In Summary...

"Hmmm, I'm not sure about these shoulder pads."

"No, Matt. You look like Joan Collins."

"Actually, I was thinking more Gay Bar."

- It seems that even rubgy players are ruled by vanity, including my brother. Although his latest sporting ensemble was frighteningly reminiscent of the Village People...

. . . . .

Well, I have been very, very busy.

I am, unfortunately, in two dances in the annual pain in the arse, the school dance show, as well as trying to learn the Set Study for my practical exam sometime in the not-too-distant future. The thought of actually dancing in either sends a shiver of dread up my spine, suggesting that perhaps it wasn't an appropriate GCSE to take. Also, I have to go to two early morning rehearsals, and by the time I get to school, battling against the ferocious winter weather, I resent everyone I see, and spend the whole day formulating ways to get out of it. So far, I can't think of any which don't result in either murder or 'falling' down the stairs.

My mock results delighted me, 7A*s and 4 As. Though now I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of terror that I can only get worse by the time the real exams make their way around.

Frieda, my giant clay head, was finished on Thursday, after I spent the evening sitting under a table (I was practically crippled) trying to join the stupid seams, whilst everyone else was having far more fun doing nothing. But, as Mr B loves to tell me so often, "the hard work is over now!".

On Friday night, we all went to see Memoirs of a Geisha. Which was entirely static, and not at all entertaining. The best part, in fact, was watching Mr H lurk below with his mother:

"Oh, I am gonna take the piss next time I see him," Kirstin said gleefully. "And look! He's wearing a jumper!"

Then yesterday was Gifted Linguists, the first two hours of which were spent marvelling at the entirely unfashionable lateness of Annabelle. Simon did not look amused when she finally arrived, bringing with her a French friend to interview, and in a single swoop upstaging his mini-poll. All style, no substance. "When we come back in March," he promised solemnly, "we're going to win." Win what? I wasn't aware that there was an actual competition. But with the Ellis brothers, breathing is a competitive sport. My dad looks relaxed and nonchalant in comparison.

Maybe they'll grow out of it.

But they probably won't.

. . . . .

"Love is not a victory march,

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."

All Ends Up

"Well, I see life as a game of Twenty20-"

"God, no wonder you're so fucked up!"

-Yep, we're now doing the cricket-as-life metaphors in our house. More evidence, perhaps, that we are either turning into the BKs or breathless, lukewarm philosophers in the style of Mark Nicholas.

But 407-0? For us far from the subcontinent, it's a distant dream. That's definitely something to be interested in, however breathless or lukewarm you may be...

. . . . .

And so the mocks are over, albeit in a rather ramshackle, arrive-whenever-the-hell you like manner. I refuse, however, to dissect my performances any further: what's done is done. That and, of course, the fact that the more I think about it (it generally being History) the worse I think I have done. So, on Thursday morning I went home feeling quite cheerful and self-satisfied, but Monday evening brings uncomfortable self-doubt. Must. Have. Results. Or I may spontaneously combust. I care too much.

Except in Maths, where there genuinely isn't a hope in hell of finding that light at the end of the tunnel.

*

Matt's rugby team remains, miraculously, unbeaten, and so his frequent treks down to Kent on these wet winter Saturdays aren't proving to be the waste of time I first predicted. I must say, though, that I'm bewildered as to how he has suddenly become such a good... OK, I know this one. Hooker? Flanker? Whatever, it's irrelevant. For whatever position he plays, the fact remains that prior to September he'd never picked up a rugby ball. And now, he's become some sort of sprightly, try-scoring private schoolboy. Jammy sod.

But, as he himself confesses: "We're not quite sure how we do it. We spend most of the practises wrestling each other." So, then, it is just luck. Something that my cricketer friends would, perhaps, describe as a get-yer-pads-on-Glenn-McGrath moment. That, though, is another story; one which belongs to last summer alone.

*

And now, a most exciting story (for me). Gideon Haigh is writing for CoU! Running the risk of sounding a) like an idiot and b) like the wierd, bookish, cricketish (not a word, I know) creature Gemma affectionately describes me as, my hero! He's right up there with my column writers du jour, alongside Jeremy Clarkson, Ally Ross, and whoever does the back page of the Times Magazine on a Saturday. All men. Interesting. Does this mean that, as a rule, men are the better writers? Well, Amis is. McEwan is. So, for me, yes.

*

I have to go to John and Edie's for dinner on Saturday. This is generally not a highlight of my life. I don't appreciate having parma ham and prawn bloody cocktail foriced down my throat. I want dessert, not converstation. I won't die of thirst because I don't fancy a drink right at this moment. No, I don't want to talk about school. Go away.

But, of course, I can't actually say any of these things, so I merely end up looking at the door longingly every four seconds, and pretending that I can't hear my Dad imploring me to "tell Edie about school". And formulating plans to get out early, including setting fire to the tablecloth, the dog, Matt...

. . . . .

"Did you see the stylish kids in the riot?

Shovelled up like muck, set the night on fire..."

And Everything We've Done

"Well, I've already lost twenty sodding marks because I didn't bring any colouring pencils. That's not fair. "

- But such is life, as we have discovered over the past few days. Whilst Richard's downfall was merely a lack of colouring pencils, my utter inability to do the maths paper has been the stumbling block.

. . . . .

Well, we have been busy.

It is, of course, mock week. Or, week and two days. And whilst, in normal terms, this doesn't sound like a long time, once you've spent what would normally be breaktime staring mournfully at the clock, the days do tend to drag on.

And so a quick summary of the exams so far:

First, Art. Hmmm. Well, the disaster of the day happened approximately three seconds into the exam, when my armature collapsed as soon as clay so much touched it. Luckily, Mr B, in his resourcefulness, managed to bang another one together in about a minute, and the rest of the day passed pretty much without incident, save Kat's bleeding hand. And I was vaguely pleased with the results. Dance. Two hours. Two bloody hours. It felt like I'd aged a couple of years by the time I got out. But again, I was pretty pleased. We all were, actually. Until, of course, Miss X appeared today with a devillish smile, and announced:-

"Sophie, you did really well on your dance exam. Better than Kathryn."

At which point my dear friend (Kat, not Miss X) looked stricken, and spent the rest of the afternoon gabbling "I knew I finished early! And now I know why! Because I only got four marks, probably!". Nonsense, of course, because she's practically Einstein. And I mean that sincerely.

French. A foundation paper warm-up. Easy. English. Actually, it was, in a perverse way, rather fun. The Inspector question was dull (but then, so was the play), but the war poetry essay was good, mainly because of my love of Sassoon. And then 'Of Mice and Men'. I ended up doing a character essay on George, getting slightly ridiculous and sentimental on the page about his 'ultimate act of heroism'. The words 'carried away' spring to mind. Ahem.

Science. OK, but not fun. As you'd expect. Tech. Good. I like drawing and annotating.

But then, the sting in the bloody tail, Maths non-calculator. Which I staggered through like a drunk trying to walk in a straight line. An A? Ha bloody ha.

. . . . .

"So then, Robyn. You've got a day off tomorrow. And what exactly what are you going to do? Make yourself useful? You can tidy my room if you like."

Well, as I don't do either Business Studies or German, I intend to lie in until an ungodly hour, then sprawl on the sofa and watch the cricket. Watching sixes being hit left, right and centre is good for the soul I think. Unless Punter's doing the hitting. Oh, and of course, somewhere on the agenda is History revision, but I think I'll play that down a bit. Ahem.

Now, I'm not usually one to go on about TV programmes, but The Thick Of It (BBC2, Mondays) is absolutely the funniest thing I have seen in an age. Very, very good, and all the demented characters are quite like all my demented friends. So you should watch it. And I shall sign off on a quote:

"I know I'm good. But I can't hold back the fucking tide, can I?"

- Exactly.

Who is in the hut?

"Well, at least I didn't drop a fork on someone's head!"

No, but I did, unfortunately, defying both the laws of gravity and all forms of accepted etiquette. Luckily, the gorgeous victim of my unprovoked attack was not only unoffended, he was delighted to talk pizza toppings and (oh yes) cricket with me. And my friends say it is a useless hobby to have...

...They're wrong! Boys like pizza. And some like cricket too.

And one of these days I'm going to meet a sane person, wandering bewildered through the streets. Until then, though, I will have to be content with looking worriedly on as friends of the family clamber over fences to find bits of wood (which, naturally, they are stealing from their workplace) to make my armature: "Errr, Mark? Is that actually allowed?".

Hmmmm...

Oh, and happy new year to you all. To my two readers, I mean.

. . . . .

And so it's 2006. Although it feels pretty much the same as life ever did; with so much going on time just blends in to one long, labourious day. But as I've taken a shine to compiling lists over the past... well, I did it in one entry, I have put together my 2006-at-a-glance calendar. Although it's not in chronological order or anything, because my brain is in a bit of a mess. Anyway. A lot is happening in 2006, you know!

1) GCSEs. And, of course, mocks, but in the greater scheme of things they pale in comparison to the real thing. So I'll revise, I put in the effort, blah blah blah. Well, my horoscope (yes, I've taken to believing it, since I had one vaguely accurate one) says it will be a tough year, but I'll make it through in one piece. Well, actually, it didn't mention any kind of triumph or making it through, but a little bit of optimism never killed anyone, did it?

2) Sixth Form. I am genuinely really excited about it, believe it or not. I've heard all the stories about back-breaking work, but the fact remains that I'll no longer have to do maths, nor science, and, from September onwards, I get to books and write about them. And there's no uniform! What more could you possibly want?

3)I'm going on holiday to Mexico. Again, very excited. There will be sunshine, hopefully, and palm trees too. Sophie's already put her order in for a sombrero, whilst my brother's friends are quite keen on having a straw donkey each. So, on our return, as we march through the Stansted arrival lounge, we will look like either a) those annoying touristy people I hate or b) drug smugglers/ general criminals ("It's in the straw donkey!"). Very promising, I think you'll agree.

4) The Ashes!!! If we retain them, it will absolutely make my Christmas. If we lose (probably more likely), then I will cry into my Christmas pudding. But I like it that way, going into it with a bit of realism. Then if we do win (or should I say when we do win) it's a joyous occasion: my grandparents in Melbourne can gloat to their neighbours ("Now, how does that song go? Oh yeah - 'You all live in a convict colony, a convict colony, a convict colony...'") and every boy under the age of thirteen can (and will) smash those little red balls of pain into windows, walls and people to their hearts' content: "We did win the Ashes, you know!".

5) England vs. Pakistan. I realise I've become a bit of an obsessive armchair cricketer, but it really is a good thing; it gives me things to talk about not only with my brother, but also with the boys at the cricket club and handsome young scorers. So an excellent thing, in fact. And I'm going to the Oval to watch skunk-hair and Freddie in person - well worth the price of an admission ticket.

6) Prom. Well, I'm not really excited about the Prom, but everyone else is, so I feel I should try and get in the spirit of things. To me, it's just a bit of a party in which I get to wear a nice dress, which a lot of the nonchalant boys I know won't go to anyway, so it doesn't seem like an occasion of life-or-death importance. Also, there's a bit of a quandry as to who is going in whose limo: after the recent Simon vs. Us debacle and the even more recent Simon-calls-Kirstin-fat debacle, I'm pretty sure that, whilst I'm not bothered either way, he's not really welcome in the eyes of my other girlfriends.

7) My seventeenth. I'm practically a grown-up. How terrifying is that? Also, even more terrifying is the fact that, by the end of the year, I'll be allowed on the roads. No one will be safe as me and my car crash into everything within crashing distance. I'd better remember to wear a seatbelt, then.

8) Lots of little things which will no doubt light up my meagre existance. The Arctic Monkeys album is out soon, for which I wait with baited breath. Ooh, and Brokeback Mountain. The book is amazing and Heath Ledger is gorgeous, so the film should be brilliant on so many different levels.

And when you look at it like that, it seems that 2006 is going to be pretty damn good, exams and all.

. . . . .

"Too young to hold on,

To old to just break free and run..."