Julie-Anne was church through and through. Not in a scary, Old Testament way — more in a “hymns, biscuits, and don’t scuff the lino” way. She had the kind of fringe that looked permanently ironed, and a smile that said, “I’ve got the good hymn book, do you want to share?”
I met her properly on Easter Sunday. She leaned over the pew and whispered, “Do you like David Soul?” like it was a test of faith. I panicked and said yes, even though the only song I knew was the one about not giving up on us, which I thought was about geography homework.
Julie-Anne invited me to the church disco. Not the cool Christian disco where India strutted in red cords, no — this was the junior hall with squash and crisps in paper bowls version. The music was half hymns, half Top 40 if you were lucky, and the highlight of the night was the raffle. I won a bath plug.
She danced like she was conducting an invisible orchestra, all hands and no hips. I tried to join in, nearly smacked her in the face during the chorus of “Yes Sir, I Can Boogie.”
At the end of the night, she pressed a folded note into my hand. My heart stopped. Was this it? A declaration? A date?
The note read: “Starsky or Hutch?”
I wrote back “Hutch” and she beamed like I’d proposed marriage.
We went out once more — a walk round the park, ice cream, and a chat about confirmation classes. No kiss, no drama. Just Julie-Anne, David Soul, and the faint whiff of Radox from her mum’s shopping bag.
That was Julie-Anne. Sweet as custard, harmless as a hymn, and convinced Hutch was the height of male sophistication.
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