Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy Read Online Free Page A

about my meeting Matt. She doesn’t think Matt’s right for me. She thinks that because cherubs didn’t appear and fireworks didn’t start flying out of my bottom the first time I met him, he’s not The One. She says, ‘If he doesn’t make your bits twitch then you’re banging a square peg in a round hole.’ She talks about bit-twitching a lot.
    It’s strange. My best friend Philippa is the wisest person I know. Her father is a doctor in Tiddlesbury and her mum lives in America and is a life coach/sexual therapist (it actually says that on her business cards), and Philippa herself works for the local paper, so she knows practically everything about everything. She delivers top-notch advice on a whole range of subjects, but bless her, she hasn’t got a clue about love. She thinks it exists like it does in a romance novel or a film starring Hugh Grant or Sandra Bullock, she believes that it’s possible to totally gel with another person and exist in an unpoppable bubble of bliss with them. I know. Ridiculous.
    But I love having a boyfriend. I really do. Matt’s my first ever boyfriend, which is a bit embarrassing. But it could be worse, I got there in the end. And at least thinking about him stopped me dwelling on my father, as I carried on getting ready for work.

Chapter 4
    I work at the doctor’s surgery. That’s not the sexiest of sentences, is it? I’m head of reception at the local GP. It just isn’t saucy. It just isn’t true either. I mean basically I
am
head of reception, on account of the fact that the other receptionist is Marge, who dodges anything that can be construed as work. But I’m not head of reception officially. Essentially I’m head of reception in all but title and pay. It’s not ideal. But I’m pretty sure it could be worse.
    I love my job, a fact that surprises people.
What? You spend your days with grumpy, ill people!
they exclaim. But that’s what I like about it. I’m never happier than when the waiting room is full of sick, miserable people. And then guess what I do with them? I make them laugh. It’s not generally me that does it, it’s more my extensive selection of comedy DVDs and the surgery telly that does the hard work. They come in looking the epitome of doom. That’s the thing about illness, it can be pretty miserable. I mean some of them are literally dying. Now, I can’t be 100 per cent certain because I’ve never done a formal study on the subject, but it’s my belief that people don’t want to spend their last days, or months, or years being miserable, thinking, I’m going to die. I think they’d much rather watch
Miranda
or
Friends
or
Only Fools and Horses
. Actually I should qualify that, I’m sure they’d much rather be driving around California in a convertible or sipping rum punch on a Caribbean island but as circumstances have them stuck in Tiddlesbury at the doctor’s surgery, the first series of
Ab Fab
is what they’re getting, or at least it’s what they’re getting today.
    I have been at work for over two hours and so far no signs of any surprise visits by my father, the arse. Thank goodness. In fact, all is as it normally is. Which means we have been ferociously busy and I have been sneakily opening my drawer, whenever things calm down, in order to read a page or two of my book. (Rosie’s actor boyfriend, Max Read – Rosie Read! I know, I so hope it works out for her – is lush. He could well make my list of favourite fictional boyfriends. Although, Rosie is getting more and more loopy as she tries to wangle a ring out of him, and I’m a bit worried she’s going to cop off with her handsome work colleague.) There’s also a box of Lindt truffles in my drawer which I purchased on my way to work. It means that my chocolate quotient for the day will be pretty extreme, what with the cake I had for breakfast. But I operate a strict ‘I am allowed all the treats I want’ policy on days when I might see my dad. I haven’t told Marge about