The Attack of the Flying Monkeys

"Oh look, it's the child abuser!"

My army was out in force today, all for my dear brother, who had his fingers broken in a partcularly violent cricket net session. By none other than the Antichrist himself, Will, and his flying monkeys. Actually, after yelling at Phil down the phone ("Shut up! I'm talking!"), I have it on good authoirty that Bernie started the whole thing. That, though, is beside the point. Matt is eleven, and two of his fingers are broken. And open war has been declared on both sides:

"Don't pre-judge me!" Phil protested, doing the walk of the guilty up the corridor as Sophie gave him her deathly glare.

"What? Pre-judge? You've already done it, it's post-judgement!"

At which he looked at us as if we were the flying monkeys.

All this is really beside the point, as my mocks start next week; everything is in a state of unconcievable chaos. I cannot for the life of me understand anything to do with higher Maths, and I think I'm supposed to have opinions on Henry Ford. I don't of course, but I'm really quite renowned for my blagging ability when it comes to things like that. And then there's my French oral exam, which I genuinely have revised for. Really! I like my accent, so it makes the entire process of listening to it for hour upon hour less painful.

The Third Test starts tomorrow, it's all very exciting. Or, at least, it is for Si and I, but everyone else can at least put up with it. Tan keeps banging on about Ramps being the best cricketer he's ever seen (clearly hasn't seen that many, then), but I'm sure it's loyalty - Nads is Ramps' old Surrey buddy, after all.

Anyway. More ramblings tomorrow, perhaps.