Oh, crap.

It's my first GCSE written exam tomorrow. English literature. That in itself I'm not worried about; I like books, I like war poetry. OK, An Inspector Calls was sleep-inducing, but I can't have it all, can I?

But I'm digressing. I am, however slightly worried about everything else. Revision is, frankly, really bloody dull, and I am entirely incapable of doing any more than an hour at a time (although I'm managing to find willpower somewhere to pull of four or five hours a day). The good thing is, though, my parents are being very supportive about the monumental struggle in which I immersed. Example: my mum took me for a clotted cream tea with lots of scones as a 'keep it up' gift. And my Dad just keeps firing out advice in the manner of a WW1 machine gun: "Now, don't overdo it, will you?"

"Yeah," adds Matt, "Slow and steady wins the race." He says this as he sprawls on the sofa, watching South Park and reading the Wisden. Hard graft isn't his favourite thing.

I do love South Park though.

. . .

Thnaks to the ever-reliable British weather, cricket matches are being rained off left, right and centre. Mostly the ones I am at. For the past two Saturdays we have driven to Tester's house, with Matt, Danny and Joe squished against each other in the back, with my mum turning into a road-raging maniac ("Get out of the way, you fat freak!"), whilst Danny giggles manically behind me like Damien from The Omen.

But at least I am civillised now, with no more paint in my hair or on my shirt or up my nails. Even Sophie, who forgives me most things, came around after the art exam, took one look at me and, with a shake of the head sighed "You are just so messy. Have you been painting on yourself?".

"Actually, no. But I am a very serious, important artist. So shut up."

We'll see, though, when the grades finally come through.

I have discovered Nick Drake. If it was summer, his songs would be perfect. Actual summer, I mean, as opposed to gale force winds and pelting rain. I blame global warming. Go nuclear, etc, etc.

School's Out Forever

"Well, it's a bit of a danger area, isn't it? Everything seems really funny until you wake up with a hangover and a penis."

- Looking back on five years of inimitable experiences and conversations; myabove musing has proven to be Kirstin's favourite.

. . .

Well, it's over.

We've finished high school, save the small matter of exams. And it ended in a flurry of photographs, group hugs and a fair few tears:

"But I can't leave! I don't want to leave!" Kathryn wailed, kissing the wall of the Science block with a wistful "Bye, wall". The thing is, though, we'll all be back soon, and wishing we were in year thirteen so could leave for good. My yearbook is wonderful; I never knew that I knew so many people, nor that they were all so photogenic. Mostly.

And so, exhausted by Uma's pleading, I went to the party on Friday evening, where she and I (and a couple of inebriated young men) did an excellent karaoke version of I Will Survive. Uma, being a Year Ten, didn't quite understand the enormity of the 'end of school' situation.

"But you hate school," she said, entirely missing the point as she sipped a Bacardi Breezer, "You should be glad."

Yeah, well.

And Sophie, ever the goddess, called me on Saturday morning to enquire about the night before:

"Hi Sophie, "chirped my mum, picking up the phone, "Have a good night? Still drunk? You didn't get arrested, did you?"

And so now I see why they get on so well.

. . .

But I have to revise this week; Monday and Tuesday bring the art exam, and on Wednesday I'm going for chinese at lunctime with Sophie, Gem and Ben. And, on Thursday evening, I may be line dancing.

It is a long, long story which I will save for another time.

And finally, in the words of Kim: "Bring on Sixth Form!"

Enfin

"Oh.My.God. This is serious trauma. I'm not going to leave on Friday. You'll have to drag me out!"
- Sophie, evidently not dealing with the concept of actually having to leave school very well.

But in some ways, she is right. I have been overtaken by a bizarre feeling of sentimentality and nostaligia, much removed from my usual, hard-nosed self. But people are leaving! After five years, people are actually leaving! And reading all their names and messages in my yearbook (yes, I succumbed) make it all the more real. No more compulsory education for me!

Except, of course, for my chosen career I will have to endure yet more years of teaching torment - so the end of compulsory education means nothing. Not a thing. Except no more art (trauma) and no more maths (pure, unadulterated joy).

I am, however, still waiting for a yearbook message from Ben. Honestly, I don't know why he is finding this so difficult: he merely needs to mention how fabulous I am, and how I've taught him everything he knows about cricket (not much, but it's a start; he'll be loving it by the time we go to uni, I promise). And that is all I want. It's not like I'm not going to see him again after Friday. Unless, of course, something goes drastically wrong. Touch wood, of course. Or I miraculously become a high-flying journalist by then...

Which leads me on to my fabulous mentor Deborah, who is actually helping me, as opposed to sitting in a big black swivelling chair telling me I'm not up to scratch. Naturally, the pessimist in me was expecting just that nightmare scenario.

But anyway, Tasha may be joining a cult in Home and Away. So I'd better go an find out.

Vegetable Seductions

This is going to have to be quick.

Very soon my dad will be arriving home from Bury with Alex in tow, and I will have to leave the house (or the country) to escape the inevitable: my mother dancing me around in front of him like a spoon of puréed turnip whilst trying to convince me to marry him. As I have tried to explain to her many times, I am in absolutely no way interested in the boy. More to the point, we've never actually had a proper conversation in our lives, save of course the usual hellos and cricketing jargon.

Aaannnyyywaaayyy. I thought I'd just drop a line or two, seeing as school is nearly over (four and a half working days), and the majority of my year are getting schmaltzy and sentimental, wielding yearbooks like weapons of mass destruction and demanding I sign them, as if we have been friends since birth. Naturally, I will give in, and by Monday I'll have my own. It is, however, very unlikely that I will weep come Friday; I'll be back in a flash, geed up for my A Levels. There are people leaving, though, who I will miss; it doesn't seem right that we're all going our separate ways. Five years have gone in the blink of an eye.

But, of course, before I can leave, my Art exam must be prepared and fabulous: Mr. B has had the 'fun' brainwave of adding relief to my canvas, so it will have to be plastered (though using polyfiller, oddly), part-covered in tissue paper, sprinkled in sand and painted jet black before I can even think about setting foot in the exam room. As if I don't have enough to do.

Dance moderation day has been and gone. My hamstrings still hurt, such is the torment of six hours of pliés and spins. I think it went fairly well, though I am expecting to lose a few marks from my original score which, quite frankly, was ridiculously high.

And, having quickly surveyed the blogs of my friends (and acquaintances) for some gossip (of which there was none, unfortunately. All too busy doing exams or watching cricket), I had a good laugh at Mr. Marshall: "I've been looking at a career in the Navy". This is the same boy who cannot, under any circumstances, be arsed to do an iota of work. Matt, if you're reading, you know I admire your slothfulness: it takes a very particular individual to be so, ahem, laid back. Practically horizontal, in fact.

Oh God, there's the car in the driveway. I wonder if Narnia lies in my wardrobe?

I can dream.