I am one of those melodramatic fools

The happiest moment of my teens was when my mum came back from Cardiff with a pair of cherry-red, shin-high Doctor Martens for me. I was a geeky kid, and had never been particularly cool, but as soon as I pulled on those boots I knew that my life was about to change forever.

Sure enough, not long after that, I met a boy across the river. We shared a smoke in the long grass and talked about Kurt Cobain. He liked my footwear, and the chunk of hair I'd shaved off my head, and I liked the way he strummed Green Day songs badly, but persistently, on his guitar. I'd never even kissed a boy before, never mind had a "boyfriend", but he was from a different valley and had no idea about my secret nerdy past. He made me mix-tapes, hitched around Snowdonia to see me, and would've slung his arm across my shoulder as we walked down the street together, if only he'd been tall enough.

By the end of the summer he'd dumped me for a girl who looked and dressed like a fairy. He was apologetic, of course, but couldn't really hide his excitement. She was both cuter than me and smaller than him, and she knew all the chords to Basket Case on her electric guitar.

The first time I saw them together, walking down Porthmadog High Street with his arm slung across her shoulder, I felt a terrible pain and an explosion in my chest. I staggered backwards and leant against Woolworth's, and felt my heart gloop down through my body until it oozed out underneath the nail on my big toe. It congealed in a block around my foot, and I was never able to wear those boots again.