stirred a pan bubbling on the stove. I knew she loved me, so why couldn’t he? It just wasn’t fair. Stupid genetics. Stupid daisy.

I took a deep breath and, mentally girding my loins, cantered up the stairs. I was about to knock when I saw his door was ajar. He was sitting with headphones on in front of his laptop. Sneakily — ‘cause who wouldn’t want to shock their beloved best friend to death with a tickle attack — I crept up behind him, then stopped in utter shock. He was... well, he was doing what all guys do given the chance and the space, and a bit of privacy. That wasn’t what shocked me, though. The shock was that he was beating off with a picture of me, full-screen, on his laptop.

Needless to say things haven’t been the same since... once he stopped shrieking and came down off the ceiling. Yep... the first kiss is the sweetest.