Curiouser...

"I'm. Not. Doing. It. I'm just not. I'm going to do some relaxing instead."

This has been the overwhelming response to the (slightly crippling) workload of the past week. Even Kat, normally so full of sweetness and light, had turned into something of a monster, devoting her study periods to either glaring at a history textbook or a copy of Cold Mountain. Actually, everyone is having the Cold Mountain problem. Our frees have turned into an epic reading group, people staring sadly at the cover, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, or sitting miserably re-reading every sentence ten times because "it is just so damn boring".

"Hmmmm. I have read," said Marcus, looking up sheepishly, "nine pages in an hour. Which is a bit slow, isn't it? And I've got another three hundred to go..."

Anyway. I have mostly been busy, keeping myself to myself with my iPod in such times. A surprising amount of work can be done, when you're not listening to people engage in, frankly, bizarre conversations:

"You cannot get cancer in space!" burst out someone, indignantly. I looked up in alarm.

"Sorry. Just, ahem, you know..."

And then:

"Hmmm. Well. I don't see what's wrong with fatty mutants as a theme. We could make a fat person out of balloons..."

or:

"I fucking hate that little man. Oooh. I know! I'm going to find Emma and squeeze her head."

Indeed. Things are getting strange now.

Collected Random Thoughts

The week has passed thus:

"Salisbury is in Wiltshire. Wiltshire! Near Cornwall. I'm not going."

Next day: "Nope. I'm going to Salisbury."

And the day after: "Actually. No. I'm definitely not going, it's just too far."

Culminating in: "Right. Fine. I'm going. I don't care. I like the M25."

So we're all going to Salisbury, in the interest of academia.

* * *

Firstly, before launching into a misleading so-much-homework rant, I'd just like to say how much I am loving sixth form. Absolutely. It's fantastic; the classes are exactly what I expected, though better (this is true particularly of Philosophy, because never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be talking about chairness in lessons).

And this is in spite of the fact that several people I know seem to swan about proclaiming their supreme intelligence and wisdom whilst, curiously enough, doing absolutely nothing. Which doesn't interest me at all. I like hard grafters; that's why I've been friends with Ben for the past five years. And Kirstin. Not afraid of some good hard work. It's good for the soul, I say.

As is driving! Because now I can! A bit, at least. Although I must say it has on occasion felt like whizzing to certain death, reversing around mini-roundabouts being my Dad's favourite lesson of all. And it has preoccupied me so much this week that I missed Dragon's Den. I have no idea how it happened. And it was the last in the series...

What a way to make a living...

See? See? Misery gradually abates.

I have, this week, alternated between being genuinely, ridiculously happy and being in a black depression. It was left to Kirstin, this lunchtime, to rouse me with her wild gesticulations and wonderful thought processes which, luckily, are exactly the same as mine. I just didn't quite know how to say it, until she did.

And Ben wants to drop Maths.

"I don't really think," said Kirstin, "that's a good idea. You can't drop something every time you can't do the homework."

Although this was wise, it was quite difficult to take seriously, as at the exact same moment she began singing an irish, musical theatre version of Oedipus.

"Um." I said, staring bewilderedly at her as she flamboyantly stabbed herself in the eye with an imaginary pin. "That's quite a good point."

That's not to say we give anything like good advice, of course. Our time now is taken up almost entirely with obscure homework (both of us), Dragons' Den (me) and making weasel gestures (Kirstin, naturally). Veering deangerously form the point, I'd just like to say how much I love the aforementioned BBC work of genius. There's nothing more watchable on TV at the moment, other than Grey's Anatomy. Though I'm thinking of boycotting the latter; I just can't watch Meredith and Derek looking longingly at each other and NOT KISSING. Which they should.

Ugh. This wekend I have tons of homework and actual work, which leaves absolutely no time for dossing about the house in pyjamas, listening to Jeff Buckley at snapping at my brother. He's a good kid, bless him.

Unlike some others, who shall remain nameless...

The welts of your scorn, my love, give me more

Send whips of opinion down my back, give me more

Back to the daily grind

The past few days have been rather bizarre, culminating in me waking up (late for work, incidentally) with an enormous blue skull and crossbones inked on my forearm on Sunday.

And I knew reality was veering dangerously off course when my English teacher announced, with a sad sigh, that Steve Irwin's death was the stuff of great Shakespearian tragedy. I thought it was only Soph and I who subscribed to that view. But apparently not. Anyway. I am now sitting planning a speech that must be presented to the headteacher (such was my luck in the draw of A-Level teachers) and trying to correct the mistakes I made on my French homework. Though, as I sulkily told Gem, I wouldn't have written it if I thought it was wrong. So all in all it seems a rather pointless exercise. But I'm not a rebel, or anything. So I'm doing it.

Yes. I'm a nerd.

Ugh. I have General Studies tomorrow. This is very, very unfortunate because it means I'll be required to spend more than two minutes in my form. Bah. Hopefully Kat, who is suffering from possible food poisoning (also known as hypochondria) will be back, or it will just be Ben, Kirstin and I against the world. It's a bit of a mad siuation really; I'm sure Gemma's form doesn't want us all in there at lunchtime...

But we're not going anywhere else, so are all trying to be gracious and friendly to them all. It's quite transparent, really. We may as well all be shouting "Noooooo! Don't throw us out!" in the manner of SS torturers.

Kirstin's little birthday party was very good fun. Lots of dancing and shouting. Although I was a little worried about poor Ben at one point, who seemed to be very drunk on very little alcohol. I thought he was going to fall asleep on her sofa. But the pirate theme worked out well, not least for surprising people. Like, for example, Joe, who cycled past my house just as Gem and I were leaving it, and swerved violently into the path of a lamp post as he saw our pirate attire.

Good to keep the neighbours entertained, I suppose.

Once more, with feeling...

"...And do you remember when you used to roll Malteasers down the table into my mouth?"

"Yessssss."

"Are those really the actions of two people that hate one another?"

"Well. I aimed them really hard. At her head."

And I am a fully-fledged sixth former!

I must immediately say this: I love it. The lessons are intense and intelligent, and the whole environment is more social. Although the latter may be due to my friends and I imposing ourselves upon the form of Gem, along with almost everyone else in the lower sixth. But they are all so cool; they may consider Family Guy to be acceptable entertainment but that can be forgiven when they offer us sanctuary.

And tomorrow evening it is Kirstin's long-awaited pirate party. I wait with baited breath to see the results of Ben's transformation into Jack Sparrow. Or, as is more likely, Captain Pugwash.

Of course, I'm joking.

The bloody Inland Revenue still owe me money. I am a student, for God's sake. I am poor. I cannot afford to pay emergency tax, especially emergency tax I'm not supposed to be paying. Bloody bureaucrats. Completely inefficient.

Anyway. It's nearly my birthday! Yay! And I'm going shopping in London! Yay! I'm not, however, going to Ray LaMontagne. This is definite now. I'll just have to lick my wounds and get on with my life, I suppose.

Another Last Goodbye

"Oh. My. God! Steve Irwin has died! He's died!"

And so this, not the return to Sixth Form, has been the story of the day. It's amazing, really, how such news can seep into the public consciousness and genuinely shock people when there are so many deaths and horrible stories on the television every day. But it was Steve Irwin. As in, Invincible Irwin the Crocodile Man. Even John Howard made a statement.

This afternoon Gem and I walked through a gang of boys - including our brothers - playing cricket languidly. One of them, with a sorrowful shake of the head, muttered: "Stung right in the heart. He was really cool as well. Like Warney". High praise indeed.

* * * * *

But life goes on. And so we went to register for Sixth Form - which essentially was making notes of our timetables and our new forms. Kirstin and I exchanged glances at the latter. There were a fair few friends I would have loved to be in the same form as, but unfortunately it looks like I won't be in the same class as either the fun boys from the original A11, or the fabulously named new kid Rafael.

"He's probably the biggest chav you've ever seen, though," observed mum, "or really pretentious." She paused, then added "You know, you are going there to work, not to socialise."

To which I answered, "Meh. Whatever."

My dad is working night shifts at the moment, and so the house has become a place of peace and tranquility during the day, as I chase Matt around hissing "I will gag you if I have to!". Honestly. He has no respect, or concept of being quiet. He goes through life quite happily, kicking radiators, singing loudly and slamming doors whilst I follow him glaring.

And it's an Outage, so there'll be another month of it.

Hmmmm. With the exception of Steve Irwin and my brother, however, I've had a fabulous day. It's been spent working out which titles I will use on my blog when Graham Onions makes his England debut. So many cliches, so little time!

My favourite, aside from the usual "eye-watering display", "cooks up a feast" tabloid favourites, is “Onions Barjeed by Hungry Pakistanis”. Written by someone from TC, who, frankly, must be a genius. Or an man with a lot of time on his hands.

Kiss me, please kiss me.

But kiss me out of desire, babe, and not consolation

You know it makes me so angry 'cause i know that in time I'll only make you cry,

this is our last goodbye

Life as we know it

This morning I woke feeling ever-so-slightly desolate; the sky was grey, rain was falling and - more tragic than both of those things - Dr. McDreamy didn’t pick Meredith. He didn’t pick her. So Grey’s Anatomy S2 did not inspire warm, fuzzy feelings. How could he possibly not pick her? How? Obviously, Addison is very attractive but why not Meredith? The whole scenario is wrong, wrong, wrong. Though I suppose a bit of unrequited love (and that ‘staring meaningfully into the distance’ thing) is a great ratings winner.

Anyway. I realise it is ridiculous to obsess over the lives of fictional characters when, in fact, there are speeches to be learnt and French verbs to revise.

So.

I went for lunch (late, thanks to the incompetence of the bus driver) at Temptation, with Sophie, Lauren and the Ellis brothers. It turned out to be bloody good fun actually, with Sophie holding court about Ann Summers as Lauren glanced from side to side and told her to keep her voice down because “not everyone wants to hear about sex toys over lunch”. Quite. But we ended up hanging around, drinking a good bottle of wine and laughing at the phallic birthday deserts that were doled around rather liberally.

Then we trawled the High Street staples to look at new school bags for the boys, rejecting most of them on the grounds of being too small/too tacky/not quite retro enough. On the way home we discussed the impending return to school - or, should that be, the start of Sixth Form:

“I’m not too sure,” mused Si, “about English Literature. I don’t actually like books.” But alas, there is no end to his madness - he taught himself a GCSE language over the summer quite cheerfully, dismissing his previous choice of Philosophy as “too thoughtful”. And, of course, learning two languages - one of which almost from scratch - simultaneously is not a thoughtful, involving task at all, is it?

Ben, in all his brilliance, has promised me the new Ray LaMontagne CD for my birthday. It is the best possible gift, except of course tickets to concert of the aforementioned artist, or to a magical Radiohead or Kasabian extravaganza. Any of which would be extremely exciting and, frankly, bloody fantastic. The only problem is, really, that I would have no one to go with, as Jeffa’s foot is firmly down.

And this evening I took Matt to Henley Road, both for him to sign up for some inane Twenty20 indoor tournament and for us to go for nibbles at Mina’s for a while as the assembled company argued over who would be in the team.

“Look,” said Matt pointedly, “it is my team. Entered in my name. So if you don’t all shut up you’ll all be out.”

Ah, it’s good to see he has the gentle diplomacy of his sister.

Why? Why not Meredith, McDreamy?