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.