Glucose and Superman and radio-controlled clocks

[raven]

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.

Comments

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

But no, no-one will ever teach me how to write.

I know what you mean; it's so frustrating. I'm lucky in that my literature-based classes, these past few years, have been so good that I indirectly pick up a lot of strategies for my own writing, but as for someone sitting me down and teaching me intensively about mechanics... no, doesn't happen. No one ever even taught me grammar, once we'd covered basic parts of speech in elementary school (well, with the exception of one teacher in sixth grade who let us diagram sentences on the board, which I found strangely enjoyable). I don't know why people assume that writing should be all instinct -- certainly you need talent to start with, but it's hard to refine independently.

Anyway. That's a sore subject for me as well, which is why I'm blathering.

...French in a class of twenty-five is just what I want to do.

Out of curiosity, what's an average class size for you?

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

I have to say I was taught grammar. Maybe not extensively, but I was taught it in primary school. And my few years of Latin took care of the rest - nothing like it for making you extremely appreciative of English grammar. But I'd just love to learn the mechanics of style and effect; right at this moment, I send fic off to betas (ie, you! *g*) and get told what works and what doesn't work, and usually, I can do the same for others. But knowing if it works is instinctive - knowing why is not. I'd like to know why.

As for class sizes - I would say the country's average is about thirty, but my uber-pretentious elitist independent school likes to keep them at about twenty-five. However, now we're sixth formers, the average size is more like ten. I did separate science last year and so got used to less-than-average sizes (seventeen, eighteen) and so this year, classes of nine or ten are just about perfect. That's why General modules with twenty-five is such a culture shock!

And while I'm here - did I remember to tell you I'd love to beta for you? I don't really remember...

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

Ah. See, I can't recall ever being taught grammar, which is why I, contrary thing that I am, became obsessed with learning it in detail.

But I'd just love to learn the mechanics of style and effect

That's why I appreciate my English classes so much, I think -- while I don't get my work critiqued, I spend so much time thinking about and explaining other people's styles that I'm picking up those skills for my own writing. We do very little of that "identify the One Overarching Theme of this book" nonsense, in favor of analyzing to pieces the style of the book. It's so helpful, although I must admit that it's made me even less apt at writing coherent plots. Form over substance, that's becoming my motto. *grins*

Oh -- I thought you meant that twenty-five was a large class size in any context, which sounded amazing. The average size over here is probably twenty-five to thirty as well, but my (large public) school is the most overcrowded facility in the county, so I no longer find it odd to have thirty-some people in a class. There's a fifty-person Economics class in one room, I think. And since there's not that much attrition (at least in my classes) as people advance grades, I don't see much difference between now and four years ago. I do have a friend in a ten-person Chem. class, but that's just because most people take higher-level Physics instead.

You did tell me, and I'd love for you to do it. I'll probably send it to you in about a week.

[language-idling.livejournal.com]

*sigh* I suppose you can have him for awhile. I'm so busy with starting school that I don't really have much time for him, and last night, Nicholas was having snits about "not sleeping on the same side as the wolf" so maybe he should go and spend some time with you for a bit. Memo to self: next time, don't tell the boyfriend about the imaginary friend.

No one really taught me how to write in English at all. Well no, that's not true. Starting tenth grade, I didn't have the slightest idea how to write an essay, so I suppose the Nuge helped me with that and Dr. Brodkorb helped me perfect it. I never had any English grammar though. I had to figure that out for myself with writing manuals and bringing over what I remember from French when I was little.

Writing isn't really given much credit. I think a lot of it is instinctive, but it is still assumed that everyone can write. This isn't necessarily true. Hrm...

I've lost the train of my thought.

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

Wait, I just have to ask: who was "the Nuge"?

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

Don't look at me!
*waits patiently for Meredith to explain*
*snuggles Moony*

[language-idling.livejournal.com]

The Nuge was Mr. Nugent, my tenth grade English teacher. He flapped around campus in an academic gown and made us act out the Shakespeare we were studying and things like that. He was basically a completely burnt out version of the Ideal English Teacher (TM).

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

You told him about your imaginary friend? *shakes head*

Not everyone can write. I stand by that. Otherwise it just makes a mockery of people like you and me (and Leigh, as this seems to be a three-way conversation!) who actually work at our writing, and those who write in English lessons and never anywhere else.

In conclusion, they ought to teach it in schools. Will never happen, but I can dream...

[gamesiplay.livejournal.com]

I see. We have a French teacher at our school whose name is Madame Nugent, and everyone calls her "the Nuge." It amuses me. :)

[language-idling.livejournal.com]

Haha... His wife, who was French, was our houseparent. We called her Miss Nuge. I, personally, couldn't stand her. My friend Suzanne had every intention of killing her and running off with Mr. Nugent...

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

Never a good idea. My mother's best friend at school ran off with her vhemistry teacher. Neither of them were ever the same again.