The colours were amazing. Not bright, but dull, chic. 

Like the scene had been drenched in the perfect Instagram filter, despite taking place in the mid-90s.

I stood there on an exercise trampoline, coolly shifting back and forth on each leg. Pale, blue cotton clung to my lower half. A pair of shoes, long white socks. The top half was a t-shirt and flannel. I looked great. In vogue, for the backward little town I lived in. This was my best outfit. Simple, country style.

I’d dressed up for my sister’s party.

All was very normal. Except one thing: there was a 200ml bottle of Bundaberg Rum sticking out of my pocket, weighing down the loose drawstring of my tracksuit pants. Threatening to send them tumbling to the ground. That weight was the only uncomfortable thing about me. The rest was beautifully relaxed.

I watched the festivities flicker and swirl. Drunk teenagers, a few years older than I was. Yelling. They’d lost all volume control. In the corrugated iron garage were a series of hay bales for people to it on, and a large, vintage, neon Johnny Walker advert. My sister had spied it in a second-hand store and managed to borrow it for her party. The ambience was perfect. A cool glow illuminating the strewn bales, Johnny perpetually Walking, energetically selling self-destruction to the masses.

I wasn’t supposed to be outside. I was banned. A dorky little brother? No, thank you. Or perhaps it was that my sister had developed the habit of getting drunk and flashing her breasts at guests, and that was something she didn’t want me to see. Embarrassing hospitality.

I stood on the trampoline, safe beneath the awning of the veranda, watched closely by my mother. She had bought me the rum. I guess I was 13 or 14.

I felt fuzzy. Cool and fuzzy. My inhibitions had melted away. The taste was terrible though, it was like melted polystyrene. It flowed over my tongue and burned a path down my throat. I was drinking it straight from the bottle, which was probably inadvisable. But there was no rush. I didn’t feel the need to gulp and scull as I do now. I was experimenting, and enjoying it. 

Sip one. The taste. The burn. The warmth. Relax.

Sip two. Happy exclamations to Mum about how silly this was. “Why would people do this to themselves?! It tastes terrible!” She smiles excitedly, waiting to see what will happen.

Sip three: Getting tipsy. Feeling cool. Part of the party.

Out of the shadows came an older teen. A man, by my reckoning.

“12 years old and drinking Bundy straight!”

Tipsy. Chuffed. Chest puffed.

Pointing: “You’re that kid that used to wear dresses, aren’t you?!”

Another sip to cure the shame.