Just when it looked like a whole class were going to be wiped out in one fell swoop due to unexpected energy-sapping heat, eye-poppingly painful Pompey trivia boredom (and I'll passus on Crassus too thankyou. It can't be said that I rate-o Cato either, and as for Cissero? I'll give him a missero. Sorry. I'm stopping now) and having to look upon Matthew 'sociopath, sneezy, psychotic' Henderson's new pudding basin hair-do, an absolute gem saved us, one and all.

'Sorry I'm a little more hesitant than usual. I'm just having to translate from the latin'

Oh Strict Keith, your intellect knows no bounds.

Having been reading from a little, age-yellowed paperback for the past half hour in his stuttery, stammering manner, studded with deviation and diversion as normal, it had passed me by that this font of knowledge was fluently deciphering the ancient language of the Romans and making it intelligible to us. Although I shouldn't be surprised he speaks latin so naturally (aside from being a latin teacher of course) as I keep forgetting that he was actually there at the time of Caesar the Roman geezer. He may even be the great man himself, though using the pseudonym Strict Keith in order to lie low obviously. I don't think the publicity would agree with him if he was to be found out- he doesn't strike me as the kinda guy to revel in giving exclusives to 'Hello' and the like. A duddery old Ancient History teacher is the perfect disguise, as well as him being able to pass on his first hand knowlege too. Genious.




Neighbours withdrawel symptoms in full flow. It's been four days cold turkey now, and I'm feeling the effects. All the 'G'day's, 'Spiggin' hufters' and 'No worries' are working their way out of my system. Henman and Beckham can stuff it, taking their balls with them. 'Bring back Breeeeeeee!' I say. I am Anna, and I'm a Neighboursaholic. And not ashamed to say it no less.

Questions

Why are some people more susceptible to midge bites than others?

Who gets the money when people buy plots of land on the moon? Where does that odd sock go everytime a wash cycle finishes? What is Doctor Who's first name?

What function do earlobes have? Why do you always most want to do what you're expressly told not to? How come those with the most money are the ones given things for free, when it is them who could most afford it?

Why is it bad manners to eat with your fingers and not cut things up except in the case of asparagus? Why do the top of tights always rest under your armpits, yet the crotch rest somewhere about your knees?

Why is it that the people who describe themselves as 'totally mad, me' are in actuality the most dull? Ditto, 'bubbly'?

Why, when eaten, is pig called pork, cow called beef, sheep called lamb, yet chicken remains chicken? Why do you always spill things when wearing white? Why does it always rain the day you wear your hair loose?

Why do people talk in baby talk to their pets when they can't understand our language on any level? Why, as we come to it, do people speak in baby talk to babies?

How come parents are always wrong, especially when they are right? Why is watching somebody fall over and experience embarrassment and pain so funny? Why is the sidekick always the clever/funny/endearing one?

What do English people sound like to foreigners when speaking their language? Why are there often more irregular verbs than regular ones?

Why do bad things happen to good people? How did 'bad' come to mean 'good'? Why do people order the Hawaiian pizza then pick off the pineapple?

Why is it that the people who need the most help are the ones who find it most difficult to ask for it? Why do things that are bad for you taste so good and things that are good for you taste so bad? Why is medicine so unappetising when it is what is going to make you better?

How are you supposed to find any answers when all there seem to be are questions? There is an infinite number of questions; is there a finite number of answers?

And why on earth is the word 'bum' so endlessly and universally hilarious? Snigger.

Ting! Ommm....

'Oh, and bowing. Yes, yes, we do a lot of bowing'

Things I think about whilst meditating, when am supposed to be thinking of nothing at all:

1. What I am going to wear tomorrow
2. Why I have 'Wake Me Up' by Wham in my head
3. Whether the knot in that wood most resembles a tortoise or Ian Hislop
4. Possible lyrics and stage direction for the concept 'Midsummer Murders: The Musical!'
5. Pins and needles
6. Amusing tummy noises
7. Thinking about nothing at all. Therefore am thinking. It's a vicious circle
8. The latest plot development concerning Bree (all hail Bree Timmins! etc etc) in Neighbours
9. Blog entries

Note to self: meditation needs work

Anna Airhead

I have been living a lie.

I am having an identity crisis.

And I have cotton wool stuck to my head.

As you may have gathered things are serious. After being of the impression all my life that I Am A Reader, I fear I may be mistaken. I have lost my power. All that is left is dorky, bespectacled Clarke Kent. Yet it is Superman, pants and all, who is needed.
Perhaps an explanation is needed. On being asked to come up with an anthology of six pieces of text attatched to a mere modicum of 'literary merit', I am at a loss. Me. The pretentious spoon who dares to connect the illustrious term of Reader to her name. Shameful.
Admittedly it is more the theme of prementioned anthology that is the blighter, not the texts themselves (those, after all, can be searched for on Google or the like. Don't worry, don't worry, literary parents of mine, only joking).
Of course I have a whole pile of books just waiting for me to devour and mentally digest. It sits mournfully by my bed, Joseph Conrad willing me to scan his rich prose, Oscar Wilde yearning for his wit to be appreciated. All the while I am guiltily, yet resolutely, ignoring their pleas. I keep meaning to read them naturally, it's just that the more pressing issue of becoming an absolute philistine and airhead bimbo calls for almost constant attention. And I let people think I am a well-read tycoon of the classics and critic of contemporary works. All a fabrication of alarming proportions.

I shall have to go and console my mortification steeped being by flicking through 'Heat' (only looking at the pictures of course) followed by an episode of Big Brother whilst painting my nails.

By the way, the cotton wool is due to me scratching a spot. There are times when youth is a favourable factor and advantageous beyond comprehension. This is not one of those times.

The Corruption of Strict Keith

Just for the record I feel I need to document that it has now been confirmed that the boy known as David...David Who? does exist.

After months, perhaps years, of hearing about this elusive character, so much of a none-entity that his surname is a matter of perpetual mystery, a rear view glimpse was captured a few days ago. Furthermore, an actual phonecall from the enigma that is this thirteen year old was received today by ma, in reference to meeting N (at the life-affiming joy that is the middle school summer fair no less, at which a great deal of e-numbers and musty-smelling junk is always consumed and acquired).

Of course I still have no actual proof that he is a living, breathing, real-life character (Despite N being adamant that 'he is one of my best friends, I've known him for aaaages!'), as the glimpse could have plausibly been anyone of xy chromosomes and the right side of puberty. And a voice on the end of a phoneline could hardly constitute as evidence that would hold in court. In fact, the more I think about it, N could well be constructing an elaborate con. He wasn't present at the time of the phonecall after all. Hmmm... Requires further investigation methinks.


I think I may have possibly encountered the poshest person alive. Known to all as Strict Keith, he is a vision in smoky-coloured tweed and impressionist painting ties, and is the type who can derive endless chuckles from little anecdotes concerning Roman emperors and finds his subject infinitely fascinating. I hardly need add that he is of course a history teacher of the ancient variety (in terms of period and his own age). In fact I am sure we can cite him as our source material in exams as he was evidently present at the rise of the Roman Empire. Which is why his knowledge is so extensive no doubt.

Adorably stuttery and well-meaning, he stumbles through his clipped Oxbridge vowels and befuddling latin names nervously, never having been faced by such a large class of gormless, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, empty-vesselled troglodytes. Having originally come from teaching at a boys public school, then being a recluse in the toppermost tower of the Hydro building, teaching a mere handful of latin fluent prodigies, he has now been thrust into the throes of the state school in all its glory. I don't think the poor chap had even ventured out of his 4 foot square office on F floor, before having to contend with year 12 Ancient History.
All credit to him though. He handled the onslought of newly evolved charv (a new generation of them seem to have emerged, ruder than ever before, in the blink of an eye. I don't know where I've been, but this new elite charv army seems to be growing) barging into the poorly equipped, peeling classroom our humble class had been allocated to, demanding to 'lend' chairs whilst sporting multicoloured tramlines down the side of their heads as a kind of war paint.
However, when faced with the white board situation, he had not realised that teachers really ought to carry around their own pens as it is rare that there will ever be any actually at hand. An unfortunate incident with a permanent marker followed.
He has obviously never had to do anything practical in his life (that is all probably taken care of by Mrs Strict Keith, if there is such a woman) as, when another board in another classroom required wiping, he stood and stared at it for some time, scratching his head in puzzlement, before asking somebody to deal with it for him. He will learn soon enough I am sure. The innocence of the private system will duly be corrupted.
Am loving him though; once the awkward initiation phase is over I am sure the banter (of the intelectual kind naturally) will be in full flow.
That's if he hasn't had a shock induced stroke of course.

Shucks

Prepare yourselves for some sentimental soppy stuff guys. I usually steer clear of nauseating scenarios, not wishing to indulge in any stomach turning sap (with the obvious exception of such masochistic epic films as 'Love Story' or 'It's a Wonderful Life') yet this could not be shied away from. It is utterly adorable, in the least patronising way possible naturally, and tres tres sweet in a satisfyingly gooey way. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...drum roll please... N's song. Written for none other than moi no less. Plucks at the heart strings as well as the acoustic guitar strings.

I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me through the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say, to say...
Thank you

It's been a journey to remember
I won't forget, don't you forget
So I'd like to say to say
Thank you


I would like to thank you
For everything that you've given me,
You've helped me throught the hardest times in my life
But you've had problems of your own
And I hope I've been some help to you
So I'd like to say,to say...
Thank you

Take a deserved bow Bob.
Well who'd have thunk it. It makes me go positively pink with embarrassment. When next winding him up or embarking on a fisticuffs with the young ragamuffin one must remember the sensitive poet within, prone to exploring his evident artistic temperament with flair and finesse. Yes, will have to remember this very frequently indeed. Anyhow, I figure that I am merely providing inspiration and fuelling his art when in the midst of passionate embroilment.

Almost as good as scrabble

I have come up with a new game. It can be played by any small gathering, mixed in both age and gender, and is more than suitable for families. In fact this is preferable for the game to succeed to full effect. As a working title I am calling it 'It's All Relative', (subject to change when marketed)
The rules go a little like this:

1. Must be played around the dinner table (al fresco works just as well)

2. Whoever is talking must be interrupted, preferably with a completely unrelated topic, as soon as possible. Or just at the most crucial and poignant part of their vocal flow

3. If there is the merest suggestion or hint of hesitation then random guesses as to what is coming next must be shouted out clearly and unrelentingly, resulting in the frustration of original speaker and causing all threads to be lost

4. Wait until a particularly lengthy and intricate anecdote has been related to the group in it's entirity, then after five minutes, or a couple of conversations later, bring up the subject the anecdote touched on and demand to hear it again as you missed it. Act surprised and disgruntled when this is not met with enthusiasm

5. Choose a random couple of minutes, interspersed throughout the meal, to completely switch off, yet appear to still be listening. This enables you to then bring up topics that have already been covered in full. Even more effective when the switching off occurs during instructions being given, imperative to later events

6. Make at least one of your fellow players the object of your scorn and cause of immense irritation for the whole meal, (if especially skilled then could be applied to more than one other player) with this culminating in the odd shouted expletive or tearful squeal

7. Be accepting of jibes and winding up, laughing along amiably, willing to be a figure of fun, until suddenly turning this on its head and becoming a wounded victim, offended and very vocal of this

8. Always, always wait until everyone is finished their food (seconds and all), ready to move on to pudding, before refilling your plate so that the other players can sit and watch you eat

9. Repeat every story, instruction, or mere contribution to the conversation at least twice, saying it like it's the fist time it has ever been said in the history of man everytime you say it

10. Use physical irritants to unnerve other players also; don't merely rely on dialogue. Extreme slouching, lounging, stretching legs out under the table, elbows on table and in plates, kicking and placing feet on other players' chairs, inappropriate eye contact, and snorting whilst guzzling are all effective methods worth a try

The aim of the game is to still be at the table in fine spirits by the time all food is consumed, without having left in a blaze of anger, and to be able to retain even the most simplistic of social skills when mixing with the actual public.

This game is a favourite in our household and a regular fixture of an evening. A true ensemble activity, involving of everyone and the cause of hours of old-fashioned family fun. Give it a go.

Have just emerged from an extremely traumatising experience. One which it is questionable as to if I will ever recover.

Was completely abondoned by entire family for at least three whole (yes, WHOLE) minutes whilst trapped in the pantry, shouting myself hoarse. It may have even been five minutes; all time was lost track of as the horror of the situation was faced. Why, why, why would the light be on and the door wide open if there was not a person in the cavern of doom, as it shall henceforth be known, innocently unearthing a tub of icecream from icy depths of freezer? The ease at which I was plunged into darkness and imprisoned (the door only opens from the outside, somewhat of a design flaw) then promptly forgotten about was astounding.
Furious bashings at the door with the mop handle, not to break it down but to cause as much noise as humanly possible to notify someone, anyone, of my existence, ensued. Along with increasingly desperate bellows and, ashamedly, girlish shrieks.
My whole life flashed before my eyes as I realised I could well meet my doom within the gloomy home of biscuits, pulses and cleaning products, half decomposed on the floor, the terror of my final moments still evident on immobile, lifeless face, with the only chance of discovery being the cats mewing and whining at the crack in the door, alerted by the smell of rotting flesh.

Except, that wouldn't happen because as soon as we were out of tunnocks caramel wafers in the biscuit tin someone would have come searching for more in the pantry. Of course I realise this now. Now I am free and have a new appreciation for life and all that it encompasses. Now that I am once again within the world of mortals and no longer of cat food and ironing piles. But at the timeall I could think was 'WHERE THE #*@$ IS EVERYONE?!!'

You would have thought, on initiating the rescue of his only sister and giving her newfound hope in the human race, the saviour would have said a little more than 'God, what's all that shouting about?'

Lady of Leisure

Dig me chaps, Carrie Bradshaw eat your heart out. Only with marginally fewer fabulous shoes. But I'm working on it. Any family member can verify this; that is if they haven't broken their necks tripping over said pairs of shoes.


Anyways, getting into the Sex and the City lingo (of which I am now fluent unsurprisingly, i'm thinking about going cold turkey as weaning myself off the four fashionistas is proving unsuccessful), 'I couldn't help but wonder'.... what the hell to worry about now.
It has been so long since at least something hasn't been nagging away at my mind, incessantly eating away, nibble, nibble, nibble (say it fast enough and sounds funny, bit like nipple haha), nag, nag, nag, pressure, stress, tap, tap, tap like chinese water torture until... kaboom! She blows. I just do not know what to do with myself now that there is nothing to worry me, I think I thrive on it. Hmmm... will have to find something or will be at a loose end. Maybe I could worry about lack of worry. Hurrah! A brand new set of neuroses to focus on. Thank goodness for that. I was beginning to worry.

Talking to N on matters of philosophy and religion (which of course happens a great deal in this ever so cultured, bohemian, intellectual household, usually as we sit down crosslegged on our Ethiopian woven mats to bowls of tofu and quinoa whilst listening to pan pipes and breathing in incence fumes) is an interesting experience. Loving it how the idea of an all powerful divine being who created everything and who cannot be seen and could well be living in the clouds, with them snuggled around him/her like big squashy cushions, seems perfectly acceptable to him, yet the Bible frankly a ridiculous notion. The boy'll go far.

By the way, just a warning to all folks in the vicinity of the Kirk dwelling. Now the sun seems to have made an appearence (hello stranger!) the sleeveless red tank top has made a long overdue revisitation also. You know summer is well and truly arrived when the vibrant vest of archaic origin is dug out once more. Shield the eyes of the innocent, save yourselves. Alas, it is too late for me, my young mind was corrupted by it long ago. Yet it may be at least a couple more weeks until the chest (and slightly increasing tummy, though this is not mentioned since it was discovered that the poor lamb is a little sensitive about it) is bared in full. We live in hope.

Yet another diversionary ploy

Whoops. Have just watched an episode of Sex and the City. Whilst drinking whole pot of coffee. In bed. How did that happen? Oh dear, have once again suppassed myself in the procrastination stakes. Now if there was an exam in that then I would pass with flying colours. Was good though. Am totally living the high life with this miraculous contraption.

As if deciphering Descartes, contemplating Kant, and musing over Mills isn't enough, I still have stuffing my face to contend with. Dreaded Monday activities stop for no man, despite epic exams that are beginning to lose all proportion and swallow me up. It's enough to drive one to Spoons. Which I can do now. 'Cause I'm 18. Which I did last night in fact. No more quaking in my boots (or funky open-toed flats in my case) for me, glancing over my shoulder continually in anticipation of being thrown out, thoroughly mortified. Nope, I'm a grown up now. Didn't even get asked for ID. Bit annoying actually as was all prepared and was going to be rite of passage moment, poignant beyond belief. But I got a drink down me nervertheless. A legal drink. Even went and got a couple of the young'ns drinks (with their money ofcourse, my generosity has its limits), the poor souls, still a sober seventeen.

Isn't it funny when watching anything 3D, complete with super-sized specs, synchronised arm waving ensues, mexican wave-like. Sitting in a line at an iMax cinema, hands extended flailing around, wearing enormous geek glasses- a sight for sore eyes. The inevitability of trying to feel for objects leaping out of the screen is laughable. We live in a 3D world (obviously) yet don't go round with our arms in front of our faces in amazement. Always bizarre when watching 3D though, what with things flying at you and whatnot. Even grown adults duck and lunge in their seats. Ho ho ho. It's all an illusion chaps.
Speaking of illusions, enough with this nonsense and on with theories of perception. Or I could grapple with a bit of Plato. Or move on to another ancient, toga-ed up character from the old BC days. Beyond Comprehension that is. Don't understand a sausage. Right, onwards ever onwards.

Written on brand spanking new laptop, ooh la la!

Despite what people say, everybody naturally likes to receive more than they like to give, no matter how self rightous or charitable they like to think themselves. It's a universal truth. Well I had always been of that mindset anyhow. I'm not so sure after the astounding and overwhelming (merely being whelmed was but a distant concept to me in fact) and frankly ridiculous generosity of all that made the social event of the year so hot in rocked my socks. I mean what had I done apart from manage to make it to the momentous 18th year of my life? To get bombarded with gifts, kisses, showers of affection and whatnot for this is pretty cool; it requires absolutely no effort from me as I merely glide from May 30th to May 31st and whoosh! I am the main man. Was quite daunting actually, had to make the odd five minute escape to have a few games of solitaire. Phew. Can't cope with gratitude very well; either gush nauseatingly for too long, reminicsent of Oscar speeches, or look sullen and a bit rude as can't express how stupidly grateful I am so don't seem to bother at all. Unfortunately the gushing seems to happen with lesser gifts and the rudeness occurs with the ones that mean the most from the most important people. Irony, gotta love it.




Vast, vast improvement on previous party (clocking up a broken window, spilt tins of paint, curtain rail down, smashed picture frame etc etc) as we were all cleared up and back to normal by following mid-afternoon. Was like it had never happened. Pretty sure it wasn't a dream though. Even the parentals seemed to have a bit of a blast. Gave pa a drink quite early on and all was cool in that camp, and ma (being the social butterfly she is, as well as domestic marvel) was in her element. Once the champers was in full flow there was no looking back. J, chanelling the spirit of Brandon Flowers, worked the crowd, both when on stage and when mingling. And N was N, as ever and I wouldn't want anything less on my birthday. Even S, in his own unique way, showed his support and affection with not a little winding up but a whole lot of hilariosity. He is a one, what with his mind being the width of a hair and all. But the most amiable and endearing chavarama I have ever come across. Good crack was had by all methinks.

It will go down in the annuls of time as a not half bad night folks. Not half bad at all.

Uh oh, spaghettio

Disaster! We're a man down, and it's only 13.15. And the man in question is the most crucial to all operations, the general, the bigwig, the mother. Dum dum duuuuuum! Currently at casualty, return time unknown (could be anywhere between half an hour and half a millenia, knowing our hospital) this ship is sinking fast. Left to our own devices, God knows what could happen to the organisational nightmare that is the garden party. We're headless chickens without our mother hen to guide us, delegate, and to generally keep order. At the risk of sounding dramatic, we're dooooooomed! At least the gazebo is looking jaunty.

Death of a Slob (fingers crossed)

Is it just me, or are the masses ageing before their time? Currently within the weighty depths of the new Jilly Cooper (a marvellous diversionary tactic from, well, anything else one might have to do, therefore comes highly reccommended) I am still only on the verge of being able to entirely revel in the sordid, ridiculous, and inexhaustably over the top dealings with beyond stereotypical characters gallivanting at full pelt. This is highly infuriating, but I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable and ill at ease with the fact that half the characters in this most recent volume of scandal are below the age of fourteen. Hmmm... When younger I would have thought the dizzy heights of what barely constitutes as teendom was old and sophistocated to the extreme, but now the early angst of being thirteen/fourteen is but a distant memory my views are somewhat changed. In Jilly's latest blockbuster (and indeed arm buster: have you seen the size of it!) the children in question are the same age as my brothers. Therefore, the documentation of their sexual exploits is a bit...eeeuuuww. Especially as it is not uncommon for the older character to have the odd lustful yearning for the wee kiddiwinks. I am probably reading too much into the whole thing, and it is all harmless fun, but a return to the good old Cooper days, with pure escapism at it's heart, untainted by any challenging concepts, would be a welcome one. She is, ofcourse, the unrivalled, long-reigning queen of chick-lit, all hail, we are not worthy etc but the jury's out on this one Jilly.
Along a similar vein, I was a little disconcerted by our recent Eurovision entry, with women in short skirted school uniform dancing about a middle aged rapper named Daz. Male fantasy central. Needless to say, this pop creation is now in the top ten. But in an age when Emma 'Hermione Granger' Watson is lusted after by men who old enough to be her father, or even grand-father, (*cough* dad, ahem) this comes as no surprise. I know I must move with the times, but my gut reaction never ceases to be: yuk.

After a day of minimal effort on my part, yet valiant work from ma, my room is habitable-hurrah! The sheer amount of dust caused a day long irritating tick about the nasal region, causing incessent snuffling and a bit of projectile phlegmage, but a small price to pay for now actually being prepared to sit in my room for more than a moment before leaping in terror at the sight of yet another spider corpse attracting flies. Let's just hope that my sociopathic tendancies are not encouraged by having this oasis of escape to retreat to. I was comfort personified sitting on my bed amid cats and cushions, dunking digestives in mug, contentment at the clean smell of polish plastered on my face (mind you, could have been the lingering fumes getting me high). Sigh.

For all those Anna afficionados (of which there are, doubtless, multitudes) it is merely two days in remainder before the most anticipated and celebrated date of the calendar. I'll be twiddling my thumbs until then.

Vive la France!

And so it has come to pass that French ceases to be. At least for this steadfastly monolingual miss. For what is supposed to be the language of love (or is that Italian? Or Spanish? Well, they're all sex mad on the continent) it has, alas, inspired nothing but scorn and an insatiable habit of cursing within me. Perhaps our paths will cross again in happier cicumstances, or maybe I shall be content to merely order cafe au lait whilst sitting sunning myself on a Parisian terrace, chic and cultured beyond comprehension. Sans doute, une bonne idee.
Thus one foreign language is exchanged for another, with a wholeheartedly more fluent parlance the order of the day as the next exam is approached without a backward glance at the shambolic disaster of this morning that shall henceforth be known as... 'le matin de merde'. Metonyms, hyperbole, anaphora, sibilance, prolepsis, enjambment, assonance, ceasura, juxtaposition, lexus, bla bla bla, etc etc. Much more my cup of tea (and how's that for a metaphor?).A good few spatterings of these and I'll be laughing. The bits in between needn't even make sense.

Unfortunately the time has come to tackle the vast yukness that is my room. I know, I know, but I have been pushed into it against my will, finally succumbing to the endless hints, suggestions and downright objections to the ghastly state of it. There is even (of which I am particularly proud of) a rather attractive urine-coloured streak of cat sick stain on entering the boudoir of Anna. It's always nice to know there is a little haven to escape to. I may have lost the battle this time round, but the war against cleanliness is not yet over. It is perfectly plausable that I will end up one of those weird cat women: old, cabbage smelling, animal fur-strewn, and quite, quite mad. Tins of half eaten cat food will litter a poky flat, and dead mice will be found half decomposed at the back of cupboards. But, hell, if I'm happy...

Respite from Solitaire

You gotta love pathetic fallacy; monday morning + dreaded weigh in day * exam season = the traditional miserable drizzle with the bone-chilling edge. Just what's appropriate for three hours in the sports hall, where the heater sounds like the gutteral wretchings and raspings of a thousand bronchial defected octogenarians. Times three. Decked out in four layers, complete with parka, my arms were somewhat restricted, inhibiting the flow of my hand guiding the glide of fountain pen across paper, thereby impeding flow of coherent thought and well-structured argument from head to answer booklet. Bit of a problemo for a couple of essay based papers. Well that's my story and I'm sticking to it, as those answer booklets that were so ceremoniously handed in ('Please STOP writing now and put DOWN your pen'- well, it was worth a try, but nothing gets past those wily, power crazy, self-important invigilators of varying oddness) were full of the most meaningless drivel I have ever had the misfortune to conjure. With the possible exception of this blog of course. Good luck to the examiner is all I say; hope they at least get a chuckle or two. More likely a snore, as they realise I have said exactly the same thing in about a three different ways, circulating the arguments and phrases when appropriate, so they'll be completely bored to.......zzzzzzz

An interesting way, I have found, of avoiding the whole tricky, ambiguous, confusing adolescent phase a propos the parentals is just to miss it out entirely. I went from child, to distant detatched stranger, to weird regressive dependant toddler, and emerged (as I would have it, though this is merely my perception) on pretty even ground with them, almost adult in nature, shock, horror, stupefaction etc. I have the relationship I imagine I shall now have with them for the rest of their days. It suddenly just happened, yet with all the murky, complex intricacies contributing. I don't even bother to hold my tongue in reference to the odd profanity or expletive any more (now do not be shocked dear reader, I know that it is beyond comprehension that anything other than sweet nothings could pass these angelic lips, but we are all human after all). Now that's what I call progress. I could even see myself going down the pub with them and having a...wait for it.....conversation. Dear lordy, I think it may be time to get out more.

I may have to get the house just to escape the infernal music-making. Don't get me wrong, I am no philistine, but there comes a point where the line is crossed. And we are so far away from the line now that 'the line is a dot to you!'. My heart dropped atleast a couple of near fatal millimetres I swear when it was announced that yet another instrument was to cross the kirk threshold. 'Hurrah! A keyboard for £25? Bargain! Go for it! Just don't get your hopes up, it may not be quite up to scratch...', increasingly hopeful 'Also, they may have a lot of offers, it may have already gone...' clutching at straws in desperation 'It could well have keys missing or some other defect...'And so I know have the same bleeding line of a self-penned ditty of N's filtering into my room day and night, gradually inching me over the edge and ceaselessly prodding me into realms of insanity. You have to admire his unflinching, undiminished determination though. Last week a mini-Monet, this week a mini-Mozart. Never ones to do things by halves, us Kirks.

Bubble Baths and Macaroons

Aaahhhhh... That was a sigh, not a scream, so fret not dear reader. I'm ready for a little sleep after being treated to tea and cake by A (oh, the joys of having a friend avec automobile), and now that my shoulders have been prised down from around my ears in knots of turmoil and stress. So much for attempts at being cool and blase about impending oral; the tension and downright fear made itself evident through means other than mental breakdown and instead crunched my neck muscles, and twisted sinew. Mind you, the whole french (shudder, even the mention of the word makes me break out in hives) oral build up was far from histrionics free, as is the kirk way, the brunt being borne by the surprisingly unfased and dependable stalwart of pops. Mental note: really need to work on the whole procrastination issue, I really should know this by now. Guess I'm just putting it off. But, and mark this comment as it will most likely not make a repeat appearance, Mr R came good. A wholeheartedly relaxing, stress free, and dare I say it, successful experience. Well, for a sheer terror inducing, heartstoppingly scary, brain frazzling exam that is. Ritual burning of oral notes and french ramblings will occur this evening, complete with victory dance.

I am planning the Wednesday evenings of all Wednesday evenings. Newspaper (the interesting, superficial section as opposed to the serious issue based news bits that require thought, sympathy and a tuned in brain of course), luxurious bath complete with bubbles galore and hefty magazine, cup of tea with macaroon, and saving the best till last, the great modern miracle that is Neighbours. God bless Bree, Stinger and all the other spiggin' hufters. Parfait. And the cherry on the top is that I don't have to feel guilty about these indulgences as the french oral is o-v-e-r. No more exams for, ooh...atleast five days.

Lie ins, frantic and intense Currie sessions, mindless reading of unimproving literature, daytime tv, and pencil sharpening in preparation await in all their bounteous glory. Study leave (a contradiction in terms if ever there was one, is any 'study' going to take place for the vast majority? I cynically think not), I salute you.

Hmm... I wonder if there's a blank sudoku kicking around this haven of industrial activity and hotbed of intelectualism (quite literally actually; it is more than a little toasty and airless, perhaps beneficial to the molding of minds) that is the LRC. Is that Leach Ridden Circus, or Lame Reading Cage, or indeed something entirely different I muse as I head off for lunch.

Result: computer seizement successful!

Have grabbed a rare free computer before a snivelling, socially inept year nine has a chance to obtain it and proceed to spend thier whole lunchbreak/skived lesson playing on some online game with noisy, retina-offending graphics or learning elvish off the internet or whatever it is they do instead of venturing into the real world, becoming prey of bullying chavs and the butt of everyone's jokes. Bless 'em. However, having managed to actually get one, absolutely nothing of any use is being accomplished and I am merely using it as yet another diversionary tactic to avoid such horrors as LEARNING MY ORAL. I thought maybe putting that in capitals would shock me into doing it. But it didn't.
I may use this vast recepticle of data and information galore to do a bit of research on universities though; constructive and invoking of fulfilment in a studious manner yet not actually requiring me to face doing any real work/revision/staring uncomprehendingly at sheets, photocopies and my own unintelligable scrawlings. Although, looking at unis may be just as scary and unnerving as looking at straining folder of the past year's work, as going on to further education requires me to actually get through this stage first. Hmmm... bit of a bugger that.
But atleast I'm here- a lot of the crew have just left for spoons. Now that's hardcore. S's Birthday must be celebrated in style though.
The biggest sod's law I have ever had the misfortune to experience trampled well and truly through our morning today. Due to a flash of inspiration sent from above, the grand present for S's 18th was to be a phone. Her old one merely had to be looked at before exploding into a thousand pieces and having to be reassembled before any use was to be got out of it. A super-duper, high tech, uber-sophistocated one was identified (know nothing about these communication device thingymajigs so couldn't tell you what type) and paid for, after extensive research into whether or not she would be receiving one from anyone else. But horror of horrors! The exact same phone was given to her by her sister, only a couple of hours before our's was presented. Damn and double damn. To say the least. But S is of a sensible nature and could see the thought and gesture of immense proportions was there. The money will probs go on Fosters. A fair exchange.
Right, focus. Back on track. Uni research. Discovering that everything is ridiculously complicated, expensive, daunting, and well beyond my means needs to be attended to. Followed by learning french. God, I need a coffee. Maybe I'll go meet R in the cafe instead.

Literally the most blatantly massive random

The moment when it is realised that the point of no return is in the dim and distant past, is when everything seems to smell and taste of concentrated alcohol, even the air being thick with it. Nostrils, ears, and tongue furred with it. Warm, chemical, cheap plonk- yummo. When I start to really dislike the taste yet am drinking it regardless, the problem stage is reached. Not quite drunk enough to not care that I don't like it, yet sufficiently intoxicated to not be willing to stop pouring it down my throat. Though these days, now I am an old woman and going out for the evening is an anticipated treat, a couple of glasses and I'm ready for a little nap. Aww, bless, one might think. Actually it's bloody irritating. Mind you, did give P a bit of a surprise when she found me 'resting my eyes' in a big pile on her bed which proved amusing.
My new favourite drinking game, 'I have never...', provided some very interesting revelations and copious amounts of giggling. The brilliance of the game lies in that the dirtiest peeps end up the most pissed, whilst those of us of virtuous nature can watch on with, marginally more sober, amusement. A few red faces resulted, yet no judgements made of the more scandalous discrepencies divulged amongst friends. Did make me feel a little too angelic however, I think it's about time the more devilish side (if I indeed possess one!) made an appearence.
I love how M can get so embarrassed and paranoid about such meaningless things, but just not care one iota about what anyone thinks of her unique and expressive dancing. The wildness, intenseness, and crackers nature of it is totally absorbing and I could watch it all day in the manner of a screensaver and the like. The fact that she is in her own little world, just doing it because she wants to and that's what she feels like, makes it so admirable and mesmerising. What a dude.
Thank goodness I was upstairs and out of harm's way when C expressed his manliness in the most primitive of ways, otherwise I would have been quite stripped (no pun intended) of my innocence. Though the laws of probability dictate that (as thus far I have managed to avoid it) due to the frequency of prementioned event, it is inevitable that my mind will be polluted with the image in due course.
For somebody who feels so wildly inadequate for the majority of the time, I am a bit of a goody two shoes. It is twice now, in only a few days, that I have been one of very few who have been present in timed essay lessons. I suppose I always feel better afterwards, safe in the knowledge that I have done the right thing and have gained more practice and useful experience than certain contemporaries, but at the time I just feel annoyed that I didn't have the forethought to skive. I hope I'm not in danger of becoming one of those self-rightious prudes that put themselves up on a pedestal in all their nauseating glory. A fate worse than... detention for ducking lessons.
Sitting outside the school with P and S (how oldskool is that?) in brilliant sunshine, bitching about each and every person that deigned to cross our field of vision, and all was right with the world. It doesn't get much better than that. Until the bell went for French of course.

Testosterone and turning points

Jeez, hormonal teenage boys- can't live with 'em, sure could live without 'em (though i'm sure a more boring, if peaceful, life would be lead in this case). Whoever came up with the theory that men are the uncomplicated sex has obviously never come across the kirk menfolk. At the drop of a hat, or the mention of cheese as I have discovered at my peril, the pleasant young charmer sitting before me can transform, hulk like, into a testosterone fuelled adolescent nightmare. There is no telling when this beast is to be unleashed, no warning signs, so the recipient of the venom is left utterly stupefied and not a little shocked. A full-blown diva fest of the highest order provoked no ill-feeling or, indeed, the merest reaction from the lucid, resting boyform of the soon to be teen, yet a misplaced (though witty, if I do say so myself) remark has me marked out as the enemy of the day. Whoops.
Let us hope that the transformation is reversable and, as promptly as it first occured, the moment the suffix 'teen' is dropped from their ages, the boys becomes serene again. I fear this may be wishful thinking however, with those adorable whippersnappers with puppy-dog eyes, moist with innocence and expectation, long gone and firmly in the past. Alas. Yet a new streak of interest and another dynamic layer is added into the grand scheme of things; three teenagers (not without their issues), a menopausal mother, mildly eccentric recluse of a father, three aging cats (with their own intricate family workings) and several gazillion bacteria and other parasitic life forms running amok in the grime, adolescent muck etc all under one roof does not make for passive entertainment or dull moments. How enriching.
For an obsessive control freak such as myself, I find it stupidly easy to live amidst vast quantities of yuck. Table corners must be perpendicular to furniture, cushions must be arranged and plumped just so, there is absolutely not a chance in hell that snotty tissue can be placed there, and on no terms whatsoever can you sit like that. But dust can layer thickly atop every surface, scrappy bit of paper, nook or cranny, my non-existent filing system can diffuse itself all over the shop, and (brace yourselves in anticipation of disgust) toenail clippings can nestle happily in hair-strewn carpet. What is that all about? I'm blowed if I know. If I could click my fingers and live in pristine cleanliness I no doubt would, but as this unfortunately not an option (though not for wont of trying, naturally) life is just too bloody short.
On the subject of control, what I had been so terrified of actually seemed to give me a greater sense of control and was almost empowering. It was like I had seen the light, or felt the 'click' Brick so yearns for in 'Cat...'. A tide-turning moment if ever there was one. Though I felt sick, it was in that satisfying way; satiated. Though for christ's sake don't let the A hear. Haven't quite got my head around it yet, and still finding my feet (god, could I include any other parts of my anatomy?) but i foresee good things. I am buoyed up, and ready to tackle. Fingers crossed my nerve is not lost.
Time for a beechams methinks, anything to stop the sheer persistance of this dratted phlegm.

New record: posted my 20 pences into coffee machine (at a rough estimate, note I was hightly aggravated at the time) 23 times before they registered. An all time low, or high depending on outlook, on the epic quest to obtain a caffeine fix. Scummy coffee machine: 1, Anna :0
Perhaps it was trying to tell me something about my caffeine intake, all that stimulent pulsing through my veins etc. But frankly, the fact that I'm prepared to guzzle exhorbitant quantities greedily is a speck of hope currently, weighty with significance. So, if the bleeding machine cooperates, plastic cup crap with a gritty layer of scum (perhaps capuccino aspirations) will continue to pass my lips.

It is all well and good being able to reference such things as 'Paradise Lost', 'Anatomy of Meloncholy' and 'Ulyssus' in a literary and intellectually offhand manner, but where the skill lies is in interspersing all this pretentiousness with contrasting works such as Harry Potter, Jilly Cooper and 'Each Peach Pear Plum'. Literary snobbery really gets my goat. If something is only being read to thereafter be quoted and referred to with the sole intention of looking clever and cultured then the act is not justified. If enjoyment is not gained by sitting down to read something with a mug of coffee, surrounded by squashy cushions, then there is not a jot of point to it. Not one jot.

Without fail, last lesson on a Tuesday the torso tremblings take effect. I should really know this by now, yet it always seems to catch me unawares. I cannot stand uncontrollable physicalities (stubbon hair kinks, foot cramp, eye twitches etc) but the torso tremblings really take the biscuit. In the aftermath of lunch, in the quiet, humidity of the year 9 (and all the odours that go with them) vacated classroom, they strike. Sitting next to R, who closely looks over my notes so is therefore an inch away, I try to ignore them and feel the hot blood come to the surface of my immobile face. Just as Currie makes a profound point that blows everyone away and an awed silence decsends on his young wards, my chest chooses to object with a groan. The more uptight and tense I become about it, the worse the effect. I cannot relax into the usual furious, ferociously scribbled notes, but remain upright, only moving my eyes out of fear of disturbing the inner indigestion monster. R must think I'm a lunatic. I don't know how others can take all these weird and wonderful workings of the human body so lightly; many openly belch, hiccough, and worse besides, yet I cannot experience an inner creak like rumble without being paralysed with mortification. If I just went with the flow and and embraced bodily functions, they probs would not occur in the first place. Yet I remain a prude.

It is odd that often one can see a murmour of beauty, or something of admirable worth, in oneself (such as a flash of an eye in flattering shadow glimpsed in a wing mirror, or a well placed foot arching attractively) yet it is so easy to feel such a mess such a lot of the time. A fresh injection of novelty is all it takes to not feel grotty, whatever it may be, large or small. Merely adding a coloured streak to hair, introducing a new silver studded piercing to an ear, or newly painted nails can give a little lift and keep one in better spirits for atleast an uplifting moment. Not quite being able to put one's finger on the something that is making us feel a little brighter, that anticipative feeling and knowing that atleast something is a little improved, is unparallelled. Having anything new can have this effect. Even knowing that a new blog could well be created this evening.