Loose Ends

"I think this is what being dead feels like."

And so we danced our little hearts out on Friday, all in the vague hope that Miss XXX, in a flash of humanity, would give us all the fabulous grades we really didn't deserve. It was indeed like a slow, torturous death; by the time I was performing Geisha, every limb had siezed up, and it seemed perfectly plausible that Kat would have to drag my onto the stage by my hair. But no. I went to my doom of my own free will...

Manchester has been and gone, and I have learnt the following things:

• Yes, I really am right when I say that my family are insane.
• However much my aunt professes to being "just down to earth, you know", she is in fact the most obvious social climber I have ever met in my life.
• And, according to her wisdom, every restaurant in Manchester has "gone off".

And so, really, I could have just stayed at home.

Today I had my English poetry exam. Mixed feelings. The analysis was OK, my response to the analyse & comment section was, I think, a bit wishy-washy. But we shall see. At least I finished it, unlike some of the class. Or those who finished forty inutes early and stared gormlessly at the window until the bell went.

I am re-reading Birdsong, thanks to Ben. I had forgotten how stirring it is. If I could make a recommendation for today, that would be it.

This is short, but so is my attention span this afternoon.

435? Yes, my son.

Right then. Tonight, I have a free evening; they're becoming rarer, and once Mr. B gets his claws into me, I'm predicting that my social life will finally be driven to extinction. So here I am, making the most of it...

...by writing my blog. Hmmm. I think I need to sort my priorities out, really.

But anyway. There are much more pressing matters at hand. I have a dance assessment in less than a fortnight, and by that time I must have transformed from a sulky, skulking background dancer to a sinuous, Darcey-Bussellesque goddess, complete with a fucking false smile and a sudden desire to show off. And I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to pull it off.

And an interesting, if not slightly random, fact: my future Philosophy teacher, whom of course I cannot name (!) is actually a Cambridge graduate! Who'd have thought it? And, naturally, the egg is all over my face for making so many chav jokes over the years...

Never judge a book by the cover, children.

. . . . .

"OhMyGod. He's gorgeous, don't you think?"

"Um. Not really. And he's an Aussie, so I'll have to pass. And the hair-"

"Robyn. The hair is very, very cool. Do you think he's married?"

"Oh, fuck off, Andrew Symonds wouldn't marry you in a month of bloody Sundays!"

The aftermath of The Greatest Match in ODI History (courtesy of Richie Benaud and all at Sky Sports, though few would expostulate) has left the Cricket Sisters in a spin. Uma has decided she is going to marry Sideshow Symonds, and has been scouring back copies of The Wisden to try and see if he's got a wedding ring. Very, very sad. And smacks of the kind of obsession which will lead to her emigrating and hovering outside his house for three years. My Dad, not a C.S in the usual sense, but there you go, has smiled continuously for three days, and has decided he likes Graeme Smith. Will has had a coronary. And, most importantly, everyone I know and adore (though not those from school, who have yet to discover the limitless joy cricket brings) has Sky+-ed the (excellently edited) highlights programme, and can describe in surprising detail shots, the runs and the annihilation of the bowlers. So we'll have a lot to talk about for a fair few weeks yet.

Or, at least, until England get their act together and start getting some runs, and KP stops arsing around trying to hit 'em out of the ground and sulking when he's out. Could be a while.

As will be my next post, at this rate, but alas, there are pieces of ribbon to be burnt.

Gifted (but very unhappy) Linguists

Some thieving bastard has stolen my iPod nano. Out of my bag. They actually took it out. Of. My. Bag. And, to add insult to injury, it was whilst Ben, Simon (with whom I have formed a temporary truce) and I were in another room giving a sparkling presentation about the humanitarian crisis in Sudan. In French. So, in short, being good at French has cost me £180. Where’s the justice, eh?

And then I had to endure half an hour of being patronised (“Are you sure you brought it?”) whilst people told me it hadn’t been stolen because “the kind of people who are here wouldn’t do that”. Hmmm. Well. Harold Shipman was an educated man, but that didn’t stop him killing two hundred patients, did it?

Unfortunately, this all happened after I’d answered their questionnaire, so they think it was worth my while. I should have just stayed in bed.

Anyway, then my Dad marched in, scouring the place for disclaimer notices (none of which were found) so we can claim it back on their insurance, hopefully. Either that, or I’ll be going round my form on Monday morning asking for donations. You can all spare a quid, can’t you?

. . . . .

Other than that unfortunate occurence, it's been a pretty quiet week. Well, quiet in the usual sense that I've got enough work to last me until I'm forty, yet it must all be finished by the end of the half term. So I'm keeping busy, and, nearly every day, there's some vaguely important reason why I can't actually go home, but must stay and either sew, do maths, paint, take photographs of cells, make an appearance at prom committee, or revise history. But there are only five days in a school week, so I see that some juggling will have to be done in order to give me the tiniest chance of accomodating it all.

Cricket season is nearly upon us at last, so I'll be making a bit of cash with my scoring expertise. And, also, I suppose, getting fat as I enjoy the teas. Another advantage of this is that we can all go down to Essex to watch the county matches, and marvel at the gorgeousness of Ali Cook, our new favourite heart throb. Once us cricket sisters are all together, chaos ensues; that Indian woman won't be the only one holding up marriage proposal signs. Now, to please everyone, they just need to tempt Andrew Symonds and Michael Clarke into emigration; who can resist big hitters or blonde Australians, now Rory's gone? There are much worse ways to while away the days.

. . . . .

" Are you sure you just haven't left it on the windowsill?"

- Firstly, why the hell would I leave it on a windowsill. Secondly, if I knew where it was, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?

The Dances of Despair

"Oh, God, what if I go deaf? Hmmm. Well. As long as I don't go blind then I'll be OK."

It is, or, at least, it has been, dance show week, and the strain is showing on all of our faces. Kat lost most of her senses over the past few days, but managed to regain them in ample time for a spectacular final performance on Saturday night. Unfortunately, there were few tears from Ms. XXX, and so we were deprived of a final moment of enteratinment. But all's well that ends well, and we definitely seemed to do, in the grand scheme of things, alright. I even managed a smile as I danced over the remnants of Kirstin's grass skirt during the finale. It was almost a divine moment. But only almost.

And I'd just like to take this opportunity to completely un-thank the boys from my form for an utter lack of samosas and cookies on every single performance evening. We were hungry and we got nothing. Cheers, boys.

Though I suppose I must pay them a reluctant thanks for not collapsing with laughter when they saw our African costumes; they hid their smug grins very well.

. . . . .

The other 'event' of this week was the unveiling of our art exam theme: 'Structures'. I must admit, it didn't grab me at first, but having thought about it, and scoured the earth for Lennart Nilsson photographs, I'm feeling very inspired, and am curently formulating a final piece in my head involving psychadelic colours and crazy brush strokes. Just my cup of tea.

Ooh. And speaking of events, Alistair Cook has this week gone from my brother's favourite Essex player to everyone's favourite England debutant, making a very classy century in the second innings of his debut. True, the final score was a mere draw, but I'd be bold enough to suggest England had the upper hand. And Hoggy's bowling was great; he totally deserved that ride on the outfield atop his Man of the Match motorbike. And, even better, Austraila were demolished this week in South Africa; the sheer joy on my Dad's face from seeing that they were 7-4, or something equally dream-like, was a sight to behold. Woo!

. . . . .

"...Well, you're not on for a while, you're going to have a long wait."

"Oh, really? Are we? Are we, you little ginger man?"

- Backstage helpers: really not all they're cracked up to be.