The Morning After...

"I'm going to give you a hug."

"This would mean so much more to me if you were sober, Simon."

"I am...oh. Ouch. I hit my head on the sofa."

* * *

So. Gemma's party. We dressed up. Actually, I was very impressed with the effort everyone put into their costumes. Ben came as a doctor, and Si a priest. Kirstin (the funniest drunk I have ever met) was a cowgirl, and Kat a glitterball (fairy). Sophie was catwoman, complete with a leather whip and domanatrix heels. I, apparently, was a "slutty" she-devil. Gemma, with her arse-skimming skirt, was just a slut. Richard and Kieran looked fantastic, as an undertaker and a kind of zombie thing respectively. The best dressed presentation was forgotten in the haze of sick and tears, but I would have given it to Richard purely for the fabulous top hat.

Unfortunately, the evening went thus:

"Oh, I'm so, so embarrassed. The first time you meet my new boyfriend, he throws up everywhere and has to be carried out, completely out of his head, in his underpants, by his parents and someone with a shrunken head on a stick."

Poor Gemma.

And so the party descended into a mass clean-up; the hostess was crying on the stairs whilst someone scrubbed the carpet and the priest sprayed body spray everywhere "because it still smells of sick!". It was a bit of a bizarre scene, as Vicky and I cleaned the bathroom floor in high heels.

Kirstin, though. Oh, I could write an entire book about Kirstin. I love the girl to death. She was just so funny last night, giggling, lamenting and periodically coming over to me and whispering "Robyn, did I go to the loo at your house? Did I write on Gemma's board?"

Better still, when we were in the garden and a few of the newbies were trying to chat us (and everyone else, come to think of it) up, one of them grabbed my arm and she replied with - and I quote -:

"Get off her, you naughty, naughty boy. That's naughty, isn't it Robyn? I'm not drunk."

And alcohol has an unfortunate way of getting you to talk far, far too much. Thus, we ended up discussing our miserable, desolate lovelives; the Alex debacle came up, as well as Kirstin's entanglements and Sophie's nympho tendencies. It was quite a messy affair, all things considered.

But it was bloody good fun.

Whither Must I Wander

Apparantly, we Brits are terrible at Geography. This is very true.

The two Matts and I were passing the time this morning by doing the Geography quiz in The Sun. We didn't do particularly well, it has to be said. I'm only good at Europe, and then the unbelievably obvious places, like China, USA, Australia etc. etc. And, as somebody pointed out, "anyone who doesn't know where America is deserves to be shot". M and M were even more vague; when I pointed to Norway there was a long pause:

"That's..." the visiting Matt trailed off. "A Scandanavian country? Or Romania?"

"Or Romania? Are you a retard?"

So yeah. We're crap.

I cut my hair. Well, I didn't personally (that indeed would be a joke), but I've gone against the advice of Marshall ("keep it long") and Soph ("Don't you dare!") and gone for a bob. I felt like a change, and whilst I did feel slightly anxious as I watched Zoe cutting off masses of my crowning glory, I actually really, really like it. And so much less high maintenance than almost-waist-length tresses. I was looking in the mirrors in Debenhams and the shop assistant (not Ayla) said it was a bit like Julie Christie, circa 1965. So I was highly gratified. Unfortunately, she was gorgeous. I am not, but at least I don't have ratty hair any more.

I have got my costume ready for Saturday; I'm not going as a Geisha now. Everyone else seemed to be putting so much effort into their costumes, I felt I should enter into the spirit of things and go for something new.

Still Worth Living.

'Tis a miracle. Today I studied for an entire free period. I didn't talk to Richard or Kieran once. In fact, instead I read and annotated a torturous act of King Lear in its entirety, whilst Marcus glared resentfully at his copy of Cold Mountain.

Kat, though, is in her element. At lunchtime, within the space of two minutes, the boys had not only come in with "hot beverages" (two words which make her smile), but had also begun randomly yelling "scabby shit!" at one another. She laughed a lot. So much, in fact, that I really do doubt her sanity. Especially after the "are you local?" (in a mental Cornish accent) debacle yesterday.

Anyway. It's nearly half term! Yayness! But whilst we may not have lessons for seven beautiful days, the teachers are smugly plotting their revenge, doling out work left, right and centre. That means I have serious Shakespeare reading to do, intelligent essays on Plato... and a fancy dress, halloween/ birthday extravaganza slap bang in the middle of it all. Well, we've got to get our kicks somewhere.

...Hmmm. What has happened to Marshall? I haven't seen him in forever, it seems...

These past few days have been spectacularly dull, all things considered. Friday night, though, was fun. We dragged our carcasses to Pizza Hut and had those new cute little things with the garlic doughballs around the edge. One word: yum!!

"The problem is," said Uma, through a mouthful of chicken supreme, "that now you lot are all so educated that we don't have time for each other."

"Not strictly true-" Alex began,

"No. I just don't like any of you, really." I finished.

It's true, though. Teenagers have a very unfair repuatation. It's not all setting fire to grannies and hotwiring cars. We have so much on now, in one way or another. I rarely see people I don't go to Sixth Form with, which is unfortunate. Not, of course, that I don't love the gorgeous people at KSF. But variety is the spice of life. Or something.

Freeologies! Or study-ologies?

I am in a freakishly good mood. Even though I've got a bit of a dead arm (Kat) and I got absolutely no work done in my free today (Kieran, Richard and Sophie). I must say, though, that 'study periods' are the best invention ever. Except, obviously, for Calpol and sliced bread. Because there is so much work at sixth form, there really is; it's nice to be able to meet all the people you used to see every day, have a laugh and do work all at the same time. V, v good.

Utilitarianism has taken an unusual turn; yesterday's (fifty minute) debate meandered onto the subject of religion:

“No, no,” Mr. X was saying after Matt had pondered the concept of insulting Catholics, and moved on. “Lets not talk about Jews. Stick to Christians please.”

“What? Excuse me?” Emma barked in reply, as everyone looked at her. “I can’t believe that. I’m so offended that you think Judaism is superior. I mean, I find that really offensive.”

A few people tittered.

Mr. X then went on to explain personal hierarchy, finishing with the idea that Jews had already been persecuted enough in recent history, without us adding to the tally. At which someone added that it was “much easier to annoy Emma than Josh anyway”.

Then Emma said something quietly, to which Mr. X replied in surprise: “So you don’t think the Jewish have been persecuted more in the past century than Catholics?”

“No.”

Silence.

“Holocaust,” Josh said finally, disguising it was a cough. Then: “God, sorry, something caught in the back of my throat then.”

Indeed.

* * * * *

Sophie staggered to school today in excellent time. In better shape than yesterday, at least, when she arrived and proceeded to ask everyone for the answers to the biology exam. Which, as Kat sensitively explained, “is fucking cheating, you lazy cow”. And then she spent the rest of Freeology (as Kirstin has christened it) searching for party invitations for all those people who don’t yet know that they are invited to the Halloween/birthday extravaganza. I’m going as a Geisha. I’m well aware that this is cheating, shamelessly recycling old costume. But to be honest, my parasol and kimono thing are definitely not going to we worn again. So I may as well make the most of it whilst I can.

Hmm. I have a French exam tomorrow. Revision is the answer.

A Day in the Life of...Sixth Form

So. A day in the life...

Today I quote the dear Kathryn:

"Look. Will you just fucking stop fucking criticising me! I've had enough! Fuck off!"

At which point Kirstin and I looked at each other, in that way we so often do, and burst into silent laughter. You know the kind: shoulders shaking, hand over mouth, helpless, childlish giggling. We've perfected it over the years.

Anyway. I digress.

The point is, despite Kat's little outburst (which yet again she blames on the leprechaun - a feeble excuse, methinks) it's all, as Sophie would say, good. Actually! No. Sophie got knocked off her moped, so she isn't. But she is a trouper, so turned up at school regardless, and we had a bit of fun at break yelling at people to get out of the way as she walked.

"I'm practically a princess." she noted, as Rob tittered behind.

But these days I'm even enjoying History (although, weirdly, it rains every single time we have it). Today was, as ever, bizarre, as Mr McIrish danced about (much like the leprechaun in Kat's head), sing-songing facts at us about inflation, deflation, hyperinflation, reinflating a deflated economy, etc. etc.

"And how," he yelped, "do you measure inflation?"

The class looked blank, whilst between them Tom and James suggested everything short of measuring it with a ruler.

"Go to Tescos?" I said to Yasmin, at which point he jumped up as if the two of us had simultaneously discovered electricity.

"Yes! Yesssss!" And he proceeded to do a checkout demonstration using a chair, whilst Kathryn stared as if he was straight out of the asylum.

But, as I enthused to Yas afterwards, "It's so much fun now!".

Unfortunately, it was less fun walking home, when the heavens opened and it began to rain like it had never, ever rained before. My jeans were wet up to my knees.

Ugh. I have to go to fucking work tomorrow. At the fucking weekend.

* * *

My favourite class this week is...Philosophy, Mr. C style. Truth be told, I was a little frustrated with the slow pace at the beginning of the week, but now it seems to have turned into a fully-fledged political debating society. Generally speaking this creates a minefield, but Mr. C always manages to weave some hidden Platonism into proceedings and soon we are all back to discussing the structure of democracy and reality.

"I apologise," said Mr. C, "to Robyn, after what you said earlier. But I'm going to show you all this clip."

I racked my brains as to what I might have said, then laughed when the WebCameron site flashed up on the screen, just minutes after I had basically denounced him as "an idiot with absolutely no policy, except for a squiggly tree."

"Yes," said Alex approvingly, "And a car follows him on his bike! A jeep! What. A Twat."

Unfortunately, though, the clip didn't work. So people started arguing, each more agitated and loud than the one before.

"We need taxes! High taxes!" Emma yelped savagely, glaring at Josh, who had had the nerve to suggest that Cameron might be more than just an irritating pretty boy.

"Shut up. Just shut up." she barked, "I mean, Margaret Thatcher destroyed this country! Privatisation? Privatisation?" she spat, whilst Alex rattled off a few words of admiration for the welfare state, the other Alex looking on bewilderedly.

Thank Christ the bell went.

And you have no idea how it feels

To be on your own, in your own home

With the fuckin' phone,

And the mother of doom in your bedroom...