stutter-shook and uptight

Colourblind by Counting Crows.

The first time I heard it was when I watched Cruel Intentions at a sleepover and I didn't pay much attention to it because, let's face it, Ryan Philippe was getting naked at the time.

In GCSE music when they abandoned us to do work in the practice rooms, Sue White would sit and play this song over and over on the baby grand piano. I watched over her shoulder until I memorised it and played it at home, but I didn't know the words. I don't do that anymore.

Then, years later, someone kissed me to this song. In between those instances, between seeing the film and listening to Sue and being kissed, I've listened to it an awful lot. And it's never a good thing. It's the one I play when I'm not sure how I feel, or when I know exactly how I feel but I'm not sure how to deal with it.

Like when my nan died this time last year, or the last time I went to the doctor's, or at the end of summer, or at college when I used to fall asleep in lessons because I'd lain awake with this song in my headphones until the small hours. It's never a good thing.

There's better memories attached to it. I could think of Sue singing it, and how incredible her voice was, and how we'd sit and arse around for hours playing on the grand. I could think of learning to play it on the piano my parents got the year I was born, in my conservatory at home. I could think of hearing it in the car on roadtrips to Dorset, and remember how sunny it was and how we all shut up to listen to it. I could think of that first kiss and the exact point in the song at which it happened. There's really no reason for this song to be my sad song anymore.

But it still is.