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.