Ruth Walker: No youthful fumbles behind the bike sheds for me – no siree

Published on Friday 10 July 2009 12:37

IF YOU can hear the sound of inconsolable sobbing drifting through a slammed bedroom door, that's probably because Kevin Jonas has broken a tender, youthful heart near you.

Much like when Paul McCartney married Linda, when Take That split up and when George Michael put on the beef – teenage girls around the world have been in pieces since the 21-year-old Jonas Brother announced he was engaged to his hairdresser girlfriend. "She said yes, yes, yes, like 500 times super-fast in a row," he gushed.

Thankfully, the Teenager and her BFF are cool about it – they prefer Nick and Joe anyway. But ain't young love sweet.

I don't mind admitting that I was a bit of a late starter in the romance stakes. And though – bar several crimes against fashion – my memories of being 21 are rather hazy now, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't have been ready for a lifetime commitment.

In fact, love and its many splendours pretty much passed me by until I was well past the pitfalls of puberty. No youthful fumbles behind the bike sheds for me – no siree. No hasty application of toothpaste (though not Aquafresh – too much blue) in a feeble attempt to conceal a nasty great love bite sustained the night before (it was either that, or the enforced wearing of a polo-neck until the telltale bruising subsided, which in summer would always arouse parental suspicion). And I'm happy to say that the Teenager is confidently following in her mother's footsteps and giving boys a body-swerve for the moment. At least that's what she's telling me, and since the alternative would be too much for my fragile nerves to take, I'm happy to go along with her little charade.

Her brothers are a different story, however. The Wild One hasn't even started secondary school yet and is already well versed in the basics of love and loss. I had only known of the existence of his last girlfriend for a few days before he was unceremoniously dumped by the little vixen.

No matter. He seemed rather pleased with the way things have turned out. And, judging by the crowds of female fans that congregated at his end-of-term football match, I doubt he'll remain blissfully single for long.

Compared with his brother, though, he's a mere substitute in the game of love. No sooner had the Mild One emblazoned his bedroom door with declarations of never-ending adoration for Girlfriend Number One than it was all over. No tears. No tantrums.

I guess it's all so much simpler when you're 13 and a game of Pro Evolution Soccer holds more appeal than pia coladas and getting caught in the rain. And, in true Peter and Jordan style, they were both moving on faster than a 747 en route to Ibiza. Enter Girlfriend Number Two.

Things were looking serious for a while. Her birthday was approaching. What could he buy her? (Thanks to those helpful colleagues whose suggestions were entirely inappropriate – you know who you are and I hope you are heartily ashamed of yourselves.)

In the end he settled on an enormous bar of Galaxy chocolate, which was placed in the fridge for safe-keeping until the big day. We all gazed at it longingly every time we went in for milk. Creamy. Tempting. And so much of it.

Then one day it was gone. And so, it seems, was Girlfriend Number Two. She didn't even hang around long enough to get her present, and is now, as I write, happily ensconced with her next conquest.

Again, there were no tears. Just a very large bar of chocolate for consolation. They learn fast, these kids.