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."