Brief Notation

Hmmm. In order to make it through the next week, I'm going to have to develop two alter-egos. One who knows what I'm supposed to be doing in the maths coursework, for I am entirely clueless, and one who is utterly shameless, and loves to dance around in a grass skirt and tight top for 'the fun of it'. Oh yes, it's almost dance show week...

Even the kids I babysit for are going to watch it. And Richard, Kieran, Ben, and a handful of other mocking boys from my form. Oh yay.

But, in much happier news, I've made it into sixth form, as have my fabulous friends. Although, really, I was pretty sure we wouldn't have much of a problem in that department. I mean, who wouldn't want us? We're wonderful. Ahem.

. . .

My i-pod broke. First, it wouldn't turn off, and then, when we managed to do that, it wouldn't turn on again. Luckily, the good people at the shop took one look at it, nodded solemnly and handed over an identical black nano, all free of charge. So now I have a shiny new one, with no scratches. Very good. Technology is not a dear friend of mine; in fact, it hates me.

. . .

I must say, our cricket prospects in India aren't looking too good. Our habit of picking up twinges, fevers and general injuries is very English indeed; surely, we get all the bad luck? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll be dancing my little cotton socks off for the duration of the First Test, so win, lose or draw, what does it matter? As long as we keep the Ashes, that is.

I Really Should Be Working, But...

Hmmm. My horoscope for this week has told me that I must sort out my conflicts. This could either mean resolving them, or, as I have interpreted, sorting things out once and for all. Yes, I know. A horoscope is hardly scripture by which you live your life, but what the hell. It's half term and I intend to do very little, so why not experiment with my destiny?

So, on to the tricky business of conflict. Well, there is only a single source of it in my life at the moment, and so I've made a decision. And this, though difficult, looks like it will be a pretty permanent thing: I cannot be friends with Simon. I just can't. He may be, as a peer, intelligent and sure of himself, and for that I admire him, and I will be civil to him, and work with him at Linguists, and all that jazz. But personally? No. I don't want him to be part of my life; he's hurt just about everyone, including those I genuinely care about, and the latest Big Brother, Marshallgate incident is the final straw. He has never actually done anything, and by this I mean a single thing, to show that he cares about me as a friend, and I seriously believe he is, as my brother has told me over the past week, "a bit deranged. I mean, does he get off on hurting people or something?". So there it is. I've said it all before, I know, but for my own sanity I've got to have a little faith in my decisions.

We were out for Gem's birthday on Friday and it was fantastic. But it didn't feel like anyone was missing. And that is the most telling thing of all.

Oh, and Ben, this is nothing to do with you at all. We all love you!!!!

. . . . .

"We're not going to the West Indies."

My mum has given us the definitive verdict on our plans for a little Cricket World Cup jaunt in 2007. It's not looking good.

"But look! You've just said how exicting it is! Look! Look! Symonds just got 150! It's brilliant!"

"Firstly, Matt, you hate the Australians winning, which they will. And secondly, I'm not paying two grand to watch cricket. I could sit on the bloody Green and do that."

"Yesssss, but not with artificial beaches."

"Go to Great Yarmouth."

I think she's missing the point, really.

. . . . .

I have an unfortunate amount of work to do over this next week; holiday seems to be something of an unknown concept to the 'lovely people' at school. And they can never prove that I don't really mean they're lovely - I'm on Constant BB watch. I tried tackling my French Coursework whilst babysitting on Saturday, but it didn't really appeal to me. That and I was trying to wrestle my i-pod off a couple of soup-slurping children. Don't get me wrong, they're good kids, but I really would have rather stayed at home watching Jerry Maguire. Great film, by the way. It even makes me hate Tom Cruise a little less.

Anyway. Hopefully next week's horoscope will be much more in the 'relax, it's February' vein. But I doubt it, with the Horror Show approaching. That, for all you uneducated people out there, is the Dance Show. Oh, we love rehearsals.

Oh wait -

We don't.

Stalin endorsed censorship, non?

Censorship is a pain in the arse, isn't it?

"What?" My mum was rather shocked. "How stupid is that? Maybe I should ring up..."

Of course, I can't tell you what I'm actually talking about; this, apparently, would be breaking some kind of law on slander. And one never knows how many prying eyes could be building up a case against you.

Oh, Simon.

"Well, you tell him from me, if there is no apology, he can find his own bloody limo."

And, as of this moment, this is absolutely the case.

Anyway, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise unreservedly to Marshall for anything I've ever said against him. Everyone who knows me has had to endure, for the past five years, me banging on about the right to free speech, and all that. Now, though, I may as well be wired up to constant CCTV surveillance. Or perhaps I could submit my diary as coursework? Hello everyone, can you see me now?

And as for criticism? Don't be so ridiculous. Don't you know the establishment is perfect? Ha ha.

Of Course, Rants and Raves

Oh, we're too middle class for words.

My mum is on her famous annual pre-holiday beach diet. Of course, she's still as thin as ever, and our holiday isn't until after the GCSES (which I classify as an entirely different period of time, post-GCSE. It's like a new beginning), but some family traditions are created merely as resolutions around which everything else orbits, much like the Earth goes round the Sun. This is one of those things.

My brother is galavanting around in his Dynasty shoulder pads, practising rugby tackles on anyone who happens to pause in the hallway, i.e me. I honestly cannot wait until the cricket season begins again; it brings with it both sunshine and new bats, with fresh willow longing to be knocked in and then knocked about. Instead of me, hopefully.

My dad is, as usual, a well-intentioned pain. Bless him.

And me, well, I'm entering the month of endurance known as 'Dance Show preparation'. On the one hand, I'm filled with all-consuming joy; this will be the last ridiculous performance I'll ever have to do, with a terrified fixed grin and a grass skirt. Why I subject myself to such torture I'll never know; picking GCSE Dance doesn't rank up there as one of my most intelligent decisions. And on the other hand, I'm being sulky and unreasonable about everything, trudging to early morning and weekend rehearsals only to moan about how much I hate it all. I hate those kind of people under normal circumstances, but, concerning dance, Kat, Kirstin and I have mastered the art of glaring at Miss X, and slumping around with arms folded.

It's only three days until half term. Which doesn't sound like a long time, but seventy-two hours, in terms of homework and Science lessons, is an eternity.

. . . . .

Ooh, and, of course, Get Well Soon Jane McGrath.