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 :)