Me

Brrrrring-brrrrring! Brrrrring-brrrrring!
As usual, the loud ringing of my alarm clock wakes me from my deep
slumber.
As usual, I groan, reach my hand in the general direction of the alarm
clock, accidentally knock it off the table and return to my deep
slumber.

'BETH! GET UP NOW!'
I am woken for a second time by the even louder voice of my mother.
Every time she opens her mouth I cover my head, certain that the roof
can't take much more.
I roll out of bed, which is quite painful considering it is a one metre
high cabin bed. Then somehow, I never understand how, I manage in my
semi-conscious state to dress myself correctly (apart from the
occasional odd sock).
I then proceed to the bathroom, where I attempt to tame the wild mane
that protrudes from my head, giving me the appearance of a mad
scientist who has just stuck their finger in a plug. This operation is
futile as when I walk to school the wind (there is always a hurricane
going on in Woodcote) undoes all my careful work. Nevertheless, I
struggle with my hair for twenty minutes, making my chances of getting
to school on time about the same as my chances of growing an extra
leg.
I stumble down the stairs and arrive in the kitchen, where I begin
making my 'Lumpy Brown Sick' (if the strength of your stomach is
debatable, read 'breakfast' for 'Lumpy Brown Sick'). The raw
ingredients of 'Lumpy Brown Sick' are milk and Weetabix, both
unobjectionable foods, but when you mix them together the result is
slightly less appealing. I would much prefer toast, even if it does
give you cancer (the reliability of the source of this information is
questionable, as it was my not too intelligent, possibly inebriated
science teacher), but my mother says 'Lumpy Brown Sick' has calcium and
will help my bones. Frankly, I'm quite happy with my bones, but it is
no use arguing with my mother.
Fortunately our mint toothpaste removes the 'Lumpy Brown Sick' taste
from my mouth. Well, that's if I can manage to get any in my mouth. I
could win the world championships in Bad Teeth Brushing. I have even
been known to go to school with toothpaste in my eyebrows.
It is now roughly 8.45, and school starts at 8.50. This wouldn't be a
problem if I could fly or teleport or owned a Concorde, but
unfortunately running, (or rather trying to but actually only
succeeding in trotting like a lame donkey) half a mile in high heels
with a bag that weighs as much as a sumo wrestler is difficult to
accomplish in five minutes.

So it is that I arrive at my tutor base ten minutes late, 'Lumpy Brown
Sick' splattered in various places on my school jumper and toothpaste
on my nose (it didn't quite make it to my eyebrows on this occasion). I
tiptoe in, trying to avoid the eagle eyes of my tutor, but someone who
looks like they have been shot several times by a gun loaded with brown
vomit, toothpaste on their nose and a thick mess of tangled hair
surrounding their head like a scruffy halo is somewhat
conspicuous.
'How nice of you to join us, Beth,' my tutor says sarcastically. 'Well,
at least you haven't missed any of P.S.E. We're just about to
start.'
I groan inwardly. Apparently I groan outwardly aswell, because my tutor
gives me an evil look. Or maybe she can read my mind. Or maybe she is
just a sadistic psychopath who enjoys glaring at people. Yes, that is
the most plausible explanation.
The reason I groan is because P.S.E. is the most boring activity known
to mankind. Imagine watching paint dry. No, imagine watching paint
after it has dried. That gives you some of idea of how excruciatingly
boring P.S.E. is. Almost every week we study ancient worksheets
proclaiming 'The Dangers Of Smoking', punctuated occasionally by
ancient worksheets proclaiming 'The Dangers of Drinking'. As I have no
intention whatsoever of smoking or drinking, and as those of my
classmates who do smoke and drink can't read the worksheets, P.S.E.,
like much of school, is entirely pointless. I suppose I can't complain
too much though, as it does give me the opportunity to catch up on
sleep.

My next lesson is French, but I don't have a teacher. This is due to
the fact that only five people in the year were insane enough to choose
German and French as G.C.S.E. options.
A class of five is too small to be given a teacher's undivided
attention for three lessons a week, so every Thursday we are left by
ourselves to supposedly do written work.
In reality, I normally end up talking to my friend Amy all lesson. No,
let me rephrase that: Amy talks and I try to interject when she stops
to breathe but don't get time. I have always suspected Amy has a
condition which means her brain is not connected to her mouth,
resulting in a constant flow of words. She talks about anything - the
meaning of life, her grandfather's eating habits, the latest romance in
'Neighbours'. If you asked her to talk about something as specific as
feline bowel disorders she could probably go on all day.

Break is at 10.40, but we take advantage of the fact we have no teacher
and dismiss ourselves ten minutes early.
I don't know how it happens, but somehow every group of friends in the
school is mysteriously assigned a meeting place for breaktime. Nothing
is written down, but it is as if some higher being goes around saying
'Here, you have this spot,' and 'Look, this can be your
territory.'
I don't think the higher being likes our group very much, as he gave us
a grotty bit of the car park, by the bins. These bins have been
nicknamed the 'loony bins' because of the slightly odd traits my
friends display. To illustrate my point, here is a list of some of
their peculiarities: Dino worships Michael Jackson, Oly has named his
clarinet, Ana doesn't like wearing shoes, Alex can count to ten in
Vietnamese, Amy can squeak her ears and Richard went to a Halloween
party as a mouse.
We are the social outcasts of the school, but I don't mind. My friends
are a lot more interesting than the 'incasts' above us in the social
hierarchy. Whereas most people spend their breaktimes discussing
matters such as hair, football or the opposite sex, our break is taken
up with more unusual activities. Dino and Richard often do juggling
tricks, and once Richard climbed into an oven that happened to be
sitting in the car park. And there was the time we launched a rocket,
whose twenty metre ascent seemed to miraculously escape the eyes of a
member of staff.
But our fun is stopped by the harsh sound of the bell at 11.00, and we
miserably trail off to lessons. For me the terrible prospect of I.T.
awaits.

I really don't like computers, and they seem to detest me even more. I
can hardly seem to press a key without a flashing message declaring
'FATAL ERROR' or 'SYSTEM FAILURE' appearing on the screen. I swear they
do it deliberately, even when nothing is wrong.
Another reason computers and I don't get on is e-mail. I check mine
every I.T. lesson, filled with hope, only to find the usual messages in
my sparsely filled inbox - junk mail saying 'moo' in pink lettering and
several e-mails from myself. Perhaps my friends do send me e-mails, but
the computers delete them for a laugh. I wouldn't put it past
them.

After that disappointing lesson I have yet another - German. I don't
know if I am alone in this opinion, but I think German speakers sound
like malfunctioning robots; vomiting malfunctioning robots when they
make that sound in the back of their throat. I have tried to explain to
my German teacher that I don't want to sound like a vomiting
malfunctioning robot, but she just vomits 'Sei nicht doof,' and then
continues vomiting.
At 12.40, with the classroom full of vomit, Frau Moore finally releases
us for lunch.

However, this is not such a good thing as it may sound. Thanks to our
new headteacher we are now not allowed to eat in classrooms
(technically we weren't before, but Mrs. Mitchell let us get away with
it). So now we have to either go in the canteen, which makes tinned
sardines look comfortable, or stand outside and risk catching
hypothermia. I go for the hypothermia option, even though this makes it
very hard to actually eat my lunch (have you ever tried to get a
sandwich in your mouth when your hand is shaking and your teeth are
doing an Irish jig in your mouth?).
To make it worse, I have to endure the sub-zero conditions for even
longer, after my friends have retreated to the warmth of the classroom,
because I take so long to eat my lunch. This is largely down to the
fact that I eat my sandwiches in two pieces, the top slice of bread and
then the rest, and I dissect my chocolate bars into their component
parts before eating them. This may sound slightly odd, but I think it
is no odder than any other 'normal' habits, like biting your nails or
sucking your thumb. I mean, what kind of person thinks: 'Mmm, what can
I do? I know, I'll bite my nails!'
When I finally finish my lunch it is nearly the end of lunchtime. A few
minutes remain to have a press-up competition with Alex (I beat him 27
- 9) or some such activity, but then it is time to return to
tutor.
It is Thursday today, so unfortunately we have assembly. Assembly is
not an pleasurable experience. Twenty minutes of sitting on a wooden
floor that is about as comfortable as a bed of nails. Twenty minutes of
having to be silent. Twenty minutes of listening to some nonsense about
how we should remain childlike and bang teapots with spoons. That may
not make much sense, but they are the only two lines I recall
penetrating my mind in the coma-like state it adopts in
assemblies.
In Year 7 and 8, the head of lower school was a man called Mr. Duckham,
and he did the only assemblies I have ever listened to and enjoyed.
Once he got a student to eat 'dog food'. This 'dog food' turned out to
be Angel Delight and when he had revealed this (after the first student
had eaten it) he offered it to the whole lower school. In one assembly
he even brought his goldfish in. But sadly Mr. Duckham left, so now we
must endure monotonous talk about teapots. If we stay awake, that
is.

'ONE LINE AT A TIME! SIT DOWN WAYNE!' Miss Fleischmann's deafening
shout succeeds in waking me up, but sadly not my feet. Even as I
stumble out of the assembly hall they are still fast asleep, and they
only wake up, that familiar sensation of pins and needles surging
through them, when I reach the science lab.
My feelings towards science vary. If we are doing something involving
pigs' eyeballs or sheeps' hearts it can be quite enjoyable, but if we
are learning physics formulas or writing out the electronic
configurations for the entire periodic table, it comes around fifth on
my hate list. The top four, the most hated first, are Brussels sprouts,
poverty, aeroplane toilets and P.S.E.
Today's lesson would come about seventh (better than the smell of
petrol but worse than Burger King chips). The reason for this is that
we are studying the effects of drugs. This is slightly better than
drinking or smoking, because drugs haven't been around for as long so
the worksheets are less ancient and some even have colourful pictures,
but on a scale of interest it still scores around -20 (to give you a
comparison, watching paint dry scores around -10 and P.S.E. scores
-infinity).
A single lesson of reading the words 'Don't take drugs' would be bad
enough, but on Thursday we have double Science. That should be one hour
and forty minutes, but I am sure that whenever I am in a lesson I don't
like someone does something with time so that it lasts twice as long.
Maybe it is that higher being who gave us the grotty bit of the car
park. And perhaps he's in league with the computers. That would explain
a lot.
When the supernatural being and the computers finally have mercy and
decide that we have been tortured enough, the bell rings for the end of
school. There is a wild rush for the door, as if everyone is being
pursued by a herd of buffalo. I don't quite understand this mad frenzy,
as most people catch buses, so they have to wait until everyone is on
the bus before they can go anyway. People are strange.

I, on the other hand, stroll leisurely to my locker, where my friend
Laura is waiting to walk home with me.
'Shall we go?' she says cheerily. I always find this an odd question.
What does she expect me to say - 'No, let's stay at school for a few
hours'?
We walk home, talking about this and that - perms, cars, cucumbers,
where I got the scar on my head from (I walked into a door), etc.
etc.

When I get home I slump in a chair and read the paper. Actually, I
don't read very much because it's not usually very interesting - all
about towers in America getting blown up and sheep having something
wrong with their feet and mouths. Instead I just flick through all the
news until I get to the coffee break. I don't really understand why
it's called a coffee break. Why not a milk break or an orange juice
break? I put it down to people being strange again. That normally
explains things.
Anyway, I get to the coffee break, where the funny cartoons and puzzles
are. I read the funny cartoons and then attempt to complete the
crossword. I have completed this feat once without using a thesaurus or
my dad. I was so happy and amazed I cried out and jumped in the air. My
mother thought I was having an epileptic fit (the fact that I don't
have epilepsy didn't occur to her).
After partially completing the crossword I go up to the computer to
embark on my mountain of homework. Concentrating on homework is not my
strongest point. I chip off the summit of the mountain and then I think
'I'll just have one game of solitaire,' and before I know it I've
played fifty games of solitaire and it is dinnertime.

Following a dinner of shepherd's pie ('with real shepherds,' my father
predictably adds), my father and I sit down to watch my favourite
television programme, 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'. It is very hard work
in my household to watch a television programme. My father, despite
having an IQ not much lower than Einstein's, always fails to understand
television programmes. Ten minutes after I have worked out that the
girl on the screen that looks like Buffy is actually a robot, he
announces loudly 'I've got it! She's a robot!' Because he says this so
loudly we miss a vital line and my father spends the rest of the
episode moaning 'What's going on?' Add to this my mother's constant
questions and a simple activity such as watching a television programme
becomes as difficult as building a rocket. My mother doesn't even watch
the programme, she just stands there and constantly questions me about
what is happening. It is impossible to explain to someone who hasn't
seen the previous fifty episodes and isn't too gifted in the mental
department why a man keeps changing into a woman and why Buffy is
sleeping with a vampire.

At 8.15 my father and I set off for the swimming pool, where we go lane
swimming every Thursday. I am sure if I ever actually got the chance to
swim properly I could be very good, but my potential is thwarted by the
fact that there are so many old people in the way. I think seahorses
are the slowest moving animal, with a top speed of around 0.01miles per
hour. Bearing that in mind, imagine a pool full of giant seahorses in
swimming costumes and those ridiculous swimming caps. That is what the
swimming pool is like, except the old people are much less graceful
than seahorses. If anyone ever asks me why I am not an Olympic swimmer
I will blame it on them.
Not only do I have to put up with the giant seahorses in the swimming
pool, I also have to put up with them when I am getting changed (the
female seahorses anyway, luckily the male seahorses go elsewhere). They
sit there, completely naked, and then they just carry on a normal
conversation as if there was nothing unusual about the situation.
Sometimes I feel like saying 'Were you aware of the fact that you are -
how shall I say it - completely starkers?' but then I get scared. I
don't know what giant seahorses do when they get angry, and I don't
wish to find out.

I arrive home at 9.30, and am so tired that I go straight to bed. I
fall asleep immediately, and a dream involving giant seahorses speaking
German while drinking and smoking descends upon me, followed by another
in which I am being chased by computers.
These strange (but not that far from the reality), dream versions of my
life continue until the next morning, when ?
Brrrrring-brrrrring! Brrrrring-brrrrring!
As usual, the loud ringing of my alarm clock wakes me from my deep
slumber.
As usual, I groan, reach my hand in the general direction of the alarm
clock, accidentally knock it off the table and return to my deep
slumber.
Another day in the life of me has begun.