I've been standing on the side of the road assessing each passing van and "people carrier" for the last fifteen minutes. It's a beautiful summer's day and I'm waiting in the quaintest spot imaginable. The village pub behind me blends seamlessly with the multicoloured patchwork of the surrounding fields. The red brick houses marking the edge of my village are bathed in light from the blazing sun.

A van speeds round the corner, makes a U-turn (taking in both the verge and the pavement) and comes to a shuddering halt across the road from me. Black exhaust fumes billowing, it shakes and rattles as the engine turns over. With the red rust of its undercarriage meeting the dirty grey of its side panelling, a salesman might describe it as "two-tone". But then any reasonable salesman wouldn't give it the time of day.

The tranquillity smashed and my nerves slightly shaken, I stand as tall as possible and walk toward the driver's window. A thumb jerks upwards, pointing to the rear of the van. I walk around to the back and try to open the door. I can't. When I least want them to, car, van and train doors always perplex me. I try a variety of methods - mostly involving jerking and pulling - until I hear the driver's door open and a worryingly skinny man in a faded purple T-shirt appears beside me. Giving a grunt of acknowledgement, he effortlessly opens the door.

I climb in and am met by the inquisitive gaze of a girl and a boy of a similar age to myself. As I take my seat on a wooden bench attached to the right side of the van, we take off and I'm thrown against the door. Pulling myself upright, I grip the bench firmly to avoid further embarrassment.

The inside of the van lives up to the billing of its exterior. Old, rusting, dirty metal is the order of the day. Only the rear view mirror, replete with "hanging tree" air freshener, breaks from this minimalist brief. Judging by the smell inside the air freshener must have met its match, as it's having no effect. Fortunately the driver has his window fully open, which asides from blowing his 70s rocker hair into the face of the boy seated behind him, allows some relief from the stale odour.

Having noted the girl seated opposite to be particularly striking, I am pleased when she leans across and announces that her name is Lucy. She has jet-black hair, big brown eyes, a tanned face and a strong proud jaw line. What really holds my attention though is her fringe, which forms a curtain over her forehead falling precisely to a sharp line just above her eyebrows. On any other girl it would look prim, however coupled with the pigtails peeking from behind each ear and her short black skirt revealing much of her tanned legs, it completes a "naughty school girl" look.

'I'm Frank,' I smile.
'Nice to meet you, Frank.'
'Likewise.'
'Have you worked for Staff Right before?' she asks.
'No. This is my first job. What about yourself?'

'I started with them two weeks ago. It's the first agency I've worked for, and they've put us in a chicken factory.' She pulls a face of disgust.

'Is it that bad?' I ask.
'Just wait 'til we get there. It'll be a nice surprise for you.'

With this girl there, I don't care how bad it is. We could be front-line conscripts and I'd still have an opportunity to die smiling.

The boy to my right produces a packet of cigarettes and offers one to Lucy, which she accepts. I don't smoke.

'Yeah thanks,' I say, pulling one from the packet.

Peer pressure. Those who think adverts are the spark which lights that first cigarette must be unaware that advertising is to smoking, as a love of the outdoors is to sleeping rough.

'I'm Mike,' he says, brushing the driver's hair out of his face
'Hi.' I light up, and draw nonchalantly on my cigarette.
'So did you both start at the same time?' I ask, exhaling as I speak.
'Yeah, we're from the same school. We got jobs with Staff Right for the summer,' Lucy explains.

I nod in response. I'd speak if I wasn't suppressing a rasping cough. Smoking is evidently a lot like ice skating: grace and elegance only come with practise. Luckily the conversation ends here as Lucy informs Mike of some catastrophe involving the skirt a girl from school was wearing on Saturday night. He looks suitably uninterested.

As I regain my breath I notice another boy in the van, sitting in the passenger seat. His hair is as long as the drivers', but worn in a more 90s grunge style. His sparse goatee beard is clearly also inspired by the Nirvana T-shirt he wears.

Men who strive to imitate a certain 'look' have always concerned me. The planning of what to buy, what to wear, and how to cut your hair to perfect the style, must make for fitful sleep. And if I had all that to worry about before facing the world I'd soon turn agoraphobic. I suppose women indulge in all that preening. Maybe men with styles aren't simply experiencing a crisis of identity. Perhaps they're just more in touch with their feminine side.

As I'm watching the Kurt Cobain a-like, he leans over his shoulder and passes his cigarette to Mike. At first I think it's a roll-up that's passed over, however watching Mike inhale I realise it's a joint. My experience with marijuana is limited to classroom banter, but I know enough. Like never to call it marijuana.

'So did you go to school round here?' Mike asks, turning to face me.

At first glance his acne ridden face, greasy side combed hair, mismatched clothes and overweight frame, seem to comprise all the hallmarks of a geek. However the self assurance of his body language suggests that there may be more than meets the eye.

'Eh, no. I've only just moved here. My Dad got a new job so we moved down with him,' I reply.

My eyes drift back to the half-smoked joint.

'So what do you think of the town?' Mike continues.
'Eh, yeah, it's not bad… Load of snobby tossers 'round the town centre though.'

His face lights up.

'Absolutely! You're damn right man. Do you smoke pot, Frank?'

'Yeah, totally man,' I reply.

Well, I do now.

'I'll leave you a drag then, will I?' he asks.
'Yeah, I'll have a suck man.'

I hear a snigger from the other side of the van. I look across and see Lucy grinning with contempt.

'I'll have a suck,' she mimics.

I'm completely thrown. With one misplaced word I've gone from the mysterious and streetwise stranger, to the kid who desperately wants to impress. Or maybe I'm being hasty. I can still rescue it. If I can stop turning so damn red, that is.

I blush at the littlest things. I wasn't born that way. In fact, I can remember exactly when it started. I was seven years old and my best friend was having dinner with us. He asked to go to the toilet and my Mum asked if he needed any help. He said no, smiled and blushed. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. I've been blushing ever since. Only now it's not cool. It's damn embarrassing.

'Suck…that's what we say back home,' I plead.

There's always a chance she'll fall for it.

'Oh sorry, it's just a bit like something my Mum would say, that's all.'

She appears genuine until a smirk spreads across her face as she turns to look out the window

. I turn back to Mike who passes the joint on to me and says under his breath, 'Don't worry about her, she's a bit of a bitch. Doesn't mean anything by it though. Just born that way.'

I smile wryly and wonder while I was practising blushing in the bathroom mirror, whether she was similarly perfecting her snarl. After glancing quickly at her now sober profile, I turn my attention to the joint. Having never tried pot before I'm justifiably anxious, however my curious nature quickly dispels this. Besides, if I decline I'm sure I'll fall further in Lucy's estimation.

Holding the joint between my thumb and forefinger - a style necessitated by there being barely any of it left - I draw on the end. I'm shocked by its harshness and struggle to resist an urge to cough. On top of that the smoke has swarmed toward my eyes, making them itch ferociously. Thankfully, just as my discomfort is becoming unbearable, the van swerves sharply and I'm thrown across the van and into Lucy's ample chest, stabbing the joint into her left breast. The van comes to an abrupt halt and I hear what I guess is the driver letting loose a volley of gruff expletives.

'Sorry,' I say to Lucy, clambering back to my feet.

'Anytime babe.' She flashes me a glowing smile.

Bloody hell!

I go to brush the ash from her blouse but think better of it.

'It'll wash out,' I say lamely.

'You'll have to come round and show me how to work the machine then,' she replies brazenly.

Holy shit! Jekyll and Hyde pale in comparison to this girl. A minute ago she publicly humiliated me. Now she's trying to seduce me.

'Eh, yeah,' I say, dumbfounded.

The driver comes to my rescue, turning round and shouting wildly at us about the maniacs they let drive these days. I couldn't agree more.

We all voice our disapproval, and he nods seriously before turning frontward and stamping on the accelerator.

'Sorry about the joint,' I say, turning to Mike - mostly to avoid Lucy's stare.

'It's all right, it was finished anyway.'

That reminds me. I've just had my first suck - or should I say draw - on a joint, so I should be feeling something by now. Or maybe I have to wait a while. I'm really not sure. If only the drug education in school had provided me with some useful information, I'd know what to expect.

'So how far away is this place?' I ask Mike.

'Not far, actually we're just pulling into the estate now.'

I'm grateful for the excuse to look out the window, as Lucy's stare has become difficult to ignore.

My Dad used to work on an industrial estate, so I'm unaffected by their blandness. Most of the buildings are prefabricated, with just the odd few embellished with shining steel and glass exteriors. Names like "Kwik-Fix", "Rite-Choice" and "Micro-Plus" are emblazoned on the side of every building. I think to myself that if I am one day lucky enough to own one of them, I'll plaster "Bull-Shit" on its side.

The van swings sharply round a corner and stops in front of a large cream coloured prefabricated building. The name Green Vale is painted in six-foot-high green lettering across its front.

It takes me a moment to realise that I'm nearest to the door, so had better attempt to open it. Focusing my mind I examine the handle, take hold of it with both hands and force it downwards. Thankfully, it opens readily.

As I jump out of the van, I feel a slight dizziness come over me. I steady myself against the door for a few seconds, and wait for the others to show me the way. Mike jumps out first, gesturing which way to go before heading there himself. As I turn to follow, I feel my arm being taken and linked with anothers'.

'Don't worry, I'll look after you Frank,' Lucy whispers.

I go weak at the knees. And I know this time it isn't the pot.

'OK.'

Arm in arm, Lucy leads me through the entrance and into my first job.

^