It's not too late?

"Oh, shit. I think I've broken the light."

It was my brother, demonstrating his "-and then Andrew Symonds played this!" shots in the living room. I'm actually enjoying the Australia vs. South Africa tests: my mind changes every day as to which team of gobby, irritating little men (well, not little in the case of Sideshow Symonds; that's a different story, however) I like least. Having a father who was raised in Oz has firmly cemented my beliefs that the only reason cricket exists is to further divide the commonwealth:

"Look, I don't hate all Australians, Robyn. I just want, in the field of sport, for us to grind their tiny, arrogant, blonde heads into the ground."

Right. So no hatred there at all, then.

But anyway, it's proving to be an entertaining diversion from revision (which, of course, is going badly. Or, in some cases, not at all). And in our house, we like the underdog to put in a good performance (hence our love of Ian Bell), and so it was nice to see Simmo get a few wickets yesterday, and a fair few runs today. And, of course, my mum was all about "when I came home from Australia in the summer, I was on the same plane as the Australian cricket team". This is true, but would be a far better boast if she had actually known who they were, instead of asking Dad when he met her at Heathrow, "what? Who are they? Are they famous of something?" whilst his eyes fell out of his skull. Not literally, of course, but you get the picture.

. . . . .

Anyway, it's as if Christmas never happened. The turkey is gone, as are the ridiculous, gluttonous tins of Celebrations and Quality Street. And my Nano sits neatly inside the i-pod speakers, taking pride of place on my bedside table. My sister has gone home; this is something of a relief for both her and mum, because she's not allowed to smoke or get drunk in the house - her favourite two hobbies, and mum's two least favourite things. So things are far more harmonious as they are, with her in the North and us in the South East.

And more revelations! It turns out that I'm not the only individual obsessed with both Top Gear and the articles of a certain Mr. Jeremy Clarkson. Nope. That I have in common with Matt. Marshall, not my dear brother. No, he's too busy watching the Ashes on DVD to care about The World AccordingTo Clarkson. Which is a very, very funny book. And I draw many parallels between him and my Dad - "Yeah, what is the point of Greenpeace anyway?". And, I've got to say, I'm pretty much with the grumpy old men on this one. Sorry Kat.

But the best book of Christmas by a country mile is the Close Range short story book by Annie Proulx. And in particular, Brokeback Mountain. It's been a while since a book has made me feel like that; it's been a long time since I've cried at a book like that. And, well, it's opened the floodgates. This morning I burst into spontaneous, distraught tears at Lover, You Should Have Come Over. But, again, very sad. Especially when he sings, right at the end, "it's not too late".

Because it is.

. . . . .

"Maybe I'm just too young

To keep good love from going wrong...

Lover, you should have come over..."

So here I go...

"This year has been rubbish."

"What? What? How can you say that? We've survived school, faced plenty of trials and tribulations, and we're all just fine. And we won the Ashes!"

"We did, didn't we? We really did. Who'd have thought that Kevin Pietersen would have been the source of my happiness this year?"

. . . . . . . . .

And so it's nearing the end of yet another year. Therefore I'm perfectly justified in being just a little philosophical about everything that's happened because, as someone once said, whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

And so, in no particular order, here are just a few of the highlights of my life from this long, laborious year:

1) Indeed, we won the Ashes. Now, I know very few people (certainly the ones I know) actually care about this. But in my house, for us cricket fans, it really was a big deal. We needed a hero. Who thought five years ago that it would be Freddie Flintoff? Indeed, who thought it would be Kevin Pietersen?

2)And hopefully forever entering the fold of competitive cricket went my own personal hero, my brother Matt, wicket-keeper extraordinaire, and his band of merry men. Spending the summer afternoons with them was a joy, as was hanging out at them at the festival:

And so I should introduce you: on the front row, left to right, is James, Prykey, my brother Matt the glovesman, Alex, Ali and Marcus. And at the back, Lalit, Theo, Will, Reece, Harry and the fabulous Ash. And of course, on the very end, my Dad. Ahem.

3) I've survived year 11 of school, the toughest year of my school career, and I've come out of it with more knowledge than I will ever need to use in real life. I've finished my formal composition, and even managed to perform it, vomit-inducing though it was. I've worked hard, and I'm proud of what I've done. It might be a pain in the arse, but you have to go, so you may as well learn something, right?

4) I've, for the first time, properly made friends with Simon, and promptly fought and fallen out with him. But we end the year on good terms: I shall start 2006 as I wish to go on.

5) And as for all my other friends? Well, they've been as fantastic as I could ever have hoped. And I love them all to bits.

6) I've discovered Kate Bush, and started on the long pathway to eccentricity, singing Aerial all the way... 'What kind of language is this?'...

7) Matt and I are finally as close as our parents wished us to be; to say I'm proud of him is an understatement. He is, in my opinion, the best cricketer in the entire universe, bar none.

8)Thanks to Mr B, I've painted more paintings this year than I would ver have thought possible, and thanks to the collective efforts of every English teacher, I've read a freakish amount of books. And my recommendation, my favourite of the entire year, would be: well, there are two. Stanley and the Women and Regeneration.

9) This year I had the best summer I can remember. It was wistful, and peaceful. It was full of optimism for everything ahead; the kind of time I used to have when I ws young, before I had so many worries and adolescent problems. Just knowing that I can still have that kind of time, even now, gives me so much faith in the future.

10) And, schoolwork aside, I've learnt something. And, as Johnny Borrell so eloquently sings: "You can do anything you want because darling, it's your life."

And it is.

. . . . .

"Don't go round the houses...

...Just come back to me."

Merry Christmas!

You broke another mirror, you're turning into something you are not.

"Mum, not being funny or anything, but Darren Gough has just done a dance where he spins a tiny Russian woman around his head. I'm not going anywhere."

"Steve, we have dinner reservations."

"Look, I can't vote forty times if we're eating out, can I? Chinese takeaway, anyone?"

- As it turned out, we voted a meagre sixteen times between the lots of us. "Nooooo! You can't vote for The sodding X Factor! Stop being selfish! Vote for Dazza!" yelped Steve, vaulting over his prawn toast to wrestle the telephone out of his sister's hands. Luckily for him, mum was very much on his side: "Yeah, Simon Cowell doesn't need any more money!"

Manchester was much the same as ever, except everyone was much taller than I remembered. Even Steve, who should be banned from growing any taller, seemed like a giant. I'm sure he's grown a foot since I last saw him, though, that being just a few months ago, it's unlikely. He's 17, after all, not 12.

. . . . .

Last night I was lounging around reading my horoscope. Which, for the record, has never ever been right in all my sixteen years. But it was unusually astute, telling me to "make the first move to resolve underlying power struggles". And so, rather grudgingly, I sent a text to Simon, which resulted in a vague I'll-write-it-in-a-card apology. Not much, but after all that's gone on it's a relief to be halfway there.

"Hmmm," said Kat upon hearing this, "it's funny, I could've sworn my horoscope said 'slap the fucker'.".

I do love that girl.

. . . . .

I'm so glad there's only half a day of school left, that and tomorrow will be our annual present-giving. Christmas presents are excellent, excellent things. Sophie presented me with an incence pyramid this morning; it took me until lunchtime to work out how to open it, and that was even with Ben's intervention. I feel kind of like Santa, there's a lot of giving to be done tomorrow.

And I'm filled suddenly with Christmas spirit. No idea where it's come from, mind you. But it's there, and I'm looking forward to celebrating, and having a few lie-ins. The revision, though, will be less fun. But it's a necessary evil.

The cheeriness could be down to the results of the first part of my maths mock. After psyching myself up to scrape a C, I managed a high B, which is great. Especially when you take into account my complete inability to work a calculator. There's usually a great chasm between my abilities in calculator (poor) and non-calculator (better). On the last test, a chasm of 20%, in fact.

"Wow, that is quite a big gap, isn't it?" Noted Ben.

Yes it is. And one day, I'll get down to some revision, and I might even get good. But it's doubtful.

. . . . .

You do it to yourself, you do.

And that's what really hurts.

Teenage dreams, so hard to beat...

"Hello, everyone. My name is Reece and tonight I will be performing Gloria Gaynor classics for your pleasure. Yes, that's right, go on now go! Walk out the door! Just turn around now-"

"Shut up. Please."

- The Christmas party: a veritable melting pot of insanity and misguided attempts at karaoke.

. . . . .

I didn't think I was going to enjoy myself at all last night. The tension was almost tangible in the air around me: I was just so angry. Normally my attempts at steeliness are only partly successful, but I played the Ice Queen with perfection.

But then I got to the party, and everything just melted away. All the horrors of the day, the stress, the maths equations still floating around in my mind. It was much busier than I'd imagined; it seemed like everyone I'd met over the dreamy, glorious summer was there. James skulked around in the corner, hiding from the purposeful Peter, giving me knowing looks as Reece and I deliberated on which karaoke classic would have just the right amount of Christmas spirit. He went for I Will Survive, whilst Will and Ali got into the groove in the background. Will is going to be as handsome as his brother when he grows up. The Boses were there, and we made dinner plans with them as we ate our way through far too many cocktail sausages. And then we danced; we ate and drank and were merry.

I'd forgotten what a brilliant summer it was. I didn't realise I'd met so many wierd and wonderful people, made some unlikely acquaintances. And I had no idea that I'd watched so many cricket matches. It was great; a proper, Middle Class, afternoon-tea-and-village-green-cricket summer. Except there were few village greens, we just lazed in the grounds of a High Court judge in Norfolk, or sat, hot and bare-legged, in scoreboxes, watching the boys in their whites. Uma and I looked at a lot of boys, and Joe gave me tips on how to survive GCSE maths (they're not working), telling me of his dreams to be an American footballer.

I hope that next year brings just as many lazy days by the Orwell. Next summer, though, Gem may be in tow, pretending she adores cricket just to talk to the long-limbed boys. It's not something I'm going to hold against her.

. . . . .

" Yes, that's all folks. I'm here 'till Thursday. In fact, I'm here until the end of term, if you've got any requests..."

The shadows; long and low...

"Oh, well now it's all falling into place!"

"Yes. But that place is nowhere near this place."

- Matt contemplating life on Mars, in a manner of speaking, alongside his best mate Freddie. It's good to see that they make less sense now than ever...

. . . . .

If the weather reflects your mood, then the semi-darkness I stalked home in tells a story of its own. After all that's gone on of late - all the to-ing and fro-ing - I shouldn't let anything surprise me. But I'm still a little breathless, still a little lost for words, other than those of fury. Hell, after all, hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I cannot believe Simon would ever say what he did. I expect a lot from him; with his intelligence there should be a pinch of human decency. But where is it? Where has it gone? I look at my friends and I'm so grateful for each one. For Ben, without whom I'd be lost at sea. Kat, the most genuine, and the funniest, person I know. Kirstin, who is just so great, and Gem, who I've known for my entire life, and want to know forever. And then there's Si. I just can't fathom him. I don't understand why he would deliberately be so callous; it is absolutely nothing to do with him who Kat chooses to see, and what he said to Kirstin was so unnecessary I couldn't believe it had even left his lips. It's as if he enjoys it; pull him up on it and up comes the shield of arrogance: -

"I do it because it's fun. Full stop."

I don't believe it for a second. I hope he sees sense one day soon. Says sorry. Either that, or I hope he has the balls to try and hurt me too. That way I'll know where I stand.

. . . . .

The maths mock came and went... I have no idea how it went. As usual, I approach examinations with mixed emotions. And so on marches the victory parade, with all the assurance of a blind man doing the egg and spoon race after a night on the lash. I'll reach the finishing line one day.

But at least there's a party to go to, though I expect it to be a party in the loosest sense of the term. All the same, my eyes are lined, my boots are on, and I'm ready to go.

. . . . .

The flowers are melting...

What kind of language is this?

There are hundred of people living here...

"Matt. It's an inflatable guitar. A ridiculous, pink inflatable bit of plastic."

"Yeah, isn't it great? Well. It was between this and a giant inflatable alien. And I figured that would be a bit freaky at night."

- Because it wouldn't be Christmas without the token crap inflatable, would it? My personal favourite, though, is the hammer.

. . . . . .

Some days I think I'm going to die. That, though, is only a fleeting sensation. The very instant I wake up, it flashes across my mind. Obviously, it's school-related. Or, to be more accurate, work-related. I've come to the conclusion that GCSEs are hard. Hard and time-consuming. Whatever the government says, we're not just a nation of ASBO youths. As the oracle that is Julian Casablancas once sang:- 'I'm working so I don't have to try so hard'.

But then I enjoy the challenge, in a twisted kind of way.

Friday was the most glorious day of the week. The show was over, the dance exam was over... and we all did so well. I, literally, was delighted for everyone, and we were all group-hugging left, right and centre ("You were fantastic!"). I think I did better than I did in the mock, though the utter blind terror I experienced meant that, actually, I didn't really feel or think anything until I staggered out of the hall and saw Kat and Yas flying round the corner: "You kicked arse, Robyn!". I crouched by the double doors and watched my friends perform through the glass - they were all amazing. I'm inclined to believe that all of them are the best dancers in the entire world. Thirties all around.

I'm enjoying a rare homework-free evening. This is in part due to the fabulous Sophie, who copied up and translated all my French notes from the lesson I missed for me. She is a goddess, not only for that but for the lucozade she bought me as a Good-Luck-Dancing! present. We all need friends like her...

... Her costume for the panto is mad. Alas, I won't see it.

Though, really, it'll be worth missing Si prance around the stage dressed like a pimp to look at all the lovely boys at the RHS 'function' (sounds ominous) on Wednesday. In fact, even if there isn't too much in the way of gorgeous cricket and/or rugby players, Reece will be there, as, probably, will James, and so there's plenty of fun to be had. And I have a gorgeous new top to wear, courtesy, of course, of Topshop. A sort of Hepburn-esque beatnik, which I think is a good look for me, if it goes with lashings of eyeliner. I know, I'm so vain...

It was quiet today without Si. Quiet, but strangely harmonious.

Happily, we're getting gritty in History; the Russian Purges under Stalin:-

"Ooh, good," said Kat, brightening up, "What's better than a bit of gore on Monday morning."

Whatever keeps you awake, I suppose.

And a cricket update: Liam Plunkett has the best hair in the game: lovely and scruffy. Kat would love him.

. . . . .

'You say want to stay by my side...

Darlin', your head's not right.'

Circus minds, running wild

"Well, if you put a yellow raincoat on, then people would think you were a taxi."

A brief, thoughtful interlude. And then:

"Oh really? And have you ever noticed, Simon, that you have a gigantic forehead?"

- They could sling all the barbs in the world, I still remain convinced that they are a match made in whirlwind-marriage heaven.

. . . . .

It has been, so far, a week so full of ups and downs that I'm sure I have motion sickness, not merely the flu. A brief summary:

My French speaking mock; it went well, I think, though I'm loathe to ponder grades too much - it's only a mock, after all. My Dance show and composition mock: absolutely terrifying. I was crouched in the darkness, watching Diffley kicking some serious arse ("OhmyGod. She has a lift!"), absolutely certain I was going to throw up. I marched onto the stage, however, with the air of Kevin the Teenager: "My name is Robyn and my dance is called Claustrophobia" - all without so much as looking at the audience (and Matt in particular, who was doing his motivational you're-gonna-get-a-five-for-Prykey smile). It went well though, and I even began to enjoy it, looking vaguely at Kat, who was stood watching me from the double doors with Diffley ("You were amazing!"). Oh, she thought I couldn't see her, but I could.

And then I turned up to yet another dance lesson this God-forsaken morning to find Warfield in a particularly cheerful mood; she looked me up and down, then announced I'd got a 29. I nearly collapsed in utter joy. I dropped only a single mark! And so the day got off to a particularly good start. But, of course, the real thing is tomorrow, and if I'm to have any success, then my nose is going to have to stop running very soon.

Other interesting occurences this week: reports, all of ours good, all present and correct. Phil passing out and hitting his head on at least three surfaces at the same point of the dialysis video in which Simon took a turn for the worse ("Ah, see! You and Phil have more in common than you'd like to believe!"). The panto is approaching in the manner of a high-speed train; I can't make any of the performances. Stupid Manchester, stupid Christmas parties, stupid Christmas etc. etc. So I've had to be content with watching Si, Josh and the rest of the motley dwarf crew bellowing 'T-E-A-M!" at lunchtimes. Very amusing, and even Josh, he with little dignity, has a certain look of shame about him.

And, speaking again of dance, the show groups came through. With my GCSE class, I'm doing something vaguely described as a "kind of American cowgirls and Indians thing". And, on top of that, our second dance has a taste-of-the-tropical theme: Hawaii. It should all be great fun, and Ben really is coming to this one. So we'll put on a marvellous preformance, as usual. Ahem.

Shouldn't knock it, really. Our dance shows are renowned for their unique brand of humour and jazz hands. It's going to be great.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Matt's fingers have made a flawless recovery, and he'll be back on the proverbial horse (hmmm, this sentence is revealing something of a wild-west theme) on Sunday. So Will and Bernie should be a little bit nervous, unless they're feeling particularly lucky (Well, are ya, punk?). Sorry, couldn't resist. Until that time, though, he keeps himself amused by playing competitive stick cricket with Prykey, Tester and Hunn, and watching Australia doing their usual winning-at-cricket thing:

"Hmm. I want New Zealand to win. Yet I've got a burning desire for Symonds to get a hundred. I'll just have to concentrate on hating Ricky Ponting. Don't you think he looks like George Bush?"

Or, actually, Ian Hislop.

Nearly Christmas now. All the shopping is done, and now all that remains to be done is the wrapping. Ugh. Now I wish I'd bought things in square boxes, not random triangles, or rectangles with giant sticks poking out of the top. Well, I made my bed, I suppose.

. . . . . .

"I'm walking through the clouds when you're looking at me...

and you're all that I see.

But it's no good for me."

I could burst a million bubbles...

"Well, you did say you'd rather stick your head in a boiling vat of acid than watch the cricket."

"Yes, but you never mentioned Rory! A surfer changes everything!"

-It's not cupboard love at all, is it Gem?

I'm having a quiet evening, savouring the rarity. Of late it's been busy, one might go as far as to say chaotic. Everything is a mass of confused french accents and past tenses. The mocks are upon us, and Kat's just broken the happy news that Friday isn't a mock but, in fact, my forty percent. Somewhat unfortunate, really. But the strange thing is, the minute Paperbag Writer starts, I get the focus. I become sharp. I become a dancer. Music's a funny thing, isn't it?

"I keep falling over,
I keep passing out,
When I see a face like you..."

I'm going through my Radiohead renaissance this week. When I hear as much as a line of anything from The Bends...

... I'm reduced to that same emotional wreck, the part which I played so beautifully all summer. And, offically, Kate Bush makes me cry. Seriously. My muscial vulnerability knows no bounds, but then neither does A Woman's Work. So all is equal, all present and correct.

I'm absolutely desperate to read Brokeback Mountain. My friends all say they aren't buying me a book for Christmas - "But it's not a proper present!" - but they fail to comprehend just how much of a bookworm I am. I'm reading Sartre at the moment, and I honestly cannot think of anything as inspiring I've read of late, save, of course, Amis. Other People is just the most haunting, ethereal novel. So, then. To those of you on my Christmas list, if I'm on yours, I can't think of anything I'd want more than a good book.

This has been vaguely serious, but then sometimes we all are, aren't we?

Oh, and a today there's a p.s: RIP to Max, Gem's guinea pig. :(

"It wears me out".

Decisions, decisions...

"We think it might be 'Wasn't I yours?' or 'Wasn't I enough?'. Or PacFro."

"PacFro?"

"Oh, didn't I mention that Kat's been impregnated with Disco Steve's child?"

- More of the trademark evil-twin Ellis wit.

.....

We had our sixth form taster day today; all of it was excellent, all was thought provoking, yet none of it made the slightest bit of difference to my subject. Once my mind is set upon something, it's very difficult to persuade me otherwise.

So, then. First is English Literature; the very idea of reading books for credit appeals enormously to me, and Mr Hall spoke highly of my Soundtrack work: "I so enjoyed reading your work". Flattery will get you everywhere with me.

Secondly, French. Upon announcing my new venture into the world of A-Level MFL, Richard, Kieran, Yasmin, Matt and just about everyone else had a good old laugh at my expense. Justifiably too, I'd guess. It's a bloody hard syllabus. Francophony is difficult enough to research and write about in my mother tongue, let alone in French. But the universities like it, and therefore it must be endured. And I like speaking, so that's something, I suppose.

History. I have been absolutely certain about taking History for at least two years, so not too much thinking required when making that choice.

And finally, Philosophy. Now this is an interesting one. All my friends who took the taster class with me were put off completely: "But it just wasn't going anywhere!". I, however, think I'm going to really enjoy the challenge. Yes, I may have to kill Ask-Me-Anything-Emma ("Well, I'm a Catholic, and so this is what I believe. And listen well, because no one else's opinion is in any way valid whilst I'm here!") in order to make it through the course. But once she has fallen out of a window in a carefully orchestrated 'freak accident', everything will be fine.

And that's my lot. Four doses of extreme academic agony, quite possibly. Or it could be quite fun, you never know.

.....

I spent three and a half sodding hours at after-hours dance on Thursday night. But I got the unadulterated attention of Miss Warfield, who devoted our brief time together to improving my spatial design. Hopefully it has worked, but I don't really give a toss about my compostion grade anymore. It feels like we started working on it at least a million years ago, not three tiny, insignificant months.

Wednesday night was lots more fun, though; I shall miss Rory's gorgeousness when he's gone. Which, unfortunately, is far too soon. But we had a good time: Tan pretended to be an England selector and called up Matt ("Would you consider flying out to Pakistan?") whilst we laughed in the background. Matt saw the funny side, at least:

"Tan! You imposter!"

Then we all bundled in the car and went home. Like I said, we'll miss him when he's gone.