When I was 14, I began to go out with my first real girlfriend, Mila. She was about five months younger than me and still short of 14 at the time. We both lived in a modest middle class suburb on the outskirts of Rotterdam in the Netherlands. This was in the early 1990s.
On only about our second date, we had agreed to meet at the local cinema to go and see a movie. When Mila arrived, she seemed rather subdued and I noticed her face was quite flushed. As we stood in line outside the cinema, waiting for it to open, I asked her if there was something wrong. At first she brushed off my inquiry, but eventually she whispered shyly that she had got into trouble with her mother.