2 posts tagged “school”

               Oh, I belive that it’s that time of year again.  Whilst our teachers are trying to fill our heads with the fact that we only have eight weeks until study leave, we are all thinking more about the fact that we only have eight weeks until the ball.  Trivial? Yes. Mundane? Yes.  Something I consider myself too intllectual to think about? No.  I think that there comes a time in everyone’s life when they really want to push the boat out and really feel glamorous for one evening.  For me, and probably many other girls my age, the ball has definate potential to fulfill that requirement.

              There are many things that needed to be considered for this, these include dress, hair, make-up, transport, after-ball activities and a venue for getting ready.  You may be surprised to see that I have not included dates in this list, this is because they are honestly of no importance to me.  We are not in the US, therefore sixteen year old boys cannot drive us to ‘prom’, so there is little point having any kind of date at all, as most people will end up going to and spending time at the ball with their friends anyway.  However, the other things I have mentioned are all deeply important.  So much so that social rules declare we already start worrying about them now.

             I find the whole idea of shopping for a dress a little intimidating.  My main priority is to not end up with a black dress.  I hardly ever notice the features of an ‘LBD’ and I do not agree that it is a ‘safe option’.  I would much prefer to have a dress in a colour that really suits me, i.e. green, blue or turquoise of some description.  Basic girl rules apply in this situation, these are as follows: never buy the same dress as someone else, never even try and copy the style of anyone else, never wear something that you’ve worn before and don’t wear anything you’ll complain about being fat in as no-one wants to hear it!  The main reason I would never want someone to have the same dress as me would be that they would have a good chance of looking better in it.  However, if they didn’t, I must admit that it would greatly feed my ego.  Nevertheless, I feel that this is a destructive emotion and thus I plan to shop in thrift stores for my dress, to ensure that there is no risk of a thinner and better-accesorised duplicate arriving at the ball.

            Hair is tricky.  By day I tend to favour the preppy I-just-rolled-out-of-bed look.  Whilst this is perhaps faked on some people, for me it is actually true. I never brush it and can never put it up because I only possess one hairtie which is gross and disgusting and resembles little more than a piece of lumpy string.  For this reason I feel that perhaps the ball would be the perfect excuse to do something more exciting.  However, the idea of  trying to negotiate hairgrips and various toxic liquids gives me a migraine so it seems that I’ll either have to get someone else to do it or leave it be.  The only trouble with letting someone else do your hair is that it will invarably go wrong and you won’t even be able to undo it because they will get highly offended and skirt around you all evening.  The best thing to do is probably something simple, such as straightening or curling it, as this is relatively easy and pretty low-risk.  Putting aside of course the risk of burns on your earlobes.

         Now we come to the issue of transport.  By about this time most standard limo companies are all booked up for the summer ball season.  A few of my friends booked a fire engine, which, although fun for the novelty factor, makes my environmental concience scream.  Apparently one can book a a pink limo which says ‘pink my ride’ on the side.  Again, I could almost handle it, but can’t quite handle the idea of riding around our fine city in a pink limo, I like to think I have a bit more class.  I think my ideal mode of transport would be a platoon of rickshaws for my friends and me.  However, after extensive internet research, I’ve found that at the present time rickshaws are still a novelty thing for large corperate companies.  Either that or a nice ebay purchase for odd geeks who are probably called ‘Michael’ or ‘Ian’.  It makes me sad that my environmentally friendly idea probably won’t take off, but I suppose we can always take the bus.

                             As I don’t really count a venue for getting ready as a major problem- the person with the least intefering parents usually volunteers- I shall move on to my final point, that of post-ball activities.  As far as I know we are going to a friend’s house, as he lives very nearby, although I am slightly worried for him if I’m honest.  My friend Hannah went to see her art teacher a few days ago, and overheard some girls, whom no-one in our social group really knows, talking about said party as if it was an entirely inclusive affair.  Without meaning to sound snotty or exclusive, I wasn’t really aware that they would be invited.  I think it would be in the host’s interests to employ some kind of security force, either that or be prepared to rebuild his house afterwards.

           I was thinking as I was writing this that I could potentially have a very green ball experience.  If I managed to find a vintage dress and environmentally friendly transport, plus saving on electricity and aerosol emittions by having nice, natural hair, then I think I would have the right to feel relatively good about myself.  I think that would ensure an elegant evening.

Welcome, welcome. Take a seat, have a cup of tea, and follow me closely and don't step on my shoelaces...
    It's January (only just, I know, but it still is). It's a dead month. School work is piling up, my yearbook project is at a standstill until I hear about funding (incidentally, if anyone has a spare £2000...) and scary scary exams are drawing ever nearer. My days go by crawling out of bed at half past seven, sleepwalking through the house performing the usual morning activities; jabbing contact lenses at my face until I get lucky and find my sleepy eyes, shoving a toothbrush in my mouth while packing my school bag, then remembering that the difference between brushing your teeth and holding a plastic stick in your mouth is the back and forwards motion, 10 minutes after I started, slapping together some kind of salmon-cream cheese-avacado sandwich for lunch, then squashing it into the bottom of my bag to get my French book smelly, and rounding up the mental checklist of phonekeysrulerpenexercisebook combination for the day.
    Then, when I've sat down with my delicious banana and peach (tinned, erk) porridge, a friend will knock on the door at 8. Or ten to 8, if she's eager. This often bewilders me, as school doesn't start till 8.30 and it's a 10 minute walk from my house, 15 if it's looking like a bad day, but I like walking with her. She comes in, comments on the warmth/messiness/shoes in the hall and then sits with me while I finish my porridge hurredly, then we plod off to school, her with a sensible bag full of homework and pens, me with a burnt tongue and a fishy French book.
    The walk up the hill to school has a routine conversation which, on Mondays will be discussion about our weekends, and on other weekdays complaining about the amounts of work/discussing A level options/gossiping/talking about highly important world matters (should Jade Goody be mobbed for racism etc). Upon reaching the top of the hill we encounter a few familiar faces. One is a druggie who cycles past us every morning, sometimes he greets us, other times he's too cool. Then there's a girl who looks like my sister. We stare at her until she's about to pass us, then pretend to be terribly interested in a tree across the road. She is, no doubt terrified of us, so recently we have tried a friendly greeting or a kind smile. However, she is still terrified and obviously does not realise that she is my sister's twin, albeit with better taste in handbags. Then we arrive at school. An exhausting trip up a short flight of stairs is made, then collapsing onto a table in our tutor room, greeting people as they enter and receiveing comments graciously about how (insert expletive here) early we always are. I still don't know why, but it gives us extra time to toast our fingers and dry our trouser bottoms on the heater.
     Then come the lessons. The worst is PE first. Spend the rest of the day tired and worrying you might smell after having gotten too involved (accidentally of course) in a basketball game. Second worst is French first; my textbook smells and, although I like the language, the lessons become more and more tedious as endless grammar must be practiced and our teacher reminds us that yes, we do have exams, and no, we can't not show up. Rats.
     In fact, the only lessons that aren't worst to have first are history or geography. This is because both Suz and I (if I'm going down, she's coming down with me) greatly admire our history teacher despite the fact he's slightly creepy, a self-proclaimed Ripperologist, has been pregnant for the past five years (or has a very large beer belly; but the former is more exciting) and is an openly bitter divorcee. However, he is a super teacher and lessons are usually fun, or if nothing else, scary. He also sometimes says rude words or talks about his ex wife (or both) which, it must be said, is strangely intriguing.
    Georgraphy seems to be a favourite among many students. Having completed a grueling 10,000 research project into a local area, many of us admitted that it was "kind of fun" - and it was! Going round the posh inner-city area of Jericho with clipboards and cameras in early summer was fun, even if it resulted in many, many students spending a weekend holed up in their houses, holding their eyes open and typing into the small hours (Suz and I know this one well), most people received exceptional marks in it. Geography is an appreciated and well taught subject, and the members of my class are especially enjoying it at the moment since we are mid-production in a finger puppet performance about the Three Gorges Dam project in China.
    Onwards through my weekdays; a munch anticipated 20 minute break comes and goes, most of which is spend standing around picking at tangerines in a designated area for those of us not eating school dinners, then trooping off to the dreaded Design technology/maths/science, typical post-break classes that just ruin the mornings for me. DT is spent fiddling around with my coursework (a May Day themed salt and pepper shaker set, a-thank you) and avoiding the hammers/saws/other heavy tools being chucked around by Billy Dim and his equally gormless mates, to the anger of Slovakian (no one knows why) and over-qualified (a trained engineer and wheel-builder, or something) teacher.
    Maths is bad because, aside from being maths, it's a large, noisy class full of naturally mathematically able people who don't need teaching properly. On the other hand, the grumpy yet loveable Cypriot teacher, fondly known as Shanty by many a student, often mumbles such amusing phrases as, 'Well if you watched Time Team as much as I do..." "Daft idiot! Not you, me," when he's made a mistake, and occasionally bonds with me over my poor Greek. At easter we share a xristos anesti/alithos anesti (Christ is risen/so he is) moment, which I likes to think cheers him up for the week. He also hugged me when I handed in my coursework. This is a special event because usually he regards us with as much contempt as if we were 31 reincarnations of the devil ourselves. Good old Shanty.
    Post-double science and/or maths comes a 40 minute lunch interval, which is spent in any of the following ways:  
    1) at Leon Link, a student-run Nicaraguan charity organisation through which letters to underprivileged children are sometimes sent and various fundraising activities commence. Populated by year 11 and year 9 girls.
    2) sitting about in the art rooms, comparing sandwiches and leafing through other people's art books, looking for ideas to pass off as your own/feeling miserable about how much everyone else has done
    3) at Amnesty, a student-run charity and freedom-fighting organisation through which letters to the world's tyrants/mistreated are sent and various fundraising activities commence. Populated by year 11 and year 9 girls.
    4) being the editor of my yearbook at our weekly meeting. This involves bullying everyone to take pictures/despairing at the lack of funding/planning silly fundraising ideas (most recently we had a 'Wax'n'Watch' event. All I feel I need mention is that hair removal, a boy named Patrick, and about a tenner would be involved. Not the best plan we've ever had.
    5) in the year area with non-committee member friends, watching the boys playing out their semi-homoerotic wrestling and being shoved out of the way by the grumpy girls who have no permanent lunch place therefore stalk the building huffily.
    Finally, the last lesson. This is usually English or, if lucky, art. English is one of those subjects I like but constantly find uninspiring and am therefore waiting to begin the A level curriculum. Art is excellent, an hour's worth of not doing much, a nice chat and a bit of painting. A nice way to end the day.
    Then comes the great slump home; a congregation by the school gate and then a progression through it, then the park, then down the hill on a very narrow pavement until a certain corner by which we have all disintegrated and what's left of the group splits to go to the nearby homes (I live in one of these, yippee!) or to the further south homes, a 20 minute walk away, or 25 on a bad day. I know this because last year I lived in one.
    Much to my irritation/education, however, my great slump is now interrupted twice a week by afterschool Spanish lessons. Yes, I want to learn Spanish, yes I like it, yes I want to pass my exam but it's not something I find myself looking forward to. Apart from the arrival of a new Spanish assistant, Señor Javier, a new import from Madrid, there is little excitement in the subject currently.
    My evenings go by either dragging myself with Suz and Rosie to the gym, or agreeing unanimously about how we don't need to go today. The latter is becoming more and more frequent. Then I come home, cook dinner using one of my nice christmas-present cookbooks, usually something pasta or prawn based, and muck around on the computer or watch channel 4 or my favourite Mock the Week.
    Following this is either homework or bedtime, or procrastination of both aided by the laptop. Then comes laundry, cleaning the kitchen, dancing to bangra (a new hobby, but having a combination of bangra radio and speakers in the kitchen, accompanied by the recent brief absence of mother and older sister working upstairs, proves to be much late night entertainment for me and perhaps the neighbours, who, if by some chance are reading, I invite to join in.) Then the phone alarm clock is set and re-set, tested and banged against the wall before I am confident it will wake me up at quarter to seven the next morning, and into bed with a book which I will read a paragraph of before falling asleep and losing it down the back of my bed. Because of this I am currently reading Pride and Prejudice, Everything is Illuminated, Sense and Sensibility, a copy of a youth Bible, and Lord of the Flies (for school.).
    Weekends are a bit more exciting, especially within the coming weeks, since I have recently obtained an excellent and long-awaited Saturday job at a bookshop where I can make lots of nice money and buy discounted books. Gig season is also approaching, beginning with the Gym Class Heroes this Saturday. More on this later. Sundays are spent in the same way as thousands of teenagers up and down the country: avoiding homework. I can avoid homework like the plague. The kitchen is never cleaner or more full of delicious foods on a Sunday, and even my room can be found tidy and dirty-washing free on the day of rest.
    This is my life, I hoped you enjoyed it. I have only recently realised how increasingly monotonous it has become, but, as my mother likes to remind me, I'm the one that wanted to move back to England.
Disclaimer: I like England very much, before I receive angry comments from Suz. It is a marvelous country full of things like teatowels, scones, villages with names containing the word upon, and 31,000 miles of hedges. How I love it here.