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."