Oh the joys of being a grown up sixth former. No uniform, unlimited access to tea and Brookes University, and the simple pleasure of carrying around your own paper (squared for me, european style, six different colours allowing for five subjects plus miscellaneous). When people ask me whether i like school, I can answer with a firm 'yes', I enjoy a more trusting and personal relationship with my teachers and revel in the power i hold over younger students.
However, yesterday it was revealed to us that, in order to continue our studies into year thirteen, we must do another work experiencein mid-July. I have several objections to this. Firstly, Bran and I have already done a second work experience, namely our week at Vilnius in Your Pocket. Secondly, by mid-july all of the year above and the year below will be on holiday, which makes me think that we should too. Thirdly, I don't want to do it.
I wouldn't mind so much if it didn't have to be done in Oxfordshire. Since languages are my 'thing' I'd probably either be interested in something abroad or something in London. I also like the idea of writing for a fashion magazine, but those are all in London and the likelyhood of a 16 year old getting an internship in Vogue is very unlikely indeed. Also, my last work experience with school was the worst week of my life. I decided to do it in a florist, I thought it would be kitch and fun, that I could wear a flowery dress. It wasn't, and I couldn't, I had to wear a smelly polo shirt. Still, it meant I could tick floristry off my list.
Of course, in normal circumstances I might just take an extra week of shifts where I work normally, get paid for it and have a bit more money for interrailing this summer. However, they want us to do something that we are really interested in, and no matter how I try I just cannot conivnce my head of sixth form that I want to be a waitress.
Taking all this into account, I have now been looking at things I could do, and have found that there are a few translation companies based in Oxford. I'm sure that I won't get to do any translation and will probably end up making tea and photocopying, but at least it's an interesting field.
On a different note, we have also been prompted to think about University courses. This is no great thing for me as I have been thinking about them since I was about seven years old, as that's when my brother first had to apply. However, the knowledge that by now it might actually matter is a little frightening. I have noted down several open day dates on my calendar and am looking forward to getting some free rulers and things.
The worrying thing about looking at University courses is that you can get easily distracted and want to study things you cannot. I have been pretty sure for a long time that I want to study either french and spanish or french and italian. However, a quick glance over the sites of the redbrick universities and suddenly I am awash with other ideas: linguistics, drama, philosophy, politics, international relations, serbo-croat, portugese. Then I start panicking, what if I don't want to do languages at all? What if I want to go to RADA and become an actress? (apart from french, acting is my first love)
My Father tells me not to worry, "which course you get on is pretty much a lottery anyway" he says, "there's no point getting wound up about it". He makes a fair point. I can only hope that I don't suddenly decide to do a degree in floristry.
The point of this article was that I once had some pictures to accompany it. Unfortunately I lost them so you'll have to make do with the internet's humble offerings
I spent some time (4 hours and 37 minutes) to be exact at Berlin's Schonefeld airport this summer. Feeling somewhat bleak, (despite having read too much Bill Bryson prior to travelling which induces travel chirpiness in almost any situation), due to having bean brutally beaten down by a German check in assistant who was upset by my attempt to check in before she was ready, it caused me to cast a cynical eye over the restaurant in the land side of the airport. Named something like 'Betsy's Diner,' it promised to provide me with fresh juice and German friendly amounts of sausage and cake in a friendly diner environment. This was interesting.
First of all, I'm sure anyone who has travelled through Berlin's airports have noticed that no one employed there has ever smiled. This behavior is not specific to anyone working at border control or check in desks, but has spread to taxi and bus drivers, waitresses, car rental agencies and fellow German passengers, like some sort of epidemic carried over on an Easyjet flight from an equally miserable land.
Anyway, while in Betsy's Diner I took the liberty of meekly ordering an orange juice, and a freshly squeezed one at that, as I was feeling rather decadent. This seemed to upset the waitress in a manner that I have only previously seen in Lithuanian motorway cafes where they appear genuinely insulted and put on a sulk if you decide to order some food. I was a little confused by this as the juice was ready in glasses laid out at the counter and all she had to do was lift it out. I could have lifted it out for myself if she was a little tired, and I like to be helpful. But she wasn't having it. Before I even had time to get my purse out I was getting an eye roll and a cross German sigh that makes you feel about three inches tall. Perhaps it was my stinginess at only buying the overpriced orange juice or the dangers of my large hiking backpack in a small area, but she was unhappy with me. I meekly took my juice and went and sat down.
It wasn't over though. Next I was in big trouble for having luggage in an airport cafe. It was amazing. She came at me with a cross German look (and I don't wish to cause offence to any Germans - I love Germany and would happily become German if only to achieve that kind of sternness) and demanded that I move my bag off the bench next to me as it was taking up too much room. Having jogged to the airport from the bus stop 3 miles away (I don't joke, anyone who's been to Schoenefeld knows what I mean), I was looking perhaps a little dishevelled and carrying the massive bag didn't help. Due to this and the fact that I was taking pictures of the cafe from behind my book, I don't think my table was under massive demand from any other diners. And anyway, the place was empty as the sensible Germans had brought their own snacks to the airport. And all Germans are sensible.
So I was, perhaps, a little upset when the same stroppy waitress as before came to ask me to move my bag so people could sit at my table. Well, that's what she said. I was getting a look that clearly meant I was diner vermin. By this point I was feeling a little stroppy myself, having realised I'd overestimated how long it would take me to get to the airport and I was just under 4 hours early for departure. I got in a small, righteous argument with her, pointing out in my best German that the place was empty and my bag wasn't harming anyone as I had carefully tucked it and it's four hundred useless straps and clips away from harm. This seemed to upset her more and she was clearly under the opinion that my bag was full of horse meat or something equally unsanitary and therefore was causing her diner to be empty at 11am on a Tuesday morning. Then she said she'd noticed me taking pictures of her restaurant and demanded to know why - I told her I was impressed by the decor (bizarre plastic statues of Marylin Monroe and Elvis and a route 51 sign stuck on the wall. It was just like being in America I tell you) but perhaps she hadn't been responsible for it as she looked very skeptical about it.
After this I got fed up and haughtily took my business elsewhere. Unfortunately there was nowhere else in the airport so I took my business to a corner of a hard metal bench shared with some unruly children who were swinging their legs like madmen (I feel able to be cross about this since I was once told off for swinging my legs in Frankfurt).
My next obstacle was checking in. Now, as a frequent flyer, I don't find this much trouble. However, my large backpack and chirpy attitude were clearly unpopular at Schoenefeld and I was told to check in my bag as outsize baggage and told in a stern tone that under no circumstances should I be late for boarding. I hung my head and took my bag to the outside baggage area, where another German women (aviation is clearly a female-dominated field in Berlin) was waiting to bully me by making me attempt to climb over a fence with a hidden gate. Finally, I made it to border control while I smiled at the immigration official only to be shot down by him inspecting every page of my passport while the queue behind me took note of how I looked so they could bully me later.
I then spent three hours sitting and lying on a bench. I would have had a sleep but I was told off for lying down.
Try not to fly through Schoenefeld. They clearly don't like it
