An Aerial View

I am back. Really now.

2007-08-16T19:25:00.000Z

Lax does not quite cover it. I've been absent for eight months. But now I'm back.

So. To summarise my entire life for the past eight months:

We really did go to Paris. In February. Ben, Sophie, Si and I. It was fantastic. So now we're going to Madrid in October. Hurray for part-time jobs, that's all I can say.
My brother got selected for the South of England U-13s, and then the England U-13 tournament in Taunton. So I'm not a poor misguided fool, led on blindly by sisterly love. Good news, good news.
Philosophy. Still rocks.
Leeds Festival!!!! We're going!!! Next week!!! I am beyond excited. Best thing ever. Partly because music has been great this year. Which leads me to:
Cold War Kids! Jack Penate! Kate Nash! The Hold Steady! CSS! Klaxons! We Are Scientists! Glorious musical joy! Though, naturally, I'm still firmly in the Buckley boat.
AS Levels! Today was results day, aaannnnddddd... if you're counting General Studies (which, let's face it, not many people do) then I got 5 A's. Including 100% in English. I've got a History query (one markedly lower module score), but in the grand scheme even this isn't much of a problem, because I still have an A even with (hopefully) freak score. So yay for education, though I'm not letting Miss XXX claim this victory, oh no.
Passed my driving test. First time :)
I'm on hoilday for another few weeks, then it's back to the grind.

But I really am back.

"You said I must eat so many lemons, 'coz I am so bitter,

I said I'd rather be with your friends, mate, 'coz they are much fitter..."

We're Still Hopeful...

2006-12-19T19:06:00.000Z

"...And, when I was at university, I actually used to buy this CD and give it to random people, just to make sure they heard it."

"Right. So you're telling us that, as an impoverished member of the Irish working classes, you could just afford to buy copies of Grace and hand them out? Like sweets? I think you've been exaggerating, sir..."

- Yep. McIrish is a massive Buckley fan (like me). Very, very strange. We got to experience first hand his (admittedly rather good) musical tastes as part of our final lesson of the term, an enormous music quiz. And of these there have been many, this week. This, however, was the best. It ended up being incredibly competitive between Harry and I, glancing at each other and demanding "have you got it then?". We are both fans of Radiohead, The Cure, Pixies and the Manics, so there was only a point in it, in the end.

And now it is the end of term. Two glorious weeks sans KSF. I'd like to quickly thank everyone for the prezzies. Esp. Ben; I succumbed and and unwrapped the CD-shaped one as soon as I got home; now I'm infuriating everyone with Yard of Blonde Girls. I applaud him for crawling across the floors of HMV to find my heart's desire.

Note: What has happened to my national team, the soi-disant champions? I am most disappointed. Absolutely everyone underperformed; the only exceptions being the ever-steady Hoggard, an increasingly-assured Ian Bell and, my Personal Jesus (see below- and hopefully not too much of an insult to his religion) King Monty.The Sikh of Tweak. Love him, love him, love him.

That aside, I am feeling very Christmassy at last. I think it is the general good-will of my teachers, who have taken it upon themselves to demonstrate restraint in the giving of holiday homework. That and being in the best form in the world ever. We played racing nuns at break (thanks Gemma!), when we weren't being bear-hugged by Sam.

So I have the next couple of weeks to philosophise and read some Dickens. There is, as ever, no rest for the wicked.

- "Are you kidding? That's not my Jesus. Jordan dressed as a girl. He's my Jesus."

- "You pick your own Personal Jesus..."
- "Ah. Well done, Sir. Nice connection to the music round, well done..."

Even in this world of lies, you're still hopeful,

Very sexy; okay, okay...

Christmas Cheer

2006-12-17T15:16:00.000Z

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

Like th' other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,

And makes me end where I begun.

- Isn't that glorious? I'm reading John Donne. At first it was a bid to educate myself in poetry; now it's turned into an obsession with the love lyric, in every shape: a Wyard, or a Byron, or even a Cohen:

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

And she tied you to her kitchen chair

And She broke your throne and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.

The pen, as ever, is mightier than the sword.

But sometimes it is more fun to dance than to write. So last night we danced a lot; we drank and were merry (some of us a little too merry, perhaps) at Kirstin's vodka-soaked Christmas party. Highlights of which included: Ben insisting he was in no way, shape or form drunk. Then challenging Gemma to a dance-off, suggesting that maybe those shots had indeed gone to his head. Jenny Don't be Hasty. Repeatedly. Encouraging some dirty dancing and slurred singing of dubious lyrics. Gemma, generally. Kathryn mother-henning Claire: "Come on then, come with me. Lets get some water, shall we?". We know how to spend a Saturday night.

Hmmm. I hope the boys all got home OK. They were quite vague when I saw them last, prompting Sophie, when we gave her a lift home, to stare dreamily out of the window and say:

"You know, I'm half-expecting to see Lewis giving Richard a firemans lift home."

Then, this moring, I went to work. And was faced with carol singers, bizarre, flashing Christmas hats and a million Kesgrave residents buying spirits and stirring meories of a blissed-out Ben and a teary Claire. And then Yasmin came over to talk, and everything was stirred again. I love parties.

Only a day and a half of school left. For this whole year. How time flies.

Wait. What?

2006-12-05T17:36:00.000Z

"Wait. Asleep? You fell asleep?"

"Yeah... And then I woke up, about three hours later - "

"Three hours? And he didn't notice?"

What I love about my friends, what I really love, is that they can still, on occasion, shock me with unspeakably bizarre stories. That, and the fact that we can have a good old bitch every now and then which can be completely disregarded afterwards. And so, in celebration of friends, French and the joys of having part-time jobs...

We're going to Paris! And, for a change, it's more than a pipe dream. It's booked, paid for, and Sophie is probably setting her sights on new shoes especially for the trip as I type.

This is all part of the new, interesting student plan. Which entails getting off our arses and spending our hard-earned wages on something slightly more out-there than a new Topshop collection. Although, I must confess, the latter is rather appealing. But our parents are in on it, saying it's about time we were more cultured and interesting, and hopefully we will, in the future "meet interesting people and lead cultured lives". I can't help thinking that this is slightly optimistic, but, hey. If it means I'm going to get a ParisPass and some spending money for Christmas then I'm happy.

And spending is really so much more fun than saving.

Par contre, there are some slightly darker feelings lurking at the back of my mind. All of which stem from our unusually frank lunchtime chats. Today we were discussing who we'll keep in touch with when we go to uni (some surprises), the obsessions of those we know and Sophie's need for some, ahem, "stabilisers".

You've got to love her.

And the Christmas tally, thus far, goes:

Good things: Parties! Presents - esp. Ben's (he knows I love Buckley). Hours off to be spent debating the "meaning of life" (McDreamy vs. McSteamy, shoes, bizarre films, Pride and Prejudice etc.). Christmas dinner. And, peace and goodwill to all, I suppose.

Bad things: Christmas fucking carols. Santa not being real. Anticipation being better than the real thing. Stress headaches finding presents for everyone. Gorging oneself full of selection box to the point of death.

So it's pretty even. Hell, I think I actually like it more than I don't. (Must have an inner optimist)

Cricket. Bloody cricket. I am ashamed of my home nation. Bring back Monty, that's what I say.

Etcha-Sketches for my Sweetheart...

2006-12-03T15:59:00.000Z

It's nearly Christmas. How unfortunate.

I say this, because whilst I genuinely do believe it to be overrated, I've just got home from a most tedious shift at work, where they have started playing Christmas songs. On loop. For hour upon torturous hour. By the time I was finally allowed to leave, I was ready to punch all festive pre-Christmas revellers and spit on their mince pies. Of course, being the model employee I am (sometimes), I didn't. But the impulse was strong.

Elsewhere. Yesterday afternoon I ventured out into the chilly Ipswich air to watch a bit of rugby. I am still utterly clueless as to what the rules actually are (to me it seems like wrestling, but outdoors), but surprisingly I was entertained. Probably something to do with hot older boys in tight shorts on the other pitch, but whatever. I was there, I was sort of a supportive sister. Paid my dues.

There was also the welcome "Colly, we love/adore/worship you; you make up for the lack of Monty, you're a good ol' northern underdog" conversation. It's all been said already, but a double hundred? And pissing off ol' Warney? Hell, he's my hero too.

"Shane...I think I'm pregnant..." Funny. Very funny.

Ben is getting me Sketches for my Sweetheart... for Christmas, thus elevating himself to the 'most valuable friend' position. I'm so mercenary. But he knows it, and still he's my friend. So now the search begins to find him something really impressive. I can feel a Christmas stress migrane coming on.

McDreamy, McSteamy, and other things

2006-11-26T16:31:00.000Z

Busy(ish) week.

Firstly - and rather inexplicably - we won Quiz Night. This is in spite of the fact that we were a) up against the women that knew everything (Mrs. F and Miss H) b) called Team Sophie, when everyone else was called something very witty (or thereabouts) and c) doing a lot of guessing. It was quite interesting to watch our transformations from easy-going, Freddo-eating students to sulky, competitive crazy people in the space of a few rounds.

Then, Sophie proved that she was as good a hostess as she was a bad quiz team-namer. We all skulked (or tottered, as was the case with Gem and I) to hers on Saturday night for a Chinese and Silent Hill. The latter left us bemused:-

"Why are you looking in a drawer? She's a person, not a pencil."

And I'm inclined to believe that we freaked poor Richard out slightly with our huge capacities for girly gossip, and our 'secret' eyebrow-raising language:

Him: "OK, I'm right here."

And, of course, we debated McDreamy vs. McSteamy. Which is so stupid, because McDreamy is not only hot, he is an actual nice person. A nice, hot brain surgeon with neither a mercenary streak nor a desire to betray his best friend. And McSteamy has weird facial hair. Yet opinion still remains divided. Obviously, my friends have various mental disorders.

And now I am very, very tired, because when I got home Matt and I decided to stay up until the wee hours watching England rebuild their innings, after what can only be called a horrendous beginning. Firstly: I. Want. Monty. And secondly, what is wrong with Harmison? Meh.

But it was never going to be easy.

"What would I do for a million pounds? Oh, anything, really."

"Me too. Does that make us easy?"

Word association

2006-11-19T19:03:00.000Z

"But it's an emergency! An actual emergency. Sophie's... having a breakdown."

"Right. And, ahem, you're comforting her."

"Yes."

"So why are you still talking about bloody boys?"

I am, apparently, spending too much time on the phone. Not true, although the amount of times "get-off-the-land-line-you-have-a-mobile" is yelled in my house might suggest otherwise...

Aha! I went to see Borat! And it is just so funny. In a strange, cringeworthy way, but so funny nevertheless. The boring, boring people who bang on about how offensive it is should just take a moment to observe the genius that is Sasha Baron Cohen. He makes jokes that no other person would (or could) dream of creating. And I love Borat's misogyny. It is the perfect antidote to those sombre, holier-than-thou-art feminists who like to talk (and talk) about how repressed women are without ever trying to do anything, and blaming it on the men. Some of these women forget how bloody lucky we are in countries like Britain to have that equality and the opportunites that we do. Instead of tutting that less women than men are in the highest-paid jobs, perhaps they should get on a plane to the dark places in the world where women are routinely mutilated, dominated and oppressed.

But I digress. Everyone should see Borat. It is a brilliant film.

I was reading a feature today about how people associate single words to their friends and family. Strange, I thought, that relationships can be so complex but we can sum up the people we know in a word. Impossible, even. But no. So here are mine, a single word, or thereabouts, for each person. But in the spirit of harmony (and not sticking my neck out) I won't name names:

Scared. Hilarious. Sweet. Most intelligent, but most hidden. Bravado. All heart. A tough, tough cookie. The more you know, the better you like. Pretentious. Fun. Self-assured. Pensive. Emo!!! Fearless. Too cool for school. Really good looking. In love. A chip off the old block. An idiot.

But collectively, they are perfectly balanced.

Salisbury, not Sheffield

2006-11-10T17:28:00.000Z

"So, what did you think of the play?"

We went, grudgingly, to Salisbury yesterday. The problems began early - about half an hour after we set off - when Mr. T put 'Wilde', the Oscar Wilde biopic, into the DVD palyer. Within the first few minutes, we came on to the first sex scene:

"No! No! Don't do it! Gay porn!" screeched one of the boys. "Noo! Oh. My. God. I can't look!"

So we spent an hour and a half watching the boys covering their eyes and wailing, and Sarah staring desolately at the screen: "I'll never look af Jude Law in the same way ever again."

By the time we got to Salisbury (which, incidentally, may as well be in a different hemisphere) all of us were already in the obligatory teenage sulk because it was bloody freezing. And then, in the theatre:

Old people.

So many old people.

In fact, our entire coachload of (lovely and youthful) sixth formers spent most of their time gaping at them.

"I really, really don't want to get old." said someone on the way home.

As for the play, it was, as Kat cleverly told all the teachers, evading having to give an actual response, "interesting". I also found the transition between Victorian society comedy and wierd X-Files style slow motion ballroom dancing interesting. Fundamentally, though, the play is flawed: Mrs. Arbuthnot goes on (and on and on) too much about her misery that it's impossible to appreciate any of the genuine feminist insight crammed between lines and lines of sanctimonious melodrama. "In her, all womanhood is martyred": but the audience never really cares. Humour is much more Wilde's forte. For actual morality, Henrik Ibsen is miles ahead.

Enfin, Grey's Anatomy. Last night. Absolutely compulsive. Even Sophie, this morning, greeted me with "OhmyGod. What is going to happen to Meredith?????"

What, indeed.

Ooh la la

2006-11-03T17:23:00.000Z

Now. I'm not saying I don't really enjoy the academic challenges of Sixth Form; I am, however, beginning to feel that they are overestimating our 'talents'.

Evidence: our AS French class will, if everything goes smoothly, be partaking in work experience in France next summer. For two weeks, we will be living, breathing and working French. All very exciting, but, in our class, trying to get some of the people to just do the homework, without copying it off the internet translator, est la pierre d'achoppement. But, I suppose, what is life without a bloody good challenge?

Questions from Lal's questionnaire: no. 1: What is the most-listened to album in your collection?
A. OK Computer, by Radiohead.

So, of course, it's been another hectic week, the first of the new half term. In which I have learnt the following:

The key to retaining your dignity: don't drink.
Victorian poetry: strangely endearing.
The answer to every problem, in every subject: shut the hell up and make some notes!

Quickly sweeping the drunken debris of half term under the carpet, we're back, and we're trying to think. I'm reading both Mansfield Park and Possession; in fact, a scarily big chunk of my free time is now taken up with reading. I mentioned this to Mr. T in an e-mail and recieved the following reply:

"But you'll never be bored again. And, as a future university student of English, it's good to get somewhere close to the workload you'll receive."

Somewhere close? Bloody hell.

No 2. And the album you listen to when you feel the entire world is against you?

A. Martha Wainwright, by Martha Wainwright. Because no one spits accusations and laments lost love quite like her.

And, in our spare time, we've made ourselves Ayla's personal councillors. Apparently, we've made some wise suggestions, much in the manner of marriage guidance councillors. Yeah right. The thing is, though, even though we may offer completely ineffectual advice, like "kick him", our hearts are in the right place. And, for some sick reason, we really enjoy being in the thick of things when it comes to messy break-ups. My inner sadist, definitely.

Salisbury next week. Ten hours of fucking coach travel for ninety minutes of vaguely amusing social comedy. As Ben said, we should have just sent someone up there with a video camera. Now, it seems, we will be spending the day eating chips at motorway service station whilst the driver takes obligatory 'rest breaks'. I think I'm being strangled to death by red tape. Rules and regulations: who needs 'em?

And, finally, number 3: Does musical perfection exist?

Yes. Grace, by Jeff Buckley. The man had a voice like nothing else on earth - and the songs are beautiful. And anyone with the audacity to cover Corpus Christ Carol is, quite frankly, inspired.

- "Daniel Vettori is my future husband."

- "Oh really? You'll have to fight me for him!"

The Morning After...

2006-10-29T15:42:00.001Z

"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

2006-10-24T15:05:00.000Z

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.

2006-10-18T17:46:00.000Z

'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?

2006-10-12T16:40:00.000Z

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

2006-10-06T18:06:00.000Z

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...

Curiouser...

2006-09-29T17:54:00.000Z

"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

2006-09-24T17:57:00.000Z

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...

2006-09-15T17:34:00.000Z

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

2006-09-11T17:02:00.000Z

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...

2006-09-08T18:37:00.000Z

"...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

2006-09-04T17:43:00.000Z

"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

2006-09-01T18:02:00.000Z

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?

Bloody Hell

2006-08-31T11:18:00.000Z

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...

2006-08-23T19:02:00.000Z

...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...

2006-08-21T12:38:00.000Z

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

2006-08-14T12:14:00.000Z

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...

2006-08-10T17:42:00.000Z

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.

That Festival Feeling

2006-07-24T19:15:00.000Z

Yes, it's that time of year once more.

Another gathering of England's eccentrics, egos and sporting prodigies. So to speak. But in spite of the bizarre company, the banks of the river are as gorgeous as they ever are in summer, the setting grandiose. And I wouldn't really want to be anywhere else, for this week at least. Just driving up stirred that vague sentimentality in me: memories of new friends and old sunburn.

So. It has been as weird as ever. Normally a respectable citizen, today I found myself breaking in (sort of) to one of the more prestigious boarding houses, through a half-open window, to deliver an armful of clean kit to those who desired it.

"Oh shit. The doors... everything's locked."

And so I turned around to find Ollie. Thirteen and slightly like a sheepdog in appearance - it's the Hoggard hair that does it, I think - and something of a genius allrounder, eating wine gums and looking at me suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" A perfectly reasonable question, I suppose, on his part.

"Deliveries. Shouldn't you be doing a five mile run, or something?"

"Not five miles. Once around the grounds. Two at the most. And you? Are you trying to get in?"

I was, and eventually I did, though without a key, choosing the far more efficient method of clambering through a half-open window. The real challenge was working out where the hell I was supposed to be going once I got in. The slightly vague hint was 'upstairs', but, as I said, big boarding house. Lots of 'upstairs' to choose from.

But it is so sunny, and so warm, and there are so many people (loads more than last year), and we are having a lot of fun. And this view was only confirmed when, wandering around without Uma (who is having an operation tomorrow! Though only very minor, and dental) I came across the buddies - slightly self-important fifteen year olds with impressive tans - singing Grace, complete with Buckley-esque falsettos. The perfect musical accompaniment, I noted, whilst they demanded details of in-camp politics. Not that I know much of that. Too much sunbathing and not enough nosying, I think.

We were, however, slightly distracted by Reece trying to run us over in a golf buggy.

Not funny.

Two more days of this to go, though - whoever knew holidays could be so much fun?

Black Swans and Summer Sun

2006-07-19T09:42:00.000Z

It is, apparently, going to get to 102 degrees this afternoon. If ever proof was needed of global warming, then this is it. I live in England, and though it may be the fairest of isles, in my experience the natural climate is one of rain and perpetual cold. So, you see, it must be global warming - it hasn't rained for a least a week.

But this is all good news; this afternoon I'm off to Market Deeping (Peterborough, possibly, but who knows) to watch some cricket. Tarantino and Freddie (though not Flintoff, unfortunately) are debutants, which has provided some excellent sulking opportunities for Ben ("I'm. Not. Going. Can't. Be. Arsed."). But it means ice cream, and sunbathing, and infrequently seen friends, so I should have fun. And then, post-work on Saturday and Sunday (then probably Monday and Tuesday too) I'm off to RHS. And that is always a more than adequate way to spend the summer, lying on the grass banks by the Orwell, developing skin cancer.

Then it's Mexico! Sombreros and straw donkeys - nothing better on earth. Not a single thing. Unfortunately it's straight bck to the grind as soon as we land home; not only work, but work experience at Radio Suffolk (I've finally managed it) await me as I walk through the arrival lounge at Gatwick. Probably about ten hours late, but nevertheless...

And quickly I'd just like to recommend my two albums of the month: The Eraser, by Thom Yorke, in all it's Radiohead-esque splendour and edginess, and Trouble by Ray Lamontagne - a proper, raw, folksy delight. Though Lily Allen is amusing for a while, she doesn't quite have the hook for me. She does wear nice dresses, though...

Ha!

2006-07-07T12:34:00.000Z

I am having so. Much. Fun. I love the holidays; in spite of my new ventures nto the world of employment I still have the opportunity to be a complete lazy bitch whenever it takes my fancy. But here, in no particular order, are the highlights of everything that has gone on of late.

The Prom. For want of a better word, it was absolutely fantabulous. Brilliant. Yes, alright, the food wasn't great and the service was pretty awful ("All I wanted was a piece of chicken without a bloody bone, is that so much to ask?" - Yes, Kirstin, it was), but everything else - the people and the dancing and the dresses - well, it was a fantastic night.

The boys all scrubbed up so nicely, despite the odd few in waistcoats like extras in Oliver! the musical, looking as if they were about to break into a tap dancing routine. I must say, though, that the best tuxedos were those of Ben, Richard and James. Yes, I am slightly biased on account of friendship and spending the best part of the night dancing with them, but they all looked very suave. Like James Bond. And it was, frankly, genius when Kat told me Si and his arch nemesis, Langan, were in the same tux. I think, readers, it's called karma.

The best moments of the night were...

Mr. Rutter. Singing. With bizarre rock star dance moves. Though actually he was very good; I was surprised. And he played Naive; I've never seen human beings dance as much as when we were treated to the Kooks.
The snow machine. And the smoke machine, in fact. "Oh my God!", wailed Yasmin, "I'm blind! And it stinks! I might have a fit!" Oh, for the love of God...
Richard and Ben dancing. Fabulous. And very similar to Josh, who was standing, eyes glazed and arms outstretched 'feeling' the music, before throwing himself around like a rag doll. Very, very funny.
And, really, every last thing that happened.

And I got a little award thing. How nice. (Though pales in significance to queen of the checkouts, Richard!)

I'm working properly now - and, surprisingly, I'm not fucking it up completely. Well done me.

And my new proactive temperament ensures I am kept busy at all times; on Monday I went to the VCU for the photoshoot I arranged with the police to accompany my article. Yes, I organised it myself. Even my dad was impressed. Debs, though, was even more impressed. I hope. Well, I think she was - she's set me up with some work experience (or, as my mother calls it, Job Creation) at Radio Suffolk next month. So I'm practically a fully-fledged, hard-bitten journo now. I wish.

Kirstin, Kat, Gem and I had the most fun on Wednesday (post-work - so not sophisitcated), shooting the breeze and eating popcorn, watching vaguely scary films and discussing flesh-eating hamsters in disturbing detail. I want a hamster. Kirstin, I am so jealous.

And Kat, if you're reading, we adore him. Kirstin fancies him, you know - that's why she says it - she envies you. Ha! Tee hee.

Ooh, tennis.

To the rubble...

2006-06-28T17:56:00.000Z

Oh my good God.

A lot has happened since I last wrote. Or typed, depending on how you like to look at it.

I have a job now. I am going to be queen of the checkouts at Tescos (perhaps, though, I will start out as a princess and work my way up to being a queen). It is a job sent straight form the Gods; the hours are perfect, the money is good, and I will be able to buy so many clothes for sixth form - it will be like a dream. For I am very, very poor at the moment. Anyway, I start on Saturday.

And now mentoring is going full speed ahead; I am working on not one but two articles/press releases, and arranging a photoshoot (very time consuming), so, as the headline of the newspaper article regarding the mentoring project (namely Si, Kirstin and I) says, we are "on the road to a profession". I do get the sense that it's going to be a pretty rocky road, but it's better than being stuck in the middle of nowhere, isn't it?

My brother and his band of merry men are striding towards being the most fabulous (though quite ridiculous) young cricket team in the region; beaten only once (and that was only by three runs - though they were distraught nevertheless) and thrashing their closest rivals by 80 runs along the way. My heroes, every last one of 'em. Naturally, the county team is still crap ("Right, I refuse to come and watch unless you start winning), but at least they are consistent in their uselessness, much like our beloved national team (crocks).

And the day after tomorrow it's porm; such a nice way to wind down now our exams are final over and we have been (semi)formally inducted into the sixth form. We're all adults now... that's the scariest thought of all...

So I'll leave you with my quote of the day, from, in this case, the mouth of babes:

-"You utter, utter, complete moron. You fucking stupid gobshite. I fucking hate you!".

-"Oh, shut up, you tosspot. I hope you fall in a ditch."

- OK, so I didn't say the cricket team actually liked each other...

A quickie

2006-06-09T14:18:00.000Z

"Oh God, I'm so unhappy."

"Why?"

"Because you don't have to go to school anymore and I do. And I've been rejected."

"I don't think it's really that bad -"

"Oh no. No no. It is. And Patrick Dempsey is 40! Forty! So I'll never be able to marry him..."

- Ah, to be sixteen with nothing to do...

* * *

The days are now long and gloriously hot and sticky; most afternoons are now spent either flat-out in the garden or impishly insulting erstwhile colleagues at various cricket greens. Now I remember why the summer is so much fun, in spite of the exam chaos and feelings of inadequacy that you weren't able to identify all that was said on the French speaking exam.

I was at St. Joes, in the company of Una, whilst she tested me on the Cold War; I think that was an exam I did alright in. Though it was hard to concentrate on the revision with Ben desperately trying to behead someone with his slog-sweeps ("Mind the bloody hire car!") and trying to avoid Hunny's irritating brother (who is slightly older and therefore thinks he is in charge of me). But I did it.

Oh, it is so, so hot. So hot, in fact that I can no longer type sensible sentences.

So I will finishe up with the quotes that have summed up the week - so much easier to do than coherent description:

1) "Woah, dude. That's a load of algebra."

- The man with the mahogany tan (all natural), Will.

2) "Monty! Monty! Monty!"

- Because who doesn't love an underdog?

3) "Oh crap. I'm gonna fail, aren't I?"

-Kat, on the prospect of facing a History exam.

4) "Well, it's hard. Loads of people will fail it."

- I've never been very good at sympathy.

Oh, crap.

2006-05-22T15:11:00.000Z

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

2006-05-14T13:07:00.000Z

"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

2006-05-08T16:37:00.000Z

"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

2006-05-05T18:44:00.000Z

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.

Oh when the Saints come marching in...

2006-04-24T16:42:00.000Z

-"Har-ry. You are gay."

"Come on Danny boy, back to the pavillion with you."

. . . . .

I am soon to cease to be an ingénue, and instead become a hard-hitting, brilliant young journalist in the manner of Jeremy Paxman, sternly growling "come on, come on" when grilling some American government minister on Newsnight. Or presenting University Challenge.

Well, perhaps not, but I am finally to meet my mentor on Friday morning and, if all goes well, (and Mr. B doesn't forbid me in a Will-induced fury) I may be writing a diminutive article (i.e. paragraph) to accompany a little bit of school-based news. I see potential. And Mr. K, when informing me of the news this afternoon, told me I was "resolute and high-achieving", which has made me, well, resolve, to revise a bit harder in science. Not that that will help me pass Thursdays test in any way, shape or form.

. . . . .

The weekend was reassuringly busy; my mind, for once, was in a place other than the art department, which was most helpful for relaxation purposes. We went to Manchester on Saturday - of that there is little to speak, other than that it was really, really sunny, and on Sunday my brother, with his brilliant cricket brain and gorgeous straight drive, made his fabulous debut captaining his school cricket team.

It all began brilliantly, with Joe and Matt hitting a few cover drives and putting on a nice partnership. Then, of course, there was the obligatory wobble, until Ben 'Yes, these are designer sunglasses' Tester began to club a few balls out of the park. And so, with a useful total, they stood their ground on the field, telling the opposition batsmen how bad they were whilst forgetting their field settings:

"Freddie. Get. Back. On the bloody boundary! Now!"

I never knew what a forceful gentleman my brother was.

They won, and it was great to see much hugging, camaraderie and back-slapping between the genuinely decent lads. Even Harry.

So the summer is looking up.

. . . . .

Meanwhile, there are just three weeks for me to prove my i) artistic abilities, ii) my ability to add up and iii) my ability to do it all with a little sanity and a gracious smile. We'll see how it all pans out, I suppose. And I also must finish The Constant Gardener. Which, like Rachel Weisz in the film of said book, is superb.

Happy Bloody Easter

2006-04-19T18:22:00.000Z

Easter was, in all honesty, a bit of a nightmare. The weekend, which of course is supposed to be a cheerful, celebratory reflection on the resurrection of Christ etc. etc., turned into a hideous sucession of disagreements and agrieved glares; at one point, everyone was bludgeoning each other to death with their opinions about the gravy; this, as a general rule, isn't good for inter-family bonding.

So you can imagine, I was cheered up immensely when, having lunch in lovely Mizu, Miss XXX waltzed in, in an insane, clown-like ensemble which included lime green footless tights and black and white checked Converse baseball boots. As if she was a fashion-forward twelve year old. Oh, I nearly died laughing.

There were, however, other bright spots. The cricket season has started! That alone is a good thing, but a new season means new matches for the under-17s (boys in whites = yay!), and many afternoons spent lazing at Culford with Uma whilst Joe - with whom I'll meet for the first time in months - fetches us cream cakes, just like last summer. This seems a bit optimistic, considering the current state of the weather (Wet. Cold. Crap) at the moment. But I am confident things will improve very soon. Anyway. If all else fails, I can still use the time to flaunt my scoring superiority in front of the Rajs, whilst Will and Matt wrestle in the background.

. . . .

School is utterly chaotic in every respect. Art is, as ever, all-consuming, and my French oral is on Friday, so I'm attempting a new type of revision: yelling out random sentences in French at every opportunity, hoping they'll stick. Tech, though, is finished as long last, although there were a few last minute hiccups. I found half of Kat's coursework stuck inexplicably to the back of my mood board from year 10, whilst Sophie was screaming like a maniac for a Pritt Stick and the rest of the class sobbed into their coursework folders: "But how can I hand it in? It's not finished yet!".

I am on my way to Manchester again at the weekend; for some reason my parents are trying to force me into conversations with family memebers I neither know nor particularly like. Honestly. I'm sixteen now; surely my parents should have noticed by anti-social behavioural tendencies. I struggle to have civil conversations with my dad sometimes, let alone anyone who lives two hundred miles away and has no interest in anything except Newcastle Brown Ale.

Humph.

A Very Short Week

2006-04-10T13:42:00.000Z

This holiday is flying by; that's one of the more annoying consequences of getting up at eleven every morning - my day is cut in half from the off. And so I resolve, full of good intentions as usual, to get up early tomorrow. Pah. Unlikely.

Revision is just so, so dull. With every day, the sudden, rather alarming urge to throw myself out of the window increases - yes, the patio may be concrete, but there are no maths practise papers on it. And all the time, I can hear the voice of Miss XXX in my frazzled mind- "only three weeks left" etc. etc. I don't know why the teachers are labouring over this point in such a manner: we know! We know exactly what's going on, thank you very much. Anyway, my art is finished, so that's one less thing to worry about.

Retail therapy is cheering me up a bit, though. On Friday, Ben, Soph and I went to regroup, favouring that nice, old-fashioned shopping-and-horror-film combo. Unfortunately, the film was The Dark, and there were two major factors preventing us enjoying it completely: i) there did not appear to be any sort of plot. At all. And ii) sheep. Sheep. There were dead bloody sheep all over the place. Which, I think you'll agree, isn't that scary. But it was better than working. And Sean Bean has aged well. Oh God, I'm turning into my sister...

Then on Saturday mum and I spent some of dad's hard-earned cash on entirely unnecessary cosmetics, bumping into Lalit, who looked like he had already frozen to death in a pair of squash shorts. Obviously, there wasn't much time for chat in case he dropped dead of hypothermia, but there were some hasty greetings and a "say hi to Uma. Tell her no to Nel".

. . .

This morning I finally watched 'A Very Long Engagement', which was gorgeous. I love everything Jean-Pierre Jeunet does, and Audrey Tatou is so pretty, it's like watching Audrey Hepburn on the screen. And everything was lovingly sepia-toned, bringing back all those memories of summer holidays in France. Until, that is, Sophie called, and she and I spent the next twenty minutes trying to work out stitch settings for Tech. Unfortunately, we concluded that we know nothing and after two years of trying, can't really sew either. Oh well.

Matt is trialling for Essex Academy soon. I am so nervous for him though he, as usual, is cool as a cucumber. I just can't get past the thought that, if he gets in, he has blown other kids from the area out of the water completely. I hope he can do it. I think he can. I don't know. I want him to.

Oh, sweet joy. The curtain has been raised on the Australian tour of Bangladesh and the Banglas - regarded as the worst team in test cricket - have wrapped a hammer in it and are currently pummelling the Aussies into a follow-on. I know it is morally reprehensible to support two teams - England and anyone playing Australia - but gooooo you Banglas!The general consensus amongst me and mine is that Simmo should be there. Except, of course, Uma, but that's purely because she likes Michael Clarke's hair. So that doesn't count.

Push that button, Punter!

The holidays, and other stories.

2006-04-03T19:05:00.000Z

A holiday at last! Thank God. With all the work, revision and inane occurences that have, well, occurred this term, I did feel slightly like I'd been shot repeatedly in the kneecaps. Ouch. And so far I'm making an excellent job of doing very little; I am enjoying this new frame of mind in which I can stare out of the window for five minutes and not miss a single thing about a Soviet invasion of Afghanistan twenty-odd years ago.

But anyway. On to a slight niggle. After dragging my carcass out of bed at an ungodly hour this morning, having been woken by a most asinine text message ("Good morning! Mmmmm... Andre Nel...mmmmm" does not entertain me at all at seven a.m), I sat with my cornflakes, half watching the cricket, and half glaring at anyone who dared walk past me. And I'm sure the presenter used to be on Blue Peter. A wierd comment, one might think, but it is really, really bugging me. Who is he?Ahem.

I am, at this precise moment, calculating the cost of minibus hire for the cricket season, having been convinced by an assortment of boys that, yes, we do all need to travel together. Hmmm. I remain unconvinced, unless I get to sit in the front away from Will's incessant giggling and sex jokes. And the aforementioned gentleman's idea of investing in stump mics is utterly ridiculous, unless he can come up with some Warne-esque "you fucking dill" comments to hiss at unsuspecting visiting teams. I think not, somehow. He isn't that clever.

I have done a bit of Art... a third, to be absolutely precise. But I've come to a grinding halt. Ditto Tech. And, actually, quite a lot of other things. My horoscope - and this is true - has said I must use this week for self-discovery. And I can't really do that when drivelling on about the form of a fucking cell, can I? No. So, for me, self-discovery it is.

That and childrens entertainment, for which I have now been appointed the official ambassador in my house, bowling with Matt's mates, trying to diffuse arguments whilst on the phone to Sophie in my pyjamas... who would want kids? I have no idea. Sometimes I even think my mum, who is as dedicated as they come, would like to lock me in a cupboard. Couldn't blame her, really.

Anyway. Must go. I've got to text Sophie and arrange some form of fun...

...But, Uma, the verdict is still out on Andre :)

Loose Ends

2006-03-27T16:07:00.000Z

"I think this is what being dead feels like."

And so we danced our little hearts out on Friday, all in the vague hope that Miss XXX, in a flash of humanity, would give us all the fabulous grades we really didn't deserve. It was indeed like a slow, torturous death; by the time I was performing Geisha, every limb had siezed up, and it seemed perfectly plausible that Kat would have to drag my onto the stage by my hair. But no. I went to my doom of my own free will...

Manchester has been and gone, and I have learnt the following things:

Yes, I really am right when I say that my family are insane.
However much my aunt professes to being "just down to earth, you know", she is in fact the most obvious social climber I have ever met in my life.
And, according to her wisdom, every restaurant in Manchester has "gone off".

And so, really, I could have just stayed at home.

Today I had my English poetry exam. Mixed feelings. The analysis was OK, my response to the analyse & comment section was, I think, a bit wishy-washy. But we shall see. At least I finished it, unlike some of the class. Or those who finished forty inutes early and stared gormlessly at the window until the bell went.

I am re-reading Birdsong, thanks to Ben. I had forgotten how stirring it is. If I could make a recommendation for today, that would be it.

This is short, but so is my attention span this afternoon.

435? Yes, my son.

2006-03-14T17:44:00.000Z

Right then. Tonight, I have a free evening; they're becoming rarer, and once Mr. B gets his claws into me, I'm predicting that my social life will finally be driven to extinction. So here I am, making the most of it...

...by writing my blog. Hmmm. I think I need to sort my priorities out, really.

But anyway. There are much more pressing matters at hand. I have a dance assessment in less than a fortnight, and by that time I must have transformed from a sulky, skulking background dancer to a sinuous, Darcey-Bussellesque goddess, complete with a fucking false smile and a sudden desire to show off. And I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to pull it off.

And an interesting, if not slightly random, fact: my future Philosophy teacher, whom of course I cannot name (!) is actually a Cambridge graduate! Who'd have thought it? And, naturally, the egg is all over my face for making so many chav jokes over the years...

Never judge a book by the cover, children.

. . . . .

"OhMyGod. He's gorgeous, don't you think?"

"Um. Not really. And he's an Aussie, so I'll have to pass. And the hair-"

"Robyn. The hair is very, very cool. Do you think he's married?"

"Oh, fuck off, Andrew Symonds wouldn't marry you in a month of bloody Sundays!"

The aftermath of The Greatest Match in ODI History (courtesy of Richie Benaud and all at Sky Sports, though few would expostulate) has left the Cricket Sisters in a spin. Uma has decided she is going to marry Sideshow Symonds, and has been scouring back copies of The Wisden to try and see if he's got a wedding ring. Very, very sad. And smacks of the kind of obsession which will lead to her emigrating and hovering outside his house for three years. My Dad, not a C.S in the usual sense, but there you go, has smiled continuously for three days, and has decided he likes Graeme Smith. Will has had a coronary. And, most importantly, everyone I know and adore (though not those from school, who have yet to discover the limitless joy cricket brings) has Sky+-ed the (excellently edited) highlights programme, and can describe in surprising detail shots, the runs and the annihilation of the bowlers. So we'll have a lot to talk about for a fair few weeks yet.

Or, at least, until England get their act together and start getting some runs, and KP stops arsing around trying to hit 'em out of the ground and sulking when he's out. Could be a while.

As will be my next post, at this rate, but alas, there are pieces of ribbon to be burnt.

Gifted (but very unhappy) Linguists

2006-03-11T18:33:00.000Z

Some thieving bastard has stolen my iPod nano. Out of my bag. They actually took it out. Of. My. Bag. And, to add insult to injury, it was whilst Ben, Simon (with whom I have formed a temporary truce) and I were in another room giving a sparkling presentation about the humanitarian crisis in Sudan. In French. So, in short, being good at French has cost me £180. Where’s the justice, eh?

And then I had to endure half an hour of being patronised (“Are you sure you brought it?”) whilst people told me it hadn’t been stolen because “the kind of people who are here wouldn’t do that”. Hmmm. Well. Harold Shipman was an educated man, but that didn’t stop him killing two hundred patients, did it?

Unfortunately, this all happened after I’d answered their questionnaire, so they think it was worth my while. I should have just stayed in bed.

Anyway, then my Dad marched in, scouring the place for disclaimer notices (none of which were found) so we can claim it back on their insurance, hopefully. Either that, or I’ll be going round my form on Monday morning asking for donations. You can all spare a quid, can’t you?

. . . . .

Other than that unfortunate occurence, it's been a pretty quiet week. Well, quiet in the usual sense that I've got enough work to last me until I'm forty, yet it must all be finished by the end of the half term. So I'm keeping busy, and, nearly every day, there's some vaguely important reason why I can't actually go home, but must stay and either sew, do maths, paint, take photographs of cells, make an appearance at prom committee, or revise history. But there are only five days in a school week, so I see that some juggling will have to be done in order to give me the tiniest chance of accomodating it all.

Cricket season is nearly upon us at last, so I'll be making a bit of cash with my scoring expertise. And, also, I suppose, getting fat as I enjoy the teas. Another advantage of this is that we can all go down to Essex to watch the county matches, and marvel at the gorgeousness of Ali Cook, our new favourite heart throb. Once us cricket sisters are all together, chaos ensues; that Indian woman won't be the only one holding up marriage proposal signs. Now, to please everyone, they just need to tempt Andrew Symonds and Michael Clarke into emigration; who can resist big hitters or blonde Australians, now Rory's gone? There are much worse ways to while away the days.

. . . . .

" Are you sure you just haven't left it on the windowsill?"

- Firstly, why the hell would I leave it on a windowsill. Secondly, if I knew where it was, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?

The Dances of Despair

2006-03-05T17:21:00.000Z

"Oh, God, what if I go deaf? Hmmm. Well. As long as I don't go blind then I'll be OK."

It is, or, at least, it has been, dance show week, and the strain is showing on all of our faces. Kat lost most of her senses over the past few days, but managed to regain them in ample time for a spectacular final performance on Saturday night. Unfortunately, there were few tears from Ms. XXX, and so we were deprived of a final moment of enteratinment. But all's well that ends well, and we definitely seemed to do, in the grand scheme of things, alright. I even managed a smile as I danced over the remnants of Kirstin's grass skirt during the finale. It was almost a divine moment. But only almost.

And I'd just like to take this opportunity to completely un-thank the boys from my form for an utter lack of samosas and cookies on every single performance evening. We were hungry and we got nothing. Cheers, boys.

Though I suppose I must pay them a reluctant thanks for not collapsing with laughter when they saw our African costumes; they hid their smug grins very well.

. . . . .

The other 'event' of this week was the unveiling of our art exam theme: 'Structures'. I must admit, it didn't grab me at first, but having thought about it, and scoured the earth for Lennart Nilsson photographs, I'm feeling very inspired, and am curently formulating a final piece in my head involving psychadelic colours and crazy brush strokes. Just my cup of tea.

Ooh. And speaking of events, Alistair Cook has this week gone from my brother's favourite Essex player to everyone's favourite England debutant, making a very classy century in the second innings of his debut. True, the final score was a mere draw, but I'd be bold enough to suggest England had the upper hand. And Hoggy's bowling was great; he totally deserved that ride on the outfield atop his Man of the Match motorbike. And, even better, Austraila were demolished this week in South Africa; the sheer joy on my Dad's face from seeing that they were 7-4, or something equally dream-like, was a sight to behold. Woo!

. . . . .

"...Well, you're not on for a while, you're going to have a long wait."

"Oh, really? Are we? Are we, you little ginger man?"

- Backstage helpers: really not all they're cracked up to be.

Brief Notation

2006-02-25T10:29:00.000Z

Hmmm. In order to make it through the next week, I'm going to have to develop two alter-egos. One who knows what I'm supposed to be doing in the maths coursework, for I am entirely clueless, and one who is utterly shameless, and loves to dance around in a grass skirt and tight top for 'the fun of it'. Oh yes, it's almost dance show week...

Even the kids I babysit for are going to watch it. And Richard, Kieran, Ben, and a handful of other mocking boys from my form. Oh yay.

But, in much happier news, I've made it into sixth form, as have my fabulous friends. Although, really, I was pretty sure we wouldn't have much of a problem in that department. I mean, who wouldn't want us? We're wonderful. Ahem.

. . .

My i-pod broke. First, it wouldn't turn off, and then, when we managed to do that, it wouldn't turn on again. Luckily, the good people at the shop took one look at it, nodded solemnly and handed over an identical black nano, all free of charge. So now I have a shiny new one, with no scratches. Very good. Technology is not a dear friend of mine; in fact, it hates me.

. . .

I must say, our cricket prospects in India aren't looking too good. Our habit of picking up twinges, fevers and general injuries is very English indeed; surely, we get all the bad luck? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll be dancing my little cotton socks off for the duration of the First Test, so win, lose or draw, what does it matter? As long as we keep the Ashes, that is.

I Really Should Be Working, But...

2006-02-13T14:34:00.000Z

Hmmm. My horoscope for this week has told me that I must sort out my conflicts. This could either mean resolving them, or, as I have interpreted, sorting things out once and for all. Yes, I know. A horoscope is hardly scripture by which you live your life, but what the hell. It's half term and I intend to do very little, so why not experiment with my destiny?

So, on to the tricky business of conflict. Well, there is only a single source of it in my life at the moment, and so I've made a decision. And this, though difficult, looks like it will be a pretty permanent thing: I cannot be friends with Simon. I just can't. He may be, as a peer, intelligent and sure of himself, and for that I admire him, and I will be civil to him, and work with him at Linguists, and all that jazz. But personally? No. I don't want him to be part of my life; he's hurt just about everyone, including those I genuinely care about, and the latest Big Brother, Marshallgate incident is the final straw. He has never actually done anything, and by this I mean a single thing, to show that he cares about me as a friend, and I seriously believe he is, as my brother has told me over the past week, "a bit deranged. I mean, does he get off on hurting people or something?". So there it is. I've said it all before, I know, but for my own sanity I've got to have a little faith in my decisions.

We were out for Gem's birthday on Friday and it was fantastic. But it didn't feel like anyone was missing. And that is the most telling thing of all.

Oh, and Ben, this is nothing to do with you at all. We all love you!!!!

. . . . .

"We're not going to the West Indies."

My mum has given us the definitive verdict on our plans for a little Cricket World Cup jaunt in 2007. It's not looking good.

"But look! You've just said how exicting it is! Look! Look! Symonds just got 150! It's brilliant!"

"Firstly, Matt, you hate the Australians winning, which they will. And secondly, I'm not paying two grand to watch cricket. I could sit on the bloody Green and do that."

"Yesssss, but not with artificial beaches."

"Go to Great Yarmouth."

I think she's missing the point, really.

. . . . .

I have an unfortunate amount of work to do over this next week; holiday seems to be something of an unknown concept to the 'lovely people' at school. And they can never prove that I don't really mean they're lovely - I'm on Constant BB watch. I tried tackling my French Coursework whilst babysitting on Saturday, but it didn't really appeal to me. That and I was trying to wrestle my i-pod off a couple of soup-slurping children. Don't get me wrong, they're good kids, but I really would have rather stayed at home watching Jerry Maguire. Great film, by the way. It even makes me hate Tom Cruise a little less.

Anyway. Hopefully next week's horoscope will be much more in the 'relax, it's February' vein. But I doubt it, with the Horror Show approaching. That, for all you uneducated people out there, is the Dance Show. Oh, we love rehearsals.

Oh wait -

We don't.

Stalin endorsed censorship, non?

2006-02-08T17:19:00.000Z

Censorship is a pain in the arse, isn't it?

"What?" My mum was rather shocked. "How stupid is that? Maybe I should ring up..."

Of course, I can't tell you what I'm actually talking about; this, apparently, would be breaking some kind of law on slander. And one never knows how many prying eyes could be building up a case against you.

Oh, Simon.

"Well, you tell him from me, if there is no apology, he can find his own bloody limo."

And, as of this moment, this is absolutely the case.

Anyway, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise unreservedly to Marshall for anything I've ever said against him. Everyone who knows me has had to endure, for the past five years, me banging on about the right to free speech, and all that. Now, though, I may as well be wired up to constant CCTV surveillance. Or perhaps I could submit my diary as coursework? Hello everyone, can you see me now?

And as for criticism? Don't be so ridiculous. Don't you know the establishment is perfect? Ha ha.

Of Course, Rants and Raves

2006-02-06T17:30:00.000Z

Oh, we're too middle class for words.

My mum is on her famous annual pre-holiday beach diet. Of course, she's still as thin as ever, and our holiday isn't until after the GCSES (which I classify as an entirely different period of time, post-GCSE. It's like a new beginning), but some family traditions are created merely as resolutions around which everything else orbits, much like the Earth goes round the Sun. This is one of those things.

My brother is galavanting around in his Dynasty shoulder pads, practising rugby tackles on anyone who happens to pause in the hallway, i.e me. I honestly cannot wait until the cricket season begins again; it brings with it both sunshine and new bats, with fresh willow longing to be knocked in and then knocked about. Instead of me, hopefully.

My dad is, as usual, a well-intentioned pain. Bless him.

And me, well, I'm entering the month of endurance known as 'Dance Show preparation'. On the one hand, I'm filled with all-consuming joy; this will be the last ridiculous performance I'll ever have to do, with a terrified fixed grin and a grass skirt. Why I subject myself to such torture I'll never know; picking GCSE Dance doesn't rank up there as one of my most intelligent decisions. And on the other hand, I'm being sulky and unreasonable about everything, trudging to early morning and weekend rehearsals only to moan about how much I hate it all. I hate those kind of people under normal circumstances, but, concerning dance, Kat, Kirstin and I have mastered the art of glaring at Miss X, and slumping around with arms folded.

It's only three days until half term. Which doesn't sound like a long time, but seventy-two hours, in terms of homework and Science lessons, is an eternity.

. . . . .

Ooh, and, of course, Get Well Soon Jane McGrath.

In Summary...

2006-01-29T14:07:00.000Z

"Hmmm, I'm not sure about these shoulder pads."

"No, Matt. You look like Joan Collins."

"Actually, I was thinking more Gay Bar."

- It seems that even rubgy players are ruled by vanity, including my brother. Although his latest sporting ensemble was frighteningly reminiscent of the Village People...

. . . . .

Well, I have been very, very busy.

I am, unfortunately, in two dances in the annual pain in the arse, the school dance show, as well as trying to learn the Set Study for my practical exam sometime in the not-too-distant future. The thought of actually dancing in either sends a shiver of dread up my spine, suggesting that perhaps it wasn't an appropriate GCSE to take. Also, I have to go to two early morning rehearsals, and by the time I get to school, battling against the ferocious winter weather, I resent everyone I see, and spend the whole day formulating ways to get out of it. So far, I can't think of any which don't result in either murder or 'falling' down the stairs.

My mock results delighted me, 7A*s and 4 As. Though now I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of terror that I can only get worse by the time the real exams make their way around.

Frieda, my giant clay head, was finished on Thursday, after I spent the evening sitting under a table (I was practically crippled) trying to join the stupid seams, whilst everyone else was having far more fun doing nothing. But, as Mr B loves to tell me so often, "the hard work is over now!".

On Friday night, we all went to see Memoirs of a Geisha. Which was entirely static, and not at all entertaining. The best part, in fact, was watching Mr H lurk below with his mother:

"Oh, I am gonna take the piss next time I see him," Kirstin said gleefully. "And look! He's wearing a jumper!"

Then yesterday was Gifted Linguists, the first two hours of which were spent marvelling at the entirely unfashionable lateness of Annabelle. Simon did not look amused when she finally arrived, bringing with her a French friend to interview, and in a single swoop upstaging his mini-poll. All style, no substance. "When we come back in March," he promised solemnly, "we're going to win." Win what? I wasn't aware that there was an actual competition. But with the Ellis brothers, breathing is a competitive sport. My dad looks relaxed and nonchalant in comparison.

Maybe they'll grow out of it.

But they probably won't.

. . . . .

"Love is not a victory march,

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."

All Ends Up

2006-01-16T18:27:00.000Z

"Well, I see life as a game of Twenty20-"

"God, no wonder you're so fucked up!"

-Yep, we're now doing the cricket-as-life metaphors in our house. More evidence, perhaps, that we are either turning into the BKs or breathless, lukewarm philosophers in the style of Mark Nicholas.

But 407-0? For us far from the subcontinent, it's a distant dream. That's definitely something to be interested in, however breathless or lukewarm you may be...

. . . . .

And so the mocks are over, albeit in a rather ramshackle, arrive-whenever-the-hell you like manner. I refuse, however, to dissect my performances any further: what's done is done. That and, of course, the fact that the more I think about it (it generally being History) the worse I think I have done. So, on Thursday morning I went home feeling quite cheerful and self-satisfied, but Monday evening brings uncomfortable self-doubt. Must. Have. Results. Or I may spontaneously combust. I care too much.

Except in Maths, where there genuinely isn't a hope in hell of finding that light at the end of the tunnel.

Matt's rugby team remains, miraculously, unbeaten, and so his frequent treks down to Kent on these wet winter Saturdays aren't proving to be the waste of time I first predicted. I must say, though, that I'm bewildered as to how he has suddenly become such a good... OK, I know this one. Hooker? Flanker? Whatever, it's irrelevant. For whatever position he plays, the fact remains that prior to September he'd never picked up a rugby ball. And now, he's become some sort of sprightly, try-scoring private schoolboy. Jammy sod.

But, as he himself confesses: "We're not quite sure how we do it. We spend most of the practises wrestling each other." So, then, it is just luck. Something that my cricketer friends would, perhaps, describe as a get-yer-pads-on-Glenn-McGrath moment. That, though, is another story; one which belongs to last summer alone.

And now, a most exciting story (for me). Gideon Haigh is writing for CoU! Running the risk of sounding a) like an idiot and b) like the wierd, bookish, cricketish (not a word, I know) creature Gemma affectionately describes me as, my hero! He's right up there with my column writers du jour, alongside Jeremy Clarkson, Ally Ross, and whoever does the back page of the Times Magazine on a Saturday. All men. Interesting. Does this mean that, as a rule, men are the better writers? Well, Amis is. McEwan is. So, for me, yes.

I have to go to John and Edie's for dinner on Saturday. This is generally not a highlight of my life. I don't appreciate having parma ham and prawn bloody cocktail foriced down my throat. I want dessert, not converstation. I won't die of thirst because I don't fancy a drink right at this moment. No, I don't want to talk about school. Go away.

But, of course, I can't actually say any of these things, so I merely end up looking at the door longingly every four seconds, and pretending that I can't hear my Dad imploring me to "tell Edie about school". And formulating plans to get out early, including setting fire to the tablecloth, the dog, Matt...

. . . . .

"Did you see the stylish kids in the riot?

Shovelled up like muck, set the night on fire..."

And Everything We've Done

2006-01-10T19:00:00.000Z

"Well, I've already lost twenty sodding marks because I didn't bring any colouring pencils. That's not fair. "

- But such is life, as we have discovered over the past few days. Whilst Richard's downfall was merely a lack of colouring pencils, my utter inability to do the maths paper has been the stumbling block.

. . . . .

Well, we have been busy.

It is, of course, mock week. Or, week and two days. And whilst, in normal terms, this doesn't sound like a long time, once you've spent what would normally be breaktime staring mournfully at the clock, the days do tend to drag on.

And so a quick summary of the exams so far:

First, Art. Hmmm. Well, the disaster of the day happened approximately three seconds into the exam, when my armature collapsed as soon as clay so much touched it. Luckily, Mr B, in his resourcefulness, managed to bang another one together in about a minute, and the rest of the day passed pretty much without incident, save Kat's bleeding hand. And I was vaguely pleased with the results. Dance. Two hours. Two bloody hours. It felt like I'd aged a couple of years by the time I got out. But again, I was pretty pleased. We all were, actually. Until, of course, Miss X appeared today with a devillish smile, and announced:-

"Sophie, you did really well on your dance exam. Better than Kathryn."

At which point my dear friend (Kat, not Miss X) looked stricken, and spent the rest of the afternoon gabbling "I knew I finished early! And now I know why! Because I only got four marks, probably!". Nonsense, of course, because she's practically Einstein. And I mean that sincerely.

French. A foundation paper warm-up. Easy. English. Actually, it was, in a perverse way, rather fun. The Inspector question was dull (but then, so was the play), but the war poetry essay was good, mainly because of my love of Sassoon. And then 'Of Mice and Men'. I ended up doing a character essay on George, getting slightly ridiculous and sentimental on the page about his 'ultimate act of heroism'. The words 'carried away' spring to mind. Ahem.

Science. OK, but not fun. As you'd expect. Tech. Good. I like drawing and annotating.

But then, the sting in the bloody tail, Maths non-calculator. Which I staggered through like a drunk trying to walk in a straight line. An A? Ha bloody ha.

. . . . .

"So then, Robyn. You've got a day off tomorrow. And what exactly what are you going to do? Make yourself useful? You can tidy my room if you like."

Well, as I don't do either Business Studies or German, I intend to lie in until an ungodly hour, then sprawl on the sofa and watch the cricket. Watching sixes being hit left, right and centre is good for the soul I think. Unless Punter's doing the hitting. Oh, and of course, somewhere on the agenda is History revision, but I think I'll play that down a bit. Ahem.

Now, I'm not usually one to go on about TV programmes, but The Thick Of It (BBC2, Mondays) is absolutely the funniest thing I have seen in an age. Very, very good, and all the demented characters are quite like all my demented friends. So you should watch it. And I shall sign off on a quote:

"I know I'm good. But I can't hold back the fucking tide, can I?"

- Exactly.

Who is in the hut?

2006-01-02T20:37:00.000Z

"Well, at least I didn't drop a fork on someone's head!"

No, but I did, unfortunately, defying both the laws of gravity and all forms of accepted etiquette. Luckily, the gorgeous victim of my unprovoked attack was not only unoffended, he was delighted to talk pizza toppings and (oh yes) cricket with me. And my friends say it is a useless hobby to have...

...They're wrong! Boys like pizza. And some like cricket too.

And one of these days I'm going to meet a sane person, wandering bewildered through the streets. Until then, though, I will have to be content with looking worriedly on as friends of the family clamber over fences to find bits of wood (which, naturally, they are stealing from their workplace) to make my armature: "Errr, Mark? Is that actually allowed?".

Hmmmm...

Oh, and happy new year to you all. To my two readers, I mean.

. . . . .

And so it's 2006. Although it feels pretty much the same as life ever did; with so much going on time just blends in to one long, labourious day. But as I've taken a shine to compiling lists over the past... well, I did it in one entry, I have put together my 2006-at-a-glance calendar. Although it's not in chronological order or anything, because my brain is in a bit of a mess. Anyway. A lot is happening in 2006, you know!

1) GCSEs. And, of course, mocks, but in the greater scheme of things they pale in comparison to the real thing. So I'll revise, I put in the effort, blah blah blah. Well, my horoscope (yes, I've taken to believing it, since I had one vaguely accurate one) says it will be a tough year, but I'll make it through in one piece. Well, actually, it didn't mention any kind of triumph or making it through, but a little bit of optimism never killed anyone, did it?

2) Sixth Form. I am genuinely really excited about it, believe it or not. I've heard all the stories about back-breaking work, but the fact remains that I'll no longer have to do maths, nor science, and, from September onwards, I get to books and write about them. And there's no uniform! What more could you possibly want?

3)I'm going on holiday to Mexico. Again, very excited. There will be sunshine, hopefully, and palm trees too. Sophie's already put her order in for a sombrero, whilst my brother's friends are quite keen on having a straw donkey each. So, on our return, as we march through the Stansted arrival lounge, we will look like either a) those annoying touristy people I hate or b) drug smugglers/ general criminals ("It's in the straw donkey!"). Very promising, I think you'll agree.

4) The Ashes!!! If we retain them, it will absolutely make my Christmas. If we lose (probably more likely), then I will cry into my Christmas pudding. But I like it that way, going into it with a bit of realism. Then if we do win (or should I say when we do win) it's a joyous occasion: my grandparents in Melbourne can gloat to their neighbours ("Now, how does that song go? Oh yeah - 'You all live in a convict colony, a convict colony, a convict colony...'") and every boy under the age of thirteen can (and will) smash those little red balls of pain into windows, walls and people to their hearts' content: "We did win the Ashes, you know!".

5) England vs. Pakistan. I realise I've become a bit of an obsessive armchair cricketer, but it really is a good thing; it gives me things to talk about not only with my brother, but also with the boys at the cricket club and handsome young scorers. So an excellent thing, in fact. And I'm going to the Oval to watch skunk-hair and Freddie in person - well worth the price of an admission ticket.

6) Prom. Well, I'm not really excited about the Prom, but everyone else is, so I feel I should try and get in the spirit of things. To me, it's just a bit of a party in which I get to wear a nice dress, which a lot of the nonchalant boys I know won't go to anyway, so it doesn't seem like an occasion of life-or-death importance. Also, there's a bit of a quandry as to who is going in whose limo: after the recent Simon vs. Us debacle and the even more recent Simon-calls-Kirstin-fat debacle, I'm pretty sure that, whilst I'm not bothered either way, he's not really welcome in the eyes of my other girlfriends.

7) My seventeenth. I'm practically a grown-up. How terrifying is that? Also, even more terrifying is the fact that, by the end of the year, I'll be allowed on the roads. No one will be safe as me and my car crash into everything within crashing distance. I'd better remember to wear a seatbelt, then.

8) Lots of little things which will no doubt light up my meagre existance. The Arctic Monkeys album is out soon, for which I wait with baited breath. Ooh, and Brokeback Mountain. The book is amazing and Heath Ledger is gorgeous, so the film should be brilliant on so many different levels.

And when you look at it like that, it seems that 2006 is going to be pretty damn good, exams and all.

. . . . .

"Too young to hold on,

To old to just break free and run..."

It's not too late?

2005-12-29T20:10:00.000Z

"Oh, shit. I think I've broken the light."

It was my brother, demonstrating his "-and then Andrew Symonds played this!" shots in the living room. I'm actually enjoying the Australia vs. South Africa tests: my mind changes every day as to which team of gobby, irritating little men (well, not little in the case of Sideshow Symonds; that's a different story, however) I like least. Having a father who was raised in Oz has firmly cemented my beliefs that the only reason cricket exists is to further divide the commonwealth:

"Look, I don't hate all Australians, Robyn. I just want, in the field of sport, for us to grind their tiny, arrogant, blonde heads into the ground."

Right. So no hatred there at all, then.

But anyway, it's proving to be an entertaining diversion from revision (which, of course, is going badly. Or, in some cases, not at all). And in our house, we like the underdog to put in a good performance (hence our love of Ian Bell), and so it was nice to see Simmo get a few wickets yesterday, and a fair few runs today. And, of course, my mum was all about "when I came home from Australia in the summer, I was on the same plane as the Australian cricket team". This is true, but would be a far better boast if she had actually known who they were, instead of asking Dad when he met her at Heathrow, "what? Who are they? Are they famous of something?" whilst his eyes fell out of his skull. Not literally, of course, but you get the picture.

. . . . .

Anyway, it's as if Christmas never happened. The turkey is gone, as are the ridiculous, gluttonous tins of Celebrations and Quality Street. And my Nano sits neatly inside the i-pod speakers, taking pride of place on my bedside table. My sister has gone home; this is something of a relief for both her and mum, because she's not allowed to smoke or get drunk in the house - her favourite two hobbies, and mum's two least favourite things. So things are far more harmonious as they are, with her in the North and us in the South East.

And more revelations! It turns out that I'm not the only individual obsessed with both Top Gear and the articles of a certain Mr. Jeremy Clarkson. Nope. That I have in common with Matt. Marshall, not my dear brother. No, he's too busy watching the Ashes on DVD to care about The World AccordingTo Clarkson. Which is a very, very funny book. And I draw many parallels between him and my Dad - "Yeah, what is the point of Greenpeace anyway?". And, I've got to say, I'm pretty much with the grumpy old men on this one. Sorry Kat.

But the best book of Christmas by a country mile is the Close Range short story book by Annie Proulx. And in particular, Brokeback Mountain. It's been a while since a book has made me feel like that; it's been a long time since I've cried at a book like that. And, well, it's opened the floodgates. This morning I burst into spontaneous, distraught tears at Lover, You Should Have Come Over. But, again, very sad. Especially when he sings, right at the end, "it's not too late".

Because it is.

. . . . .

"Maybe I'm just too young

To keep good love from going wrong...

Lover, you should have come over..."

So here I go...

2005-12-23T15:18:00.000Z

"This year has been rubbish."

"What? What? How can you say that? We've survived school, faced plenty of trials and tribulations, and we're all just fine. And we won the Ashes!"

"We did, didn't we? We really did. Who'd have thought that Kevin Pietersen would have been the source of my happiness this year?"

. . . . . . . . .

And so it's nearing the end of yet another year. Therefore I'm perfectly justified in being just a little philosophical about everything that's happened because, as someone once said, whatever doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

And so, in no particular order, here are just a few of the highlights of my life from this long, laborious year:

1) Indeed, we won the Ashes. Now, I know very few people (certainly the ones I know) actually care about this. But in my house, for us cricket fans, it really was a big deal. We needed a hero. Who thought five years ago that it would be Freddie Flintoff? Indeed, who thought it would be Kevin Pietersen?

2)And hopefully forever entering the fold of competitive cricket went my own personal hero, my brother Matt, wicket-keeper extraordinaire, and his band of merry men. Spending the summer afternoons with them was a joy, as was hanging out at them at the festival:

And so I should introduce you: on the front row, left to right, is James, Prykey, my brother Matt the glovesman, Alex, Ali and Marcus. And at the back, Lalit, Theo, Will, Reece, Harry and the fabulous Ash. And of course, on the very end, my Dad. Ahem.

3) I've survived year 11 of school, the toughest year of my school career, and I've come out of it with more knowledge than I will ever need to use in real life. I've finished my formal composition, and even managed to perform it, vomit-inducing though it was. I've worked hard, and I'm proud of what I've done. It might be a pain in the arse, but you have to go, so you may as well learn something, right?

4) I've, for the first time, properly made friends with Simon, and promptly fought and fallen out with him. But we end the year on good terms: I shall start 2006 as I wish to go on.

5) And as for all my other friends? Well, they've been as fantastic as I could ever have hoped. And I love them all to bits.

6) I've discovered Kate Bush, and started on the long pathway to eccentricity, singing Aerial all the way... 'What kind of language is this?'...

7) Matt and I are finally as close as our parents wished us to be; to say I'm proud of him is an understatement. He is, in my opinion, the best cricketer in the entire universe, bar none.

8)Thanks to Mr B, I've painted more paintings this year than I would ver have thought possible, and thanks to the collective efforts of every English teacher, I've read a freakish amount of books. And my recommendation, my favourite of the entire year, would be: well, there are two. Stanley and the Women and Regeneration.

9) This year I had the best summer I can remember. It was wistful, and peaceful. It was full of optimism for everything ahead; the kind of time I used to have when I ws young, before I had so many worries and adolescent problems. Just knowing that I can still have that kind of time, even now, gives me so much faith in the future.

10) And, schoolwork aside, I've learnt something. And, as Johnny Borrell so eloquently sings: "You can do anything you want because darling, it's your life."

And it is.

. . . . .

"Don't go round the houses...

...Just come back to me."

Merry Christmas!

You broke another mirror, you're turning into something you are not.

2005-12-20T01:47:00.000Z

"Mum, not being funny or anything, but Darren Gough has just done a dance where he spins a tiny Russian woman around his head. I'm not going anywhere."

"Steve, we have dinner reservations."

"Look, I can't vote forty times if we're eating out, can I? Chinese takeaway, anyone?"

- As it turned out, we voted a meagre sixteen times between the lots of us. "Nooooo! You can't vote for The sodding X Factor! Stop being selfish! Vote for Dazza!" yelped Steve, vaulting over his prawn toast to wrestle the telephone out of his sister's hands. Luckily for him, mum was very much on his side: "Yeah, Simon Cowell doesn't need any more money!"

Manchester was much the same as ever, except everyone was much taller than I remembered. Even Steve, who should be banned from growing any taller, seemed like a giant. I'm sure he's grown a foot since I last saw him, though, that being just a few months ago, it's unlikely. He's 17, after all, not 12.

. . . . .

Last night I was lounging around reading my horoscope. Which, for the record, has never ever been right in all my sixteen years. But it was unusually astute, telling me to "make the first move to resolve underlying power struggles". And so, rather grudgingly, I sent a text to Simon, which resulted in a vague I'll-write-it-in-a-card apology. Not much, but after all that's gone on it's a relief to be halfway there.

"Hmmm," said Kat upon hearing this, "it's funny, I could've sworn my horoscope said 'slap the fucker'.".

I do love that girl.

. . . . .

I'm so glad there's only half a day of school left, that and tomorrow will be our annual present-giving. Christmas presents are excellent, excellent things. Sophie presented me with an incence pyramid this morning; it took me until lunchtime to work out how to open it, and that was even with Ben's intervention. I feel kind of like Santa, there's a lot of giving to be done tomorrow.

And I'm filled suddenly with Christmas spirit. No idea where it's come from, mind you. But it's there, and I'm looking forward to celebrating, and having a few lie-ins. The revision, though, will be less fun. But it's a necessary evil.

The cheeriness could be down to the results of the first part of my maths mock. After psyching myself up to scrape a C, I managed a high B, which is great. Especially when you take into account my complete inability to work a calculator. There's usually a great chasm between my abilities in calculator (poor) and non-calculator (better). On the last test, a chasm of 20%, in fact.

"Wow, that is quite a big gap, isn't it?" Noted Ben.

Yes it is. And one day, I'll get down to some revision, and I might even get good. But it's doubtful.

. . . . .

You do it to yourself, you do.

And that's what really hurts.

Teenage dreams, so hard to beat...

2005-12-16T01:05:00.000Z

"Hello, everyone. My name is Reece and tonight I will be performing Gloria Gaynor classics for your pleasure. Yes, that's right, go on now go! Walk out the door! Just turn around now-"

"Shut up. Please."

- The Christmas party: a veritable melting pot of insanity and misguided attempts at karaoke.

. . . . .

I didn't think I was going to enjoy myself at all last night. The tension was almost tangible in the air around me: I was just so angry. Normally my attempts at steeliness are only partly successful, but I played the Ice Queen with perfection.

But then I got to the party, and everything just melted away. All the horrors of the day, the stress, the maths equations still floating around in my mind. It was much busier than I'd imagined; it seemed like everyone I'd met over the dreamy, glorious summer was there. James skulked around in the corner, hiding from the purposeful Peter, giving me knowing looks as Reece and I deliberated on which karaoke classic would have just the right amount of Christmas spirit. He went for I Will Survive, whilst Will and Ali got into the groove in the background. Will is going to be as handsome as his brother when he grows up. The Boses were there, and we made dinner plans with them as we ate our way through far too many cocktail sausages. And then we danced; we ate and drank and were merry.

I'd forgotten what a brilliant summer it was. I didn't realise I'd met so many wierd and wonderful people, made some unlikely acquaintances. And I had no idea that I'd watched so many cricket matches. It was great; a proper, Middle Class, afternoon-tea-and-village-green-cricket summer. Except there were few village greens, we just lazed in the grounds of a High Court judge in Norfolk, or sat, hot and bare-legged, in scoreboxes, watching the boys in their whites. Uma and I looked at a lot of boys, and Joe gave me tips on how to survive GCSE maths (they're not working), telling me of his dreams to be an American footballer.

I hope that next year brings just as many lazy days by the Orwell. Next summer, though, Gem may be in tow, pretending she adores cricket just to talk to the long-limbed boys. It's not something I'm going to hold against her.

. . . . .

" Yes, that's all folks. I'm here 'till Thursday. In fact, I'm here until the end of term, if you've got any requests..."

The shadows; long and low...

2005-12-15T01:10:00.000Z

"Oh, well now it's all falling into place!"

"Yes. But that place is nowhere near this place."

- Matt contemplating life on Mars, in a manner of speaking, alongside his best mate Freddie. It's good to see that they make less sense now than ever...

. . . . .

If the weather reflects your mood, then the semi-darkness I stalked home in tells a story of its own. After all that's gone on of late - all the to-ing and fro-ing - I shouldn't let anything surprise me. But I'm still a little breathless, still a little lost for words, other than those of fury. Hell, after all, hath no fury like a woman scorned.

I cannot believe Simon would ever say what he did. I expect a lot from him; with his intelligence there should be a pinch of human decency. But where is it? Where has it gone? I look at my friends and I'm so grateful for each one. For Ben, without whom I'd be lost at sea. Kat, the most genuine, and the funniest, person I know. Kirstin, who is just so great, and Gem, who I've known for my entire life, and want to know forever. And then there's Si. I just can't fathom him. I don't understand why he would deliberately be so callous; it is absolutely nothing to do with him who Kat chooses to see, and what he said to Kirstin was so unnecessary I couldn't believe it had even left his lips. It's as if he enjoys it; pull him up on it and up comes the shield of arrogance: -

"I do it because it's fun. Full stop."

I don't believe it for a second. I hope he sees sense one day soon. Says sorry. Either that, or I hope he has the balls to try and hurt me too. That way I'll know where I stand.

. . . . .

The maths mock came and went... I have no idea how it went. As usual, I approach examinations with mixed emotions. And so on marches the victory parade, with all the assurance of a blind man doing the egg and spoon race after a night on the lash. I'll reach the finishing line one day.

But at least there's a party to go to, though I expect it to be a party in the loosest sense of the term. All the same, my eyes are lined, my boots are on, and I'm ready to go.

. . . . .

The flowers are melting...

What kind of language is this?

There are hundred of people living here...

2005-12-13T03:10:00.000Z

"Matt. It's an inflatable guitar. A ridiculous, pink inflatable bit of plastic."

"Yeah, isn't it great? Well. It was between this and a giant inflatable alien. And I figured that would be a bit freaky at night."

- Because it wouldn't be Christmas without the token crap inflatable, would it? My personal favourite, though, is the hammer.

. . . . . .

Some days I think I'm going to die. That, though, is only a fleeting sensation. The very instant I wake up, it flashes across my mind. Obviously, it's school-related. Or, to be more accurate, work-related. I've come to the conclusion that GCSEs are hard. Hard and time-consuming. Whatever the government says, we're not just a nation of ASBO youths. As the oracle that is Julian Casablancas once sang:- 'I'm working so I don't have to try so hard'.

But then I enjoy the challenge, in a twisted kind of way.

Friday was the most glorious day of the week. The show was over, the dance exam was over... and we all did so well. I, literally, was delighted for everyone, and we were all group-hugging left, right and centre ("You were fantastic!"). I think I did better than I did in the mock, though the utter blind terror I experienced meant that, actually, I didn't really feel or think anything until I staggered out of the hall and saw Kat and Yas flying round the corner: "You kicked arse, Robyn!". I crouched by the double doors and watched my friends perform through the glass - they were all amazing. I'm inclined to believe that all of them are the best dancers in the entire world. Thirties all around.

I'm enjoying a rare homework-free evening. This is in part due to the fabulous Sophie, who copied up and translated all my French notes from the lesson I missed for me. She is a goddess, not only for that but for the lucozade she bought me as a Good-Luck-Dancing! present. We all need friends like her...

... Her costume for the panto is mad. Alas, I won't see it.

Though, really, it'll be worth missing Si prance around the stage dressed like a pimp to look at all the lovely boys at the RHS 'function' (sounds ominous) on Wednesday. In fact, even if there isn't too much in the way of gorgeous cricket and/or rugby players, Reece will be there, as, probably, will James, and so there's plenty of fun to be had. And I have a gorgeous new top to wear, courtesy, of course, of Topshop. A sort of Hepburn-esque beatnik, which I think is a good look for me, if it goes with lashings of eyeliner. I know, I'm so vain...

It was quiet today without Si. Quiet, but strangely harmonious.

Happily, we're getting gritty in History; the Russian Purges under Stalin:-

"Ooh, good," said Kat, brightening up, "What's better than a bit of gore on Monday morning."

Whatever keeps you awake, I suppose.

And a cricket update: Liam Plunkett has the best hair in the game: lovely and scruffy. Kat would love him.

. . . . .

'You say want to stay by my side...

Darlin', your head's not right.'

Circus minds, running wild

2005-12-09T01:30:00.000Z

"Well, if you put a yellow raincoat on, then people would think you were a taxi."

A brief, thoughtful interlude. And then:

"Oh really? And have you ever noticed, Simon, that you have a gigantic forehead?"

- They could sling all the barbs in the world, I still remain convinced that they are a match made in whirlwind-marriage heaven.

. . . . .

It has been, so far, a week so full of ups and downs that I'm sure I have motion sickness, not merely the flu. A brief summary:

My French speaking mock; it went well, I think, though I'm loathe to ponder grades too much - it's only a mock, after all. My Dance show and composition mock: absolutely terrifying. I was crouched in the darkness, watching Diffley kicking some serious arse ("OhmyGod. She has a lift!"), absolutely certain I was going to throw up. I marched onto the stage, however, with the air of Kevin the Teenager: "My name is Robyn and my dance is called Claustrophobia" - all without so much as looking at the audience (and Matt in particular, who was doing his motivational you're-gonna-get-a-five-for-Prykey smile). It went well though, and I even began to enjoy it, looking vaguely at Kat, who was stood watching me from the double doors with Diffley ("You were amazing!"). Oh, she thought I couldn't see her, but I could.

And then I turned up to yet another dance lesson this God-forsaken morning to find Warfield in a particularly cheerful mood; she looked me up and down, then announced I'd got a 29. I nearly collapsed in utter joy. I dropped only a single mark! And so the day got off to a particularly good start. But, of course, the real thing is tomorrow, and if I'm to have any success, then my nose is going to have to stop running very soon.

Other interesting occurences this week: reports, all of ours good, all present and correct. Phil passing out and hitting his head on at least three surfaces at the same point of the dialysis video in which Simon took a turn for the worse ("Ah, see! You and Phil have more in common than you'd like to believe!"). The panto is approaching in the manner of a high-speed train; I can't make any of the performances. Stupid Manchester, stupid Christmas parties, stupid Christmas etc. etc. So I've had to be content with watching Si, Josh and the rest of the motley dwarf crew bellowing 'T-E-A-M!" at lunchtimes. Very amusing, and even Josh, he with little dignity, has a certain look of shame about him.

And, speaking again of dance, the show groups came through. With my GCSE class, I'm doing something vaguely described as a "kind of American cowgirls and Indians thing". And, on top of that, our second dance has a taste-of-the-tropical theme: Hawaii. It should all be great fun, and Ben really is coming to this one. So we'll put on a marvellous preformance, as usual. Ahem.

Shouldn't knock it, really. Our dance shows are renowned for their unique brand of humour and jazz hands. It's going to be great.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Matt's fingers have made a flawless recovery, and he'll be back on the proverbial horse (hmmm, this sentence is revealing something of a wild-west theme) on Sunday. So Will and Bernie should be a little bit nervous, unless they're feeling particularly lucky (Well, are ya, punk?). Sorry, couldn't resist. Until that time, though, he keeps himself amused by playing competitive stick cricket with Prykey, Tester and Hunn, and watching Australia doing their usual winning-at-cricket thing:

"Hmm. I want New Zealand to win. Yet I've got a burning desire for Symonds to get a hundred. I'll just have to concentrate on hating Ricky Ponting. Don't you think he looks like George Bush?"

Or, actually, Ian Hislop.

Nearly Christmas now. All the shopping is done, and now all that remains to be done is the wrapping. Ugh. Now I wish I'd bought things in square boxes, not random triangles, or rectangles with giant sticks poking out of the top. Well, I made my bed, I suppose.

. . . . . .

"I'm walking through the clouds when you're looking at me...

and you're all that I see.

But it's no good for me."

I could burst a million bubbles...

2005-12-06T02:24:00.000Z

"Well, you did say you'd rather stick your head in a boiling vat of acid than watch the cricket."

"Yes, but you never mentioned Rory! A surfer changes everything!"

-It's not cupboard love at all, is it Gem?

I'm having a quiet evening, savouring the rarity. Of late it's been busy, one might go as far as to say chaotic. Everything is a mass of confused french accents and past tenses. The mocks are upon us, and Kat's just broken the happy news that Friday isn't a mock but, in fact, my forty percent. Somewhat unfortunate, really. But the strange thing is, the minute Paperbag Writer starts, I get the focus. I become sharp. I become a dancer. Music's a funny thing, isn't it?

"I keep falling over,
I keep passing out,
When I see a face like you..."

I'm going through my Radiohead renaissance this week. When I hear as much as a line of anything from The Bends...

... I'm reduced to that same emotional wreck, the part which I played so beautifully all summer. And, offically, Kate Bush makes me cry. Seriously. My muscial vulnerability knows no bounds, but then neither does A Woman's Work. So all is equal, all present and correct.

I'm absolutely desperate to read Brokeback Mountain. My friends all say they aren't buying me a book for Christmas - "But it's not a proper present!" - but they fail to comprehend just how much of a bookworm I am. I'm reading Sartre at the moment, and I honestly cannot think of anything as inspiring I've read of late, save, of course, Amis. Other People is just the most haunting, ethereal novel. So, then. To those of you on my Christmas list, if I'm on yours, I can't think of anything I'd want more than a good book.

This has been vaguely serious, but then sometimes we all are, aren't we?

Oh, and a today there's a p.s: RIP to Max, Gem's guinea pig. :(

"It wears me out".

Decisions, decisions...

2005-12-02T17:37:00.000Z

"We think it might be 'Wasn't I yours?' or 'Wasn't I enough?'. Or PacFro."

"PacFro?"

"Oh, didn't I mention that Kat's been impregnated with Disco Steve's child?"

- More of the trademark evil-twin Ellis wit.

.....

We had our sixth form taster day today; all of it was excellent, all was thought provoking, yet none of it made the slightest bit of difference to my subject. Once my mind is set upon something, it's very difficult to persuade me otherwise.

So, then. First is English Literature; the very idea of reading books for credit appeals enormously to me, and Mr Hall spoke highly of my Soundtrack work: "I so enjoyed reading your work". Flattery will get you everywhere with me.

Secondly, French. Upon announcing my new venture into the world of A-Level MFL, Richard, Kieran, Yasmin, Matt and just about everyone else had a good old laugh at my expense. Justifiably too, I'd guess. It's a bloody hard syllabus. Francophony is difficult enough to research and write about in my mother tongue, let alone in French. But the universities like it, and therefore it must be endured. And I like speaking, so that's something, I suppose.

History. I have been absolutely certain about taking History for at least two years, so not too much thinking required when making that choice.

And finally, Philosophy. Now this is an interesting one. All my friends who took the taster class with me were put off completely: "But it just wasn't going anywhere!". I, however, think I'm going to really enjoy the challenge. Yes, I may have to kill Ask-Me-Anything-Emma ("Well, I'm a Catholic, and so this is what I believe. And listen well, because no one else's opinion is in any way valid whilst I'm here!") in order to make it through the course. But once she has fallen out of a window in a carefully orchestrated 'freak accident', everything will be fine.

And that's my lot. Four doses of extreme academic agony, quite possibly. Or it could be quite fun, you never know.

.....

I spent three and a half sodding hours at after-hours dance on Thursday night. But I got the unadulterated attention of Miss Warfield, who devoted our brief time together to improving my spatial design. Hopefully it has worked, but I don't really give a toss about my compostion grade anymore. It feels like we started working on it at least a million years ago, not three tiny, insignificant months.

Wednesday night was lots more fun, though; I shall miss Rory's gorgeousness when he's gone. Which, unfortunately, is far too soon. But we had a good time: Tan pretended to be an England selector and called up Matt ("Would you consider flying out to Pakistan?") whilst we laughed in the background. Matt saw the funny side, at least:

"Tan! You imposter!"

Then we all bundled in the car and went home. Like I said, we'll miss him when he's gone.

Noses to the Grindstone

2005-11-30T17:27:00.000Z

"Whaddaya mean I'm fat? I go to the gym five times a week."

"Look, Bernie. That doesn't count if you only go into the snack bar, you know."

- Si, ever the diplomat, on James' questionable eating habits.

Ben could quite possibly be in what I like to call a huff. With me, of course. I'm not entirely sure my forthright attitude is suitable when tackling his over-sensitivity to criticism. The problem I have is this: he loves praise; he adores having the teachers say how "breathtakingly outstanding" he is and then recounting this all to us (receiving little more than a raised eyebrow from Kirstin and I, the models of restraint(!)). Yet the moment he's given a critique, some constructive criticism, it's "judgemental"...

... And this has the power to piss me off in a big way. When Mr Keep, eyes narrowed, told me I was falling victim to complacency, I merely bit my lip. Yes, OK, I did a bit of glaring, maybe confided in Kat a bit (who doesn't?), but then I snapped back into my usual sod-the-world mode. After all, a comment from someone else is hardly the definition of you, is it?

No.

But I'll get over it. And maybe he will too. We'll see.

. . . . .

"What exactly have Will and Phil done to your brother? Because they're terrified."

Ha! I thought, whilst Sophie screeched accusingly at Luke "They've cracked his fingers!" as if to say "And it's all your fault, you bastard!". So they should be.

Tan rang last night to invite us to dinner, and was outraged when told the news of the injury to the infamous Judge's youngest offspring:

"Get Rory to go to the next net session! Make 'em feel inadequate, with him being a bronzed Aussie God and all that."

Rory. Yum. ;)

The actual proposed scenario is the introduction of the legend that is Josh Davey to the fold. As captain of the good ship U-16, and Matt's mentor, he should cause a suitable stir in his gorgeous St. Joe's trackie. Sort of an upmarket chav, with a fair-to-middling haircut. But, in all fairness to Tan, Rory is indeed a God. As are all the other lovely young (well, a lot of them are getting on a bit, I suppose.) men at ICC. All perfectly willing to share sensible, mature advice about rising above it all:

"Hit them over the head with your Woodworm! Or a shovel."

Hmmm, Roger. That might be how they solve things in South Africa, but here in England...

... Actually, that's exactly what we do.

The ASboys and Tuesday Cricket...

2005-11-29T17:51:00.000Z

"What's the cricket score, then?"

I fear my brother has become an ASBO boy, conducting our mobile phone conversations whilst wrestling Prykey on the school bus and calling everyone in sight a retard, much, in fact, in the manner of Will. His fingers may be crushed, but his spirits are most certainly not.

"I'm not going to tell you unless you stop shouting."

"I'm not shouting."

At which point there is furious yelping in the background; either someone is kicking a puppy, kicking Prykey's bad knee or trying to strangle the newly-appointed bus prefect. All three options equally valid and likely.

"What are you doing, Idioteque?"

Ah, pet names. The ultimate in affection for one's siblings.

"Aw, for God's sake! Did anyone get a century? You're such a bi-atchhhhhhh!"

And so I hung up on him, without telling him the finer points of Collingwood's 71 not out. Little cricketing yob. Matt, I mean, not Colly. I thought it was supposed to be a gentlemanly (is that a word? Yes? No?) sport. Though, from a spectator perspective, dancing up and down the pitch in the manner is far from gentlemanly (again, note the use of the dubious word), nor is KP's rendezvous with Caprice. Or the aforementioned Mr. Pietersen's diabolical hairdo. Far more Beckham than is natural, I think.

Anyway.

This Gifted Linguists project is becoming a thing of work. One needs a degree in rocket science merely to get through the e-mails and the process of joining the bloody board. My computer fails to comprehend that my application was accepted. Therefore I remain stranded, a linguist but not one gifted enough to master the finer points of technology.

Phil isn't even looking at me. This could be for one of two reasons: either he feels guilty (so he bloody should. But he proabably doesn't), or he thinks I'm a fully-fledged lunatic - ("Yeah. He thinks you're mad"). The latter of which is entirely more likely. That isn't unfortunate, though, because talking to him does, on occasion, make my skin crawl. He really goes out of his way to be unlikeable. As does Annie, whose anti-English rants on her Personal Statement lit a fuse with us all - those "narrow-minded English" will be the ones accepting her applications, after all. And anyway, on a more generalised note, England is the best! From, of course, the perspective of an English girl.

Dad's home from Germany this week; it'll be strange having him back. And I'm not entirely convinced his "lovely little gift" will be quite as successful as he'd like:

"It's a dress!"

"Are you joking? Please say you're joking? I can't tell..."

And a brief note to Ben, should he be reading this: get your own blog! How can you possibly say that crazy life of yours isn't interesting enough to write about? You live with Si, for God's sake...

The Attack of the Flying Monkeys

2005-11-29T03:03:00.000Z

"Oh look, it's the child abuser!"

My army was out in force today, all for my dear brother, who had his fingers broken in a partcularly violent cricket net session. By none other than the Antichrist himself, Will, and his flying monkeys. Actually, after yelling at Phil down the phone ("Shut up! I'm talking!"), I have it on good authoirty that Bernie started the whole thing. That, though, is beside the point. Matt is eleven, and two of his fingers are broken. And open war has been declared on both sides:

"Don't pre-judge me!" Phil protested, doing the walk of the guilty up the corridor as Sophie gave him her deathly glare.

"What? Pre-judge? You've already done it, it's post-judgement!"

At which he looked at us as if we were the flying monkeys.

All this is really beside the point, as my mocks start next week; everything is in a state of unconcievable chaos. I cannot for the life of me understand anything to do with higher Maths, and I think I'm supposed to have opinions on Henry Ford. I don't of course, but I'm really quite renowned for my blagging ability when it comes to things like that. And then there's my French oral exam, which I genuinely have revised for. Really! I like my accent, so it makes the entire process of listening to it for hour upon hour less painful.

The Third Test starts tomorrow, it's all very exciting. Or, at least, it is for Si and I, but everyone else can at least put up with it. Tan keeps banging on about Ramps being the best cricketer he's ever seen (clearly hasn't seen that many, then), but I'm sure it's loyalty - Nads is Ramps' old Surrey buddy, after all.

Anyway. More ramblings tomorrow, perhaps.

The beginning of things...

2005-11-29T02:52:00.000Z

Here are the humble beginnings of my blog...
...maybe one day it will rival Will's.
But it probably won't.

And, as the Terminator once said, I'll be back. Later.