Oh when the Saints come marching in...

-"Har-ry. You are gay."

"Come on Danny boy, back to the pavillion with you."

. . . . .

I am soon to cease to be an ingénue, and instead become a hard-hitting, brilliant young journalist in the manner of Jeremy Paxman, sternly growling "come on, come on" when grilling some American government minister on Newsnight. Or presenting University Challenge.

Well, perhaps not, but I am finally to meet my mentor on Friday morning and, if all goes well, (and Mr. B doesn't forbid me in a Will-induced fury) I may be writing a diminutive article (i.e. paragraph) to accompany a little bit of school-based news. I see potential. And Mr. K, when informing me of the news this afternoon, told me I was "resolute and high-achieving", which has made me, well, resolve, to revise a bit harder in science. Not that that will help me pass Thursdays test in any way, shape or form.

. . . . .

The weekend was reassuringly busy; my mind, for once, was in a place other than the art department, which was most helpful for relaxation purposes. We went to Manchester on Saturday - of that there is little to speak, other than that it was really, really sunny, and on Sunday my brother, with his brilliant cricket brain and gorgeous straight drive, made his fabulous debut captaining his school cricket team.

It all began brilliantly, with Joe and Matt hitting a few cover drives and putting on a nice partnership. Then, of course, there was the obligatory wobble, until Ben 'Yes, these are designer sunglasses' Tester began to club a few balls out of the park. And so, with a useful total, they stood their ground on the field, telling the opposition batsmen how bad they were whilst forgetting their field settings:

"Freddie. Get. Back. On the bloody boundary! Now!"

I never knew what a forceful gentleman my brother was.

They won, and it was great to see much hugging, camaraderie and back-slapping between the genuinely decent lads. Even Harry.

So the summer is looking up.

. . . . .

Meanwhile, there are just three weeks for me to prove my i) artistic abilities, ii) my ability to add up and iii) my ability to do it all with a little sanity and a gracious smile. We'll see how it all pans out, I suppose. And I also must finish The Constant Gardener. Which, like Rachel Weisz in the film of said book, is superb.

Happy Bloody Easter

Easter was, in all honesty, a bit of a nightmare. The weekend, which of course is supposed to be a cheerful, celebratory reflection on the resurrection of Christ etc. etc., turned into a hideous sucession of disagreements and agrieved glares; at one point, everyone was bludgeoning each other to death with their opinions about the gravy; this, as a general rule, isn't good for inter-family bonding.

So you can imagine, I was cheered up immensely when, having lunch in lovely Mizu, Miss XXX waltzed in, in an insane, clown-like ensemble which included lime green footless tights and black and white checked Converse baseball boots. As if she was a fashion-forward twelve year old. Oh, I nearly died laughing.

There were, however, other bright spots. The cricket season has started! That alone is a good thing, but a new season means new matches for the under-17s (boys in whites = yay!), and many afternoons spent lazing at Culford with Uma whilst Joe - with whom I'll meet for the first time in months - fetches us cream cakes, just like last summer. This seems a bit optimistic, considering the current state of the weather (Wet. Cold. Crap) at the moment. But I am confident things will improve very soon. Anyway. If all else fails, I can still use the time to flaunt my scoring superiority in front of the Rajs, whilst Will and Matt wrestle in the background.

. . . .

School is utterly chaotic in every respect. Art is, as ever, all-consuming, and my French oral is on Friday, so I'm attempting a new type of revision: yelling out random sentences in French at every opportunity, hoping they'll stick. Tech, though, is finished as long last, although there were a few last minute hiccups. I found half of Kat's coursework stuck inexplicably to the back of my mood board from year 10, whilst Sophie was screaming like a maniac for a Pritt Stick and the rest of the class sobbed into their coursework folders: "But how can I hand it in? It's not finished yet!".

I am on my way to Manchester again at the weekend; for some reason my parents are trying to force me into conversations with family memebers I neither know nor particularly like. Honestly. I'm sixteen now; surely my parents should have noticed by anti-social behavioural tendencies. I struggle to have civil conversations with my dad sometimes, let alone anyone who lives two hundred miles away and has no interest in anything except Newcastle Brown Ale.

Humph.

A Very Short Week

This holiday is flying by; that's one of the more annoying consequences of getting up at eleven every morning - my day is cut in half from the off. And so I resolve, full of good intentions as usual, to get up early tomorrow. Pah. Unlikely.

Revision is just so, so dull. With every day, the sudden, rather alarming urge to throw myself out of the window increases - yes, the patio may be concrete, but there are no maths practise papers on it. And all the time, I can hear the voice of Miss XXX in my frazzled mind- "only three weeks left" etc. etc. I don't know why the teachers are labouring over this point in such a manner: we know! We know exactly what's going on, thank you very much. Anyway, my art is finished, so that's one less thing to worry about.

Retail therapy is cheering me up a bit, though. On Friday, Ben, Soph and I went to regroup, favouring that nice, old-fashioned shopping-and-horror-film combo. Unfortunately, the film was The Dark, and there were two major factors preventing us enjoying it completely: i) there did not appear to be any sort of plot. At all. And ii) sheep. Sheep. There were dead bloody sheep all over the place. Which, I think you'll agree, isn't that scary. But it was better than working. And Sean Bean has aged well. Oh God, I'm turning into my sister...

Then on Saturday mum and I spent some of dad's hard-earned cash on entirely unnecessary cosmetics, bumping into Lalit, who looked like he had already frozen to death in a pair of squash shorts. Obviously, there wasn't much time for chat in case he dropped dead of hypothermia, but there were some hasty greetings and a "say hi to Uma. Tell her no to Nel".

. . .

This morning I finally watched 'A Very Long Engagement', which was gorgeous. I love everything Jean-Pierre Jeunet does, and Audrey Tatou is so pretty, it's like watching Audrey Hepburn on the screen. And everything was lovingly sepia-toned, bringing back all those memories of summer holidays in France. Until, that is, Sophie called, and she and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to work out stitch settings for Tech. Unfortunately, we concluded that we know nothing and after two years of trying, can't really sew either. Oh well.

Matt is trialling for Essex Academy soon. I am so nervous for him though he, as usual, is cool as a cucumber. I just can't get past the thought that, if he gets in, he has blown other kids from the area out of the water completely. I hope he can do it. I think he can. I don't know. I want him to.

Oh, sweet joy. The curtain has been raised on the Australian tour of Bangladesh and the Banglas - regarded as the worst team in test cricket - have wrapped a hammer in it and are currently pummelling the Aussies into a follow-on. I know it is morally reprehensible to support two teams - England and anyone playing Australia - but gooooo you Banglas!The general consensus amongst me and mine is that Simmo should be there. Except, of course, Uma, but that's purely because she likes Michael Clarke's hair. So that doesn't count.

Push that button, Punter!

The holidays, and other stories.

A holiday at last! Thank God. With all the work, revision and inane occurences that have, well, occurred this term, I did feel slightly like I'd been shot repeatedly in the kneecaps. Ouch. And so far I'm making an excellent job of doing very little; I am enjoying this new frame of mind in which I can stare out of the window for five minutes and not miss a single thing about a Soviet invasion of Afghanistan twenty-odd years ago.

But anyway. On to a slight niggle. After dragging my carcass out of bed at an ungodly hour this morning, having been woken by a most asinine text message ("Good morning! Mmmmm... Andre Nel...mmmmm" does not entertain me at all at seven a.m), I sat with my cornflakes, half watching the cricket, and half glaring at anyone who dared walk past me. And I'm sure the presenter used to be on Blue Peter. A wierd comment, one might think, but it is really, really bugging me. Who is he?Ahem.

I am, at this precise moment, calculating the cost of minibus hire for the cricket season, having been convinced by an assortment of boys that, yes, we do all need to travel together. Hmmm. I remain unconvinced, unless I get to sit in the front away from Will's incessant giggling and sex jokes. And the aforementioned gentleman's idea of investing in stump mics is utterly ridiculous, unless he can come up with some Warne-esque "you fucking dill" comments to hiss at unsuspecting visiting teams. I think not, somehow. He isn't that clever.

I have done a bit of Art... a third, to be absolutely precise. But I've come to a grinding halt. Ditto Tech. And, actually, quite a lot of other things. My horoscope - and this is true - has said I must use this week for self-discovery. And I can't really do that when drivelling on about the form of a fucking cell, can I? No. So, for me, self-discovery it is.

That and childrens entertainment, for which I have now been appointed the official ambassador in my house, bowling with Matt's mates, trying to diffuse arguments whilst on the phone to Sophie in my pyjamas... who would want kids? I have no idea. Sometimes I even think my mum, who is as dedicated as they come, would like to lock me in a cupboard. Couldn't blame her, really.

Anyway. Must go. I've got to text Sophie and arrange some form of fun...

...But, Uma, the verdict is still out on Andre :)