Glucose and Superman and radio-controlled clocks

Yet another tiring day at school...

No, seriously, for all I'm not doing any work it really is very tiring. I began by having a lovely fight with my mother before school had even begun. This one was about why I had to do English and Politics when I might not get As and I should have done Physics and Maths because they're easy, and no, she doesn't care that I don't want to do all sciences because she doesn't care what I want, full stop. I have never just lost it and shouted and screamed. I have merely been extremely passive-agressive. Maybe I ought to lose it and shout and scream. The problem there is that consciously deciding I want to shout and scream is a bit like telling myself a joke in order to make myself laugh - self-defeating.

So, that had me in a bright 'n' lovely mood to start with, and it was made worse by two reasons involving English of all things. Firstly and more trvially, I had the lesson timetabled as a single, and for some reason, it's actually a double. This halves my frees down to one. And the other reason is of course the fact it's English language/literature combined. I don't want to be doing literature at all. I hate my school. I couldn't do Economics, I couldn't do Philosophy, I couldn't do Physics, and I can't do English Language. I know that the combined version is going to be just like GCSE - too much on the syllabus, way too much to get through, concentrating on the literature for months on end and leaving the language just to take care of itself. It occurred to me that no-one has ever taught me how to write. Well, obviously Pedar originally taught me how to form letters with a pencil, but since then, no-one has taught me a damn thing about writing well. If I were an artist, say, or a singer, or had a wonderful talent for swimming or ice-hockey or bell-ringing, it would have been catered for by the time I reached the grand age of sixteen. But no, no-one will ever teach me how to write. Everything I do know about it is instinctive, and nice as that can sometimes be, it's not exactly the way things ought to be done in my ever so humble opinion.

So, yes, I was in a lovely mood by the time I got to the kitchen this morning to make my coffee. Someone had been down for the milk, which was nice, and Lizzie Cheeseborough made me some toast, which I thought was rather sweet of her, and the caffeine hit cheered me up as well. Of course, General Studies, which came next, reversed the effect. We have to do some more of the language we did for GCSE, and French in a class of twenty-five is just what I want to do. I was bored. I hate big classes and I hate it when they try and teach basics all over again. I was also bored in the "Culture, Arts, Humanity and Morality" module. Apparently is just involves writing essays. To be perfectly frank, the exam sounds like it could be done in my sleep, but maybe that's me being arrogant so I'll shut up about that.

Lunch (nice to have priority, and I hope the novelty doesn't wear off) and it was very crowded in the dining room today, so me, Becca and Bev found three chairs with difficulty. Becca's turned out to be wet, so she switched it with another one, while these Lower Fours looked at us like we were howlingly crazy. I'm sure I don't know why. Bev said that although Becca does have a tendency to get emotional over the oddest things, that didn't explain why they were looking at us like that. I then asked why they would be looking at me, and Bev and Becca both exchanged glances and tried to look innocent before they caved and explained. Apparently, I have some sort of blank expression that I adopt on occasion and it puts people off. "You're unapproachable," Becca said, and, paraphrased: "Your normal stupid giggly self, on the other hand, is nice."

I've heard about this blank expression of mine before now. But unapproachability... hmm. Anyway.

Another Biology lesson with Mrs Rice-Oxley - need I go into detail? She's as weird as ever, although this time did involve us building molecules with straws and plastic bits, and I did feel rather oddly proud of my wonky-but-molecularly-sound glucose model. She then sent us off to the library to find out answers to questions, presumably to try and persaude us to use it for research instead of Google. Hopeless task, I feel; to me, the library is merely useful for fiction.

And that's just about everything. I met the other Mrs Miller to finish off with (not the one who used to teach me History - this one teaches Chemistry) and she seems nice, although I don't think she would be as nice if we weren't sixth form. We were in the tiny lab - well, we used to call it the tiny lab when there was a class of twenty squished into it. Now I'm in a class of nine, it seems quite comfortable. I was the only one she hadn't taught before, which was unnerving, but as I said, she seems all right, quite happy to go tangents like Fidan and her love of Superman and her own love of using arrows on the board. The other weird thing was the clock in that room. It's radio-controlled, but as we watched, it started moving (Fidan yelled, "I've never seen that happen outside of a horror film!") and moved and moved and moved until it had gone round enough times to last it till a week on Sunday, and no-one knows why. Because of that, no-one knew what time it was, so we got let out early.

I would have, therefore, stayed in a good mood - but I missed the train by seconds and had to wait in the rain for the next one, and I forgot to go through the park (which would have been quicker) and I forgot my coat.

Such is life, it would seem. And on unrelated note, language_idling and I share an imaginary friend, and I believe it's my turn with him soon. Which is always good.