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..."
"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..."
posted by Robyn @ 1:05 AM
2 Comments:
You've been on about every blog leaving comments! And very good ones too - Marshall is probably obsessed with Kirstin! Like Andrew and you, just Matt is turning bitter while Andrew loves you even more! Only joking, he is kinda scary though - stalker material!
Andrew is not in love with me, you just want him to be, for your own amusement!
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