Bloody Hell

Well.

I got 11 A*s.

Results Day was most bizarre and, if I'm to be perfectly honest, really quite exciting. Mine were much, much better than I expected. Obviously I wasn't expecting abject failure but, in the words of Richard, WOW! Eleven.

The thing is, though, that everybody seems to know. And this has put me in some rather embarassing situations, frankly. Particularly at work; on a till no one can hear you scream (or cares if you do). Nor can you run away. So. Last weekend everything was going swimmingly; I was scanning loaves of bread, hot chickens and the like, bleep-bleep-bleeping left, right and centre, when I was accosted by Jamie who, seriously, was practically yelling:

"Aahhh! Robyn! Congratulations! Amazing, amazing!". At which someone chipped in, "Better grades than Hermione! Out of Harry Potter".

"Yes. I heard about your grades," chipped in Adam, at which I muttered "shhhh, shhhh", as if he was announcing I was a cross-dresser. "And what do you want to do?" he continued, "with your life? After Sixth Form."

Naturally, everyone had now stopped pretending I was a mere checkout girl. Oh Christ. I explained briefly my aspirations of journalism, stopping abruptly and thinking "Am I worthy, then?". Adam is a History graduate, so has the approach of a young (though admittedly very tall and quite attractive) Jeremy Paxman. Thank God it was busy.

Anyway. I'm over it now.

Yesterday I went shopping with Sophie, the main objective of which was to buy Kirstin a birthday present, which I did, though only after zipping Soph into various tiny corsets, critiquing her bottom in progressively tighter jeans and persuading her that new boots were, in fact, a more important purchase than a Rampant Rabbit or a naughty nurse outfit from Ann Summers.

"She's a lovely girl," said my mother as I recounted this later, "but she is a bit sex-obsessed, don't you think?"

As if I even needed to answer that.

'Tis a mere month (ish) until my birthday, and already my friends have started the cycle of "But-what-do-you-want?" - as if I know. My time is too consumed with French idioms and the concept of crashing a car on my very first driving lesson. I am sure - sure - that I will turn out to be incompetent.

Sixth Form soon...

I am writing this because...

...I am trying to tear my thoughts away from exam results.

It's not that I'm nervous. Well, not entirely. But it feels as if it is years since I was in that hall, using up all the ink in my biros. So I'm just very, very keen to know the outcome.

Yesterday I went to watch a ramshackle squad face a Dutch u-17 touring side. They wore orange trousers and spoke in a most peculiar Irish-American hybrid of an accent. And 'Howzat' became 'Ooohizzaaaa-ttt'. They still won, though; perhaps Ash and Joe (trying to fit under the covers) weren't showing quite the required amount of concentration.

"Shit. I'm bloody dying to know." Naturally, talk turned to exams with the assembled sixteen year-olds.

"Well. What's done is done, and all that."

"Yeah, well. I'm listening to Elliott Smith. Just to get in the spirit."

And there was a chorus of "Oh no! It won't be that bad!". Elliott Smith doesn't really fill the soul with joy. Though I'm listening to Needle in the Hay right now, and it's just the most creepy, edgy, brilliant song. But not, much like the mighty Radiohead, good for unadulterated happiness. But: "Leave me alone. You oughta be proud I'm getting good marks". Fits perfectly.

* * * * *

Jeffa (from Lincoln. Telephone): "In February? Yes. No. No. I don't even like Ray LaMontagne."

- He will, though. It is my mission.

But back to yesterday:

"Hey, anyone know anything about the Weimar Republic?"

"A-Level History?" I asked, proceeding to give a vague description of what I had learnt from both my Dad and Wikipedia.

"D'you know something?" This was said just as Ash hurtled towards the scorebard, trying to get a hand to a throw-down gone awry. Missed it, naturally.

I never knew what. Freddie took an almightly swing and skied the ball. Straight into a neighbouring field.

"Shot! Shot, Freddie my son!"

Afterwards they sulked; Twenty20 over, the season drawing to a close, soon to become rugby. And I sulked. God. It's always cold at rugby. If only it was always summer, eh?

So tense, never tenser...

Ooh-er.

The controversy at The Oval rages on; cries of ball-tampering, cheating and biased umpires abound. I must say, actuellement, I'm with Inzi and the opposition on this one. Surely, if anything untoward had happened, one of Sky's four million (or something) cameras would have picked it up. As it is, nothing. That, though, is nothing in comparison to the, frankly, embarassing and inadequate handling of the situation by the ICC. Ah, how I love bureaucrats.

My God. It is raining as if it were monsoon season outside. Reminding me, of course, of how I love this fair isle...

And yesterday a revelatory incident was fashioned, though, as not to offend those involved, I'm not going to go into major details. But I feel incredibly uncomfortable with the convictions of some people, as if they are the only ones, with their bias and bigotry, who know anything about race relations in England.

Give me a fucking break.

I'm extremely ill at ease with the ideas projected by conservative Middle England, when it comes to Islam and the ordinary asian community. This year I have met more pretentious pricks than I would care for. The kind of people who turn their noses up at the working classes, 'up north' and the like, not realising that some of them are the best and most hard-working in this country. And yeah, fine, The Sun might not be the most intellectual publication but, having read pretty much every newspaper over the past few weeks, it encourages better race-relations more than any other. And, lets face it, it's got the biggest readership and the most influence.

Right. My brief rant is over.

Still raining. My brother, Ali, Joe and the Colvers are hiding in the garage eating Fabs, which I, as the generous hostess, am providing. Though mostly this is to get them to shut up so I can, once this is done, turn my attention to the rather unappealing subject of French verbs. Or, possibly, American Psycho, which is a fantastic book, even though it has caused me to bite my lip and cringe in the more explicit scenes. And I skip over the orgies; not really my style.

Results on Thursday, joy of joys. I have high expectations of myself, which as a general rule means I will be disappointed...

...But I'll get over it, especially when I get my wages. I will try and persuade Jeffa to take me to Ray Lamontagne and all will be well with the world again.

"She didn't say anything, just looked at me like I was the opposite of civilisation or something."

Vanillacide

Definition: When a fantastically original, radical idea is watered down so much by corporate suits as to become insipid. Great word.

Oh God. I have worked all weekend, and I am going back this afternoon; the vague promise of a whole lot of money is all that is keeping me going. I may only have got this months wages, but the money is already mentally spent on books, new shoes and gorgeous slouchy jumpers from Topshop.

Anyway. The holidays are going ridiculously fast, so I'm trying to write an essay on the Weimar Republic - my history homework, and memorise some french verbs. Neither, at this stage, are going particularly well. And it's results day soon...

... but I'm not actually that worried. In fact, most of my lovely friends seem to have forgotten we even took exams, which is quite nice. I think Kirstin and I are the only ones with looming exam spectres in the backs of our minds...

"Results? What results?" - Ash, eavesdropping, "Aahh, GCSES? Not that hard, are they?"

- A chorus of "Shut up!".

"Of course they are. My maths exam was like nailing jelly to a tree." - Alex, I think. But we were laughing so hard at the 'jelly/tree' analogy I couldn't be sure who said it.

The laughter ended pretty abruptly, though, when James pointed out he had seen Harris-slightly-senior just moments before:

Uma: "Oh.My.God. Where? Where?"

"Um. Getting into a really flash car."

Me: "And?"

"What?"

Honestly. If he was a girl he would have had every nuance and detail deconstructed. "What," said Uma, very slowly and patiently, as if she was talking so someone who had just emerged from a coma, "was he like? And his hair? And that."

"Ummmmmm...."

We couldn't get much more out of the simpleton, so we got some chips and went home early to watch Big Brother.

I've been living out of this here suitcase...

Alas, I'm home.

Mexico was, as one would expect, really, really hot (42 degrees) and really, really exciting. Note, if you will, the use of exceptional adjectives. Anyway. Most of the time was spent on the beach, or wandering aimlessly around Mexican towns. The latter, in fact, was the best part - I love being a tourist and exploring the culture, camera in hand. So much more entertaining than sitting by the pool, drinking tequila and singing Queen songs, as so many of young British men seemed to enjoy.

As is tradition, I bought a variety of tacky and useless souvenirs for various friends. Even Marshall, though I could hear, in the back of my mind, Ben screaming "Noooooo! Don't do it!".

And when we returned, we descended through a million miles of thick rain clouds. Though, as I understand it, if you were travelling today that would have been the least of your worries; our eyebrows may raise at the state of the government, or whatever else everyone likes to complain about (having been away, I'm not sure which complaint is in fashion en ce moment) but a pretty enormous terrorist threat was foiled today. Perhaps, when I leave school, I'll consider a career in espionage? No. I'm too much of a wimp, really.

I returned to find that an article I had written has actually been published, and pride ensued. However minor it is, it's still something. And to think some teenagers spend their holidays setting fire to old ladies, and terrorising town centres. Then I went to sit-in at the morning show on BBC Radio Suffolk - so I'm taking experience in every way, shape and form, whenever I can. The day I return from holiday? No problem, I'll be there...

The cricket season is nearly over and done with. But we're enjoying it whilst it lasts. Yesterday afternoon I was at Culford, watching us draw with Lincolnshire. It felt strangely familiar: the Jefferson brothers were there, with their exuberant hair and lovely, lovely Lincolnshire accents. There were a few absences: Uma wasn't around, but with Lali who was playing in a squash competition in Vienna.

But Ben Harris' brother! Oh my God, he is the best-looking boy I have ever seen. Ever. So much blonde hair. Jeffa seemed to find it highly amusing, then slightly offensive:

"He's not better looking than me, is he?"

"Damn right he is!"

Cue some sulking...

It's good to be home.