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?