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.