Harper vs. Schneider

Until now, all my posts have had a single author. Viz, me. Well, I think it's time for another one of my experiments. Some have been successful. Some have not. I'm not sure whether to hope that this is a success or a failure. If people like it, that's obviously a good thing. Then again, if they hate it, it means I won't have to write another one like this. No more textual arguing, no more fights over the keyboard . . .

Anyway, I leave you to make your own decision. As you may have realised by now - if not by the rather confused introduction, then by the title of this post - this post is unique in that it is co-authored by myself and Giuseppe. We had a RAVE lesson to fill, and no wish to do any work. What you are about to read is exactly what we had in the lesson, bar a couple of spelling mistakes I've corrected, and one or two instances in which I felt compelled to add notes, in order to make it clearer for all concerned. Giuseppe's bits will be in purple, my original bits in blue, and my notes in the customary (if unoriginal) black shade.

This is the result.

Greetings readers of Leslie M Harper’s fantastic blog! As you might have gathered by the few words that I have typed, that I am in fact, not Leslie M Harper - and you would be correct. Congratulations, you have gotten something right and can thus feel good about yourself. Pat yourself on the back and treat yourself to an ice cream. This is the infamous (thanks Leslie) Giuseppe L Schneider. My full name yes, but Leslie does not like referring to my by full name, can’t imagine why. Other than the blog’s writer, I am the only personage on this wonderful blog to have a full name.

Any who, as I type this most glorious blog post, we are at the scene of the occurrence of many cases of MBD – yes you observant and faithful blog readers, I am currently at the library, library west to be precise.

Let me set the scene. We are in religion class… naturally not one student is doing the allocated work except for the stereotypical nerd.

So as you’ve probably picked up by now, I’m not writing all of this post. Giuseppe is informing me that she’s already typed that. I DON’T CARE. She’s also berating me for my slow typing. Well, it was fine for you before.

I wasn’t berating you about your slow typing. I was merely voicing out aloud an observation that I had made. Is this a terrorist action? I think not.

It was beration, pure and simple. So yes, this is an act of procrastination. But it’s this or Googling zoophilia.

Don’t judge us kind people of the blogosphere. It was Gwen who brought it up in the first place. We’re just curious.

That makes it sound weird. We were looking up Utilitarianism, which is what we’re supposed to be doing, clicked on a link to Peter Singer, and from there to zoophilia. I’m still trying to clean my mind.

Moving on swiftly from the topic of zoophilia . . .

Stop taking over my blog or I’ll be forced to write it with Gwen or Chinny instead.

Never Leslie, you’ll never be rid of me. So dear blog readers, let me tell you a story of

At this point, Giuseppe paused for a long, long time, trying to remember the story she wanted to tell. I got bored and took the keyboard back.

Giuseppe has run out of ideas. Who else thinks her posts have a slightly patronising tone to them? Anyway, to move on to a subject I always find it easy to type freely about, Marie-Clare. I’ve planned her life story. She will marry 25, they will move to a caravan park and jknhbgv

If you want Marie-Clare's complete life story, read the previous post. I don't get much of a chance to type it out in this conversation. NB: Whenever you read nonsense words, such as the last word of the above paragraph, it means that one of us has wrested the keyboard from the other and begun hitting the keyboard randomly. Although I cannot claim to be completely innocent, it was mostly Giuseppe.

Alright, I’ve thought of something interesting to tell our dear readers. Including Leslie M Harper, the media students of this fine school are up to something. There is an evil and slightly disturbing scheme cooking up in the cauldron of our school.  This all started a couple of weeks ago, when tbvr

I didn’t know, when I agreed to write this post with you, you would start wrestling the keyboard from me. As I was saying. They will go to a caravan park, where Marie-Clare will work in the shop and 25 will mine for coal. All right, Giuseppe is complaining that I have fractured her finger (I had to get the keyboard away from her somehow) so she can have the keyboard back.

This all started a couple of weeks ago when

You’ve already done that bit.

You interrupted me mid-sentence. I was walking innocently and nonchalantly to Maths, when suddenly I hear a “Get out my way Giuseppe!” from Diamond. (He’s this guy in our year that I rarely talk to.) I wouldn’t have ignored him, if not for the fact that he was wearing a dress and a blonde wig and was running around holding a bunch of balloons. And then I see... oh crap, what did I see? I’ve forgotten. The point is, that the Media students of this fine school, with Leslie herself included, are dabbling in some cross-dressing and other kinds of impure activities.

That was the worst story telling of ALL TIME. Anyway, very few of us are cross-dressing. Most of us are just clown-dressing. It’s for the films we’re making. Giuseppe, I’m a slow typer. Get over it.

Well unless Diamond was doing his best Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie impression, I have no idea what you crazy messed-up Media students are doing. Us Art students on the other hand, are very civilised. In a typical lesson, Bob Dylan and

Giuseppe, you don’t have the right to give nicknames. That right resides with me and me alone. I have no idea what Tootsie is and I don’/]hrtbgynuh

Bob Dylan and Chowder tried to pull me away from the computer by the pulling on my wheelie chair, and then they proceeded to attempt to bind me to the chair with masking tape when I resisted. I pleaded for Shoelace to save me, but at no a*

Good luck getting Shoelace to do anything.

As I was about to get to before Leslie viciously pulled the keyboard from my grasp. As I was saying, I pleaded foe Shoelace to save me, but at no avail, becauser all she did was sit on my lap and rock back and forth while yelling. This didn’t do much except for amuse Bob Dylan and Chowder even more.

It certainly sounds pretty amusing. I would, however, like to make a point. You were trying to imply that Art students are CIVILISED compared to Media students. I think you just lost yourself the argument.

I was not attempting to be logical, but rather cynical. But thanks for that, you only had to dumb down the readers so that they now feel like retarded imbeciles.

What?

Anyway, those are the brilliant adventures of Leslie M. Harper and Giuseppe L Schneider in this boring, but productive RAVE Lesson.

First: still don’t get what you meant above. Second: I’m not sure they can be classified as ‘adventures’. For you, maybe, but none of these adventures involve me. Therefore, I resent you attaching my name to them.

You are a Media student are you not? Yes you are. My life is much more thrilling than yours Leslie, for one, I don’t spend entire weekends designing coats of arms instead of doing my English oral.

I did that English oral! I got a good mark! Anyway, it was less than an hour. I didn’t spend the whole weekend on my coat of arms. Not like you, who devotes great amounts of time to painting pictures of the sons of dead (albeit awesome) celebrities.

That is more productive, and I did it for you as a Christmas present. Po0/;

I swear that the last word above was made accidentally when I pulled the keyboard away. I mean, the keys are pretty near each other. Anyway, at this point we stopped for a good few minutes to laugh.

We thought I’d broken the keyboard there for a second, but luckily, no. Hopefully it still looks like we’re working. A

Well I was going to give it to you, but if you’re going to be like that I think that I might just decorate my own walls with it.

You do that.

Any who, great people of this blogosphere, the bell is about to go. Au revoir fair people. And good night, and good luck.

It’s my blog so I get the last say. I don’t normally have to say ‘goodbye’. People just generally know to stop reading when the post ends. And you accuse ME of ‘dumbing it down’?

ANU J WSBYV I’m just being polite.

I HAVE THE LAST WORD.

And thus a RAVE lesson was ended. What Giuseppe failed to take into account in this instance was that it is MY blog. I always get the last word.

Goodnight.

Confusion (A User's Manual)

The dream I've been harbouring for almost a complete term - that of beating Gwen in Physics - is gone. Two and a half marks was the final difference in our marks. Not much, but a world of difference at the same time. Who knows? If I'd tried harder, I may even have been able to equal her mark. Except she's good at Physics, and the only reason I get nearly the same as her is because I frantically copy her notes each lesson, so as a possibility, that's fairly unlikely.

In fact, the only major talent I can think of that I possess is the ability to confuse people. Not just vaguely perplex them for a couple of minutes. Leave them staring in wonder, their brains having given up attempting to follow my train of thought some time ago. It works especially well on logical people. Gwen and Chinny are hapless victims, while Peanut, is generally able to take it in her stride.

For example, in Maths a couple of days ago (well, yesterday. It was yesterday. But I feel like telling a pointless, transparent lie) I wrote the sentence 'Andrew Hansen is within the pale to quite a very tall degree' in Gwen's book. I haven't a clue why. But she spent the lesson examining it closely, refusing to believe that I would write such a pointless thing without adequate reasons. 'Is it an anagram of something?' she asked despairingly after a considerable period of time.

Logic is a valuable thing, but not always useful.

I may cause Gwen to despair sometimes, but she does the same to me. I was sounding her out about her knowledge of classic novels in English.

LESLIE (L): Tell you what. Name me a single book by Charles Dickens.

GWEN (G): Oh, I know this. There was that one they did a version of on the ABC recently - what was it called? Little - little something - oh, no, it was tiny. Tiny - Dorris? No, Dorrit. Tiny Dorrit.

L: Well . . . close. You're close. I think you mean Little Dorrit.

G: How about the one with the boy? The one who couldn't have any more. You know the one I mean.

L: Oliver Twist, I think.

G: No.

L: Are you sure?

G: Actually, yes, that was it.

L: Right. Can you name one of the Brontë sisters? Any one of them. You can even name the brother if you want.

G: Jean.

L: There isn't a Brontë sister called Jean.

G: Julie, then.

L: Nope.

G: Well, you name them then.

L: Charlotte, Emily, and . . . the other one. Dammit, I've forgotten the third Brontë sister's name. Or were there only two? Anyway, Charlotte and Emily. Charlotte wrote Jane Eyre.

G: Wrote what?

(Long pause, followed by a longer argument as to whether or not Gwen should have heard of Jane Eyre or not. This was eventually resolved by both of us refusing to agree with the other one)

L: OK, name a Jane Austen book.

G: Aren't you getting tired of this?

L: No, I'm enjoying it.

G: In that case, Pride and Pre-

L: You can't have Pride and Prejudice. Pick another one.

G: The one about the mansion, then.

L: What? Mansfield Park?

G: No, it's a different one.

L: Right. Well. Finish this title. The Picture of Dorian ___

G: Northanger Abbey!

L: I appreciate that you're trying, but The Picture of Dorian Northanger Abbey is not the answer I was looking for -

G: That's the Austen novel I was trying to remember.

L: Oh. Where do mansions come into Northanger Abbey?

G: You know, mansions, abbeys, they're basically the same thing. And it's Dorian Grey. The Picture of Dorian Grey. That's the book we found in the library, remember? They'd made a graphic novel of it and you kept yelling at it.

(That one's kind of a long story. I'm not going to go into it. Anyway, at this point, Gwen became a little annoyed with me.)

G: I'm not sure it's overly useful, knowing lists of classic novels. I bet you can't name a single species of Australian bird. For example, where is the Paradise Parrot found?

L: The Northern Territory.

G: No, it's completely extinct. What about the Ground Parrot?

L: The Northern Territory.

G: No, on the coasts of Queensland, New South Wales, and Victoria.

We continued in this vein for some time.

L: Well, that's excellent. Can you name a Sherlock Holmes story? One not involving hounds?

G: The Adventure of the Lion's Mane. With the jellyfish.

L: I don't know if you're right or not, but I'll assume you're right. It sounds right, anyway. What's the name of Sherlock Holmes's best friend? Well, his friend, anyway. I'm not sure Sherlock Homes does 'best friends'.

G: Oh, I know this one. It's Walter - Wallace - 

L: Yes, Sherlock Holmes and his best pal Wallace.

G: Oh, no, I remember, it's Watson.

L: That's it.

G: Yes, from the quote. 'Exemplary, my dear Watson'.

L: Um.

Book-related conversations haven't been working out for me recently. For example, less than five minutes ago the RCG entered my room while I was trying to type this. Here is the basic gist of our conversation:

(RCG enters, and, without any form of introduction, goes into her first question)

RCG: Do you know who Animal Farm is by?

L: George Orwell, I believe.

RCG: Right, do you know where it is?

L: I think he was buried some time ago, I'd be very surprised to hear that he was still walking around -

RCG: No, where is it?

L: I think it's set in England, but don't hold me to that.

RCG: You're not listening! Where is it?

L: On a farm, presumably.

RCG: Leslie! Listen! Do you know where it is?

L: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.

RCG: My copy of the book, of course, where is it?

L: OK. I had no idea you'd even heard of Animal Farm, let alone borrowed it. Or bought it. Or generally acquired it. By hopefully legal means. Why would I know where it is?

RCG: Have you taken it?

L: Do you see it anywhere around here?

(We both survey the mass of books, clothes and miscellaneous items that cover the floor of my room)

L: Well, it's not there, anyway. Why would you need to know who the author is before - 

(RCG leaves)

L: - being able to find it?

Anyway, I believe I was on the topic of CONFUSION. I included the above excerpt from my life on the basis that I was fairly confused at the time. I prefer it when I'm the confuser, rather than the confusee, personally. As with all skills, that of confusion is apt to be lost unless you practice it regularly. So I do so, especially on Chinny. Every few mornings or so, I make it my especial duty to exclaim euphorically the moment I see her, fall on her neck, explain I haven't seen her for some time, and then attempt to convince her that one or both of us has been doing an impossible and/or improbable activity. As a guide to those who want instruction in the fine art of CONFUSION, I've constructed a handy anthology of different things I've said to her over the course of these confusing mornings. They're in chronological order. At least, they should be. My memory isn't the best, as Gwen will willingly testify.

The Leslie M. Harper Anthology™ 

of Chinny's most confusing moments

(a collection that will bring enjoyment to the whole family, especially if you print it out and use the backs of the pieces of paper to play Hangman on. If you have a double sided printer, you won't get that much enjoyment. Unless you decide to read it instead. Whatever works for you)

1. 'Chinny! Thank goodness you're all right! I haven't seen you for a year! I assume you've just got back from your trip to the moon?'

'Um . . . what?'

'I did say it was foolish of you to go in a hot air balloon. Still, your own choice. What was it like?'

'Leslie, what are you talking about?

2. 'Chinny! I made it out alive! I didn't think I would, after falling down that hole.'

'I'm sorry?'

'I was walking across the oval to my bus stop yesterday when I fell down a hole to the centre of the Earth. I was stuck there for twelve hours, at least.'

'You'd burn to death, though. What are you talking about'

'No, it turns out the whole 'lava at the centre of the Earth' theory is wrong. It's actually a giant shopping complex. I fell right into the reception area. I just sat there for six hours - the receptionist was hugely unhelpful, and the water filter was broken. Eventually I took the lift.'

'You took a lift - in the middle of the Earth?'

'Yes, but it broke halfway up so I took the stairs from that point instead. They have the most bizarre interior decoration down there. It took me another six hours to get out. Actually, when I was walking up, I met this Danish guy on the stairs - the same thing had happened to him, falling to the centre of the Earth - his name was Niels, apparently.'

'Leslie, I don't know what you're talking about, but it's time for class.'

3. 'Chinny!'

'What is it - oh, no.'

'Thank goodness I've found you. I've been so worried. Promise me you'll never spend a year being medically dead again.'

'Leslie, I'm worried.'

4. 'Chinny! I'm so glad to see you made it back all right!'

'Where have I been this time?'

'Egypt, of course. Ancient Egypt. I'll never understand why you chose to spend seventeen years on holiday there, but I suppose it was your decision.'

'What - how did I get to Ancient Egypt? Where is Ancient Egypt?'

'Just north of Russia. Can I see the photos you took?'

'Leslie, why are you doing this?'

5. 'Chinny! You're alive!'

'Leslie, I don't know what you're about to say, but it never happened.'

'It's nice that you'd like me to believe that, but I know the truth. I know how you were eaten by that giant carnivorous plant. It's your own fault for going near it, I said it wasn't safe. How did you survive?'

'I don't know. It didn't happen. Leslie, that didn't happen!'

'Still, it's your own fault anyway. If you're going to illegally grow mutated plants in your secret laboratory, you can hardly blame others for the consequences.'

'Please, just tell me what you're talking about!'

6. 'Chinny!'

'No!'

Good times.

Well, we've had our library anecdotes. Rather too many of them, I think. Nowadays, it's not enough just HAVING anecdotes, you need a wide-ranging topic to bring them together. Still, what do you care? You just have to read it. Whereas I have to write it, and as I'm an insanely slow typer it's taking some time. Yes, Marie-Clare, I said I'd be done in an hour. I was being overly optimistic. Anyway. So in order not to push it, I have devoted great thought to (suddenly decided to write about) the canteen. 

For example, I have recently worked out exactly how much Paul McCartney is worth to Marie-Clare. Marie-Clare loves Wagon Wheels, which are a type of large chocolate biscuit with marshmallow and jam. You can buy them from the canteen for $1.50. Apparently - and this will shock anyone who knows her - Marie-Clare would rather have Paul McCartney's weight in Wagon Wheels than the Beatle himself. We discussed this for a little, and eventually decided that the exchangeable ratio of Wagon Wheels to Paul is about three-quarters of his bodyweight. I worked on these assumptions:

1. Each Wagon Wheel weighs around 50g (I'm assuming this because it says so on the packet)

2. Paul McCartney weighs around 80kg (at least, he did when he was in the Beatles, which is when Marie-Clare likes him. I have to say, 'how much does paul mccartney weigh' is one of the strangest things I've ever googled)

3. The cost of a Wagon Wheel is $1.50 AUS (you're going to have to take my word on this one)

So. 1600 Wagon Wheels would weigh the same as Paul McCartney, meaning 1200 would be three-quarters of his weight. This is a total of $1800. Some people say Paul McCartney is worth many millions. Well, we know better. He's worth slightly less than $2000, and no more.

I've also worked out what Marie-Clare's future life will be like. I put it to her in the line for the canteen (where she very shortly bought a Wagon Wheel). I've put Marie-Clare's interjections in so you can see how it COULD have been, and how it ended up:

L: Next year, in Year 11, 25 will see you and realise that your creepy, stalker-ish behaviour is actually a sign of true love. You will leave high school early, elope together, and marry.

MC: Not without graduating from school.

L: You will graduate from high school, elope together, and marry. Not having money, you will be forced to live in a caravan park.

MC: I'm not living in a caravan park!

L: You will live in a caravan park. You've eloped, you're not rolling in cash. You will manage the shop in the caravan park while 25 works in the coal mines.

MC: I'd rather be rich.

L: That's not an option. During your time in the caravan park, you will have numerous children.

MC: Oh, no. I hate children. If I have children I'll drown them.

L: Um. Yes. All right, you sell these children to people who want them in order to pay for your caravan.

MC: All right, that's OK, I suppose.

L: Until, that is, you are arrested and sent to gaol for selling children.

MC: But they wouldn't care. They're children. And I'd give them to people who wanted them.

L: Not to worry! 25 will bake you a cake with a file inside it. A metal file, not a nail file, or one of those paper files. A paper file would get soggy inside a cake.

MC: Yes, but I'm not sure 25 can cook. Perhaps he could buy a cake.

L: Yes, he'd buy a cake, saw it in half, and hide the file inside it. You would file through the bars of your prison cell at night and escape back to 25, who would then steal a car and drive with you to Las Vegas.

MC: No, we'd drive to Los Osos.

L: Lososos?

MC: L-O-S O-S-O-S.

L: OK. Los Osos. There, you will start a casino.

MC: I suggested Los Osos because that's where 25 is from.

L: Good.

MC: It's in California.

L: OK. When the police catch up to you, you will sell your casino and buy a helicopter. You and 25 will crash it and fake your own deaths. You will then go to Switzerland, where you will buy fake IDs, and then move to Liverpool and sell Beatles memorabilia. You will discover that your children have grown up and become rich and famous during this time, and buy them back to live off their incomes.

MC: We don't have any money. What do we buy them back with?

L: Well, the original holder of 25's new - fake - passport was the prince of Denmark. When the old king dies, 25 will inherit the large fortune that goes with the throne.

MC: All right. Then what?

L: Then you, being quite famous yourself by this point - or do I mean infamous? - will write your autobiography. Or rather, you will be quite busy by this point, so you can hire me from the newspaper I'll be working for, and I can ghost-write it for you.

MC: Yes, you can call it How we met. As described, it will be about how 25 and I met.

L: In fact, I might start it soon. Seeing as we know exactly how it's going to happen, the sooner it's done, the better. Then you can publish it as soon as you get to Liverpool.

MC: Sounds sensible. Oh - we're at the front of the line.

It was a very, very long line. Anyway, expect How we met to be in all good bookstores soon.

You might be wondering why I was lining up with Marie-Clare when I had no actual money to spend myself. Well, that's how we do things at our school. Today, I, Midgie, Lala, Ames, and Marie-Clare were all in a single line. It was quite a long one, and Ames was delighted to see that one of the other lines was moving far faster. 'Marie-Clare, come and line up in this one with me, we'll be done sooner.'

They both moved. Marie-Clare hastily turned to me. 'Leslie, you're not buying anything, can you hold my place in this line in case the other one starts getting slower?'

I was happy to do so, and I stayed with Lala and Midgie as we moved inexorably towards the front of the line. 'Which one of you is buying something?' I asked aimlessly.

'I'm not.'

'Neither am I.

'Then - why are you lining up?'

'We came with Ames.'

'Ah.'

The line had built up behind us rather dramatically, and there was no quick method of escape. The counter was suddenly right in front of us.

Time for some quick thinking. 'Oh, no!' I said loudly. 'I don't have my wallet. It must be in my bag. Yes, it's not here. What a pity, because that means I can't buy anything. I definitely would have bought something if I had money, but as it is -'

And with that, I ran. Lala and Midgie followed nimbly behind me. I personally think I did quite well, given the circumstances. Yes, I'll never make an actor, but I'll live. There was no call for them to laugh at me to such a degree. Still, it's always nice to make people laugh. Although I tend to prefer it if they don't do it to my face. Better for the self-esteem, don'tcha know.

Later that lunchtime, they actually began giving out free food (if only they'd been doing it when I'd pulled my wallet trick!). I've a feeling it was because it was the end of Health Week. They'd been serving unduly healthy food all week, and they still had some left, and so decided to give it to us. I got a Caesar salad. I must learn how to make it. It's about time we had a 'Leslie's Recipes: Caesar Salad', don't you think? Gwen had pasta. She opened the box suspiciously. 'Look at this!'

Vyvyan and I examined it closely.

'Looks like pasta.'

'It is pasta.'

'So, what's wrong with it?'

'Look!'

She jabbed a fork viciously into a piece of pasta (for some reason they only give out forks in the canteen). It splintered. The pasta, not the fork. The fork just bent. 'Look! It's still frozen!'

Healthy? I'm so sure. Deep-frozen pasta isn't in any of the food groups.

Unless you take it literally, in which case yes, it's in the carbohydrate group. That doesn't mean you can eat it, though.

I also discovered a useful technique for disconcerting people who are trying to eat yoghurt (which they'd also gotten free from the canteen).

'And lo! The prophet Vyvyan did take the fork, and put it into the yoghurt. For the canteen staff, the original sinners, had only given her a fork with which to consume the product. They are not welcome in the kingdom of Heaven of our Lord Vyvyan. For the fork is the devil, sent to try us, while the yoghurt is purity, and the strange passionfruity pulp on top is the tangy religious goodness we need in our lives. Behold! It is the first miracle of the book of Vyvyan! The holy one has eaten the yoghurt with the fork! We bow to her, in the hopes that we, too -'

'SHUT UP, LESLIE!'

'And the chosen one did show her rage by spraying yoghurt elegantly across the table. And her followers were liberally coated in a mixture of dairy, passionfruit and the holy saliva of our Lord -'

'Be quiet or I'll drag you off that seat.'

'So spake Vyvyan, as she displayed her almighty wrath. For we are yoghurt in the plastic cup that is our world, and she is -'

At this point, I was dragged off the seat and decided to stop the religious stuff for a bit.

Confusion is all very well at times. But it's not always worth it.

The Case of the Mysterious Fortune Cookies

A mystery, fit for the likes Sherlock Holmes or Lord Peter Wimsey, is unfolding here at school. Everyone is a suspect, from the meanest passer-by to the victims themselves. Each day, another clue. Each clue, another tantalising hint as to the identity of . . .

CHARLIE THE UNICORN

(or, the Master of the Fortune Cookies)

It was a stormy night, insofar as it was neither stormy nor, if you get right down to it, night time. I was, in the best tradition of Sherlock Holmes, reclining on a bench. Not that Sherlock Holmes ever reclined on a bench. He did a lot of reclining, though, and I'm sure if he had ever found a bench, he would have made damn sure to recline on it. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, I wasn't playing the violin, taking cocaine or pretending to be an opium fiend. If it makes you feel any better, though, you can pretend I was.

Twas on this fateful night (or rather, lunchtime) that Aviator approached me, wielding his phone. 'Leslie, look at these strange texts I've been getting.'

I did so. The first one said 'Charlie! Charlie! I'm Charlie the unicorn!'

They got stranger after that. I am unable to recall the exact wording. Also, some of the wording I do recall is unfit to be published. However, the general gist of the matter is this.

The alleged unicorn intends to go back in time and get Hitler's autograph. How, I am unable to disclose. But to complete this noble goal, Charlie needs a Stalin-esque moustache, and he - or she - needs Aviator's help to get this.

His first thought was of a friend of ours who has a thing about Hitler. The other day, she drew a Hitler moustache on her finger, placed it under her nose, stood outside the window of Mr W's history classroom (we always eat lunch on the benches in front of his window) and sieg heiled for a good five to ten minutes in the hope that he'd look up. Unfortunately, he was thoroughly involved in marking papers and didn't look up once. As you can see, we had valid grounds for accusing this friend (whom I shall now on refer to as Hitler, as she asked for it especially. She's certainly making it difficult for me. Unlike a friend of hers, who asked to be known as Bob Dylan henceforth). However, we soon ruled her out. Aviator knew her phone number, and it didn't match that of the mysterious unicorn.

It was at this point that I, using my great deductive skill, began to suspect that what we were dealing with here was more or less than a unicorn. In short, I started to have the faintest inkling that Charlie was not, in fact, a member of the magical horse family. Yes, I was accusing him - or her - of being a liar. Harsh, but fair. There was one insurmountable piece of evidence against him or her (look, I'm just going to type 'her' from now on, it takes less time and it makes me feel less like I'm re-enforcing the sexist stereotype that all master criminals have to be male). Unicorns can't type. What's more, I doubt many of them own mobile phones. What would they keep them in? You can't tell me that unicorns have started to wear jackets now.

There was more to this intriguing mystery. After Aviator received the first texts, he had replied asking what he would get in return for the moustache. The so-called unicorn had quickly texted back, saying that Aviator would receive a fortune cookie to help him on his quest within the next few days from one of Charlie's minions. Unsurprisingly, we scoffed at this. Aviator then confided his suspicions.

He believed it was from my sister, the RCG. To which I replied: no. For one thing, her phone number's different to Charlie's. Also she's not called Charlie.

He agreed with me, and we parted ways. That is to say, we hung around for a good few minutes after that discussing Lox and whether or not he's going to be expelled (we're all hoping not, obviously). But we parted ways after that.

Later the same day, however, came news of a sudden discovery. A red box had been discovered in Giuseppe's locker - and it contained both a fortune cookie and a note. Giuseppe, Aviator, and I all crowded around. While the fortune cookie appeared to be a normal fortune cookie (well, it's a biscuit that's MEANT to have paper cooked inside it - it's not that normal), the note was far from it. Written in heavily disguised writing, it asked Aviator to draw a moustache on a bit of paper, cut it out, and leave it in Giuseppe's locker. We examined it closely. I thought the writing looked like a cross between Shoelace's and Giuseppe's, but as it was disguised it was fairly hard to tell. It could have been Giuseppe, of course: it's always the person you least suspect. But as soon as I began to suspect Giuseppe, that meant someone else was the person I suspected least. I don't know who thought of that theory, but it doesn't work at ALL. Anyway, Giuseppe thought it looked like the handwriting of a boy in our year, but decided, in hindsight, that it actually didn't. Aviator's contribution to this investigation was to chase people, force them to smell the box - which had now been revealed as a perfume box - and ask whether it smelt like men or women's perfume. Unfortunately, it was the end of school by this point and we were forced to leave for fear of missing our respective buses.

The next day, I arrived to find Giuseppe unusually complacent. She had opened her locker to discover yet another fortune cookie, this one meant for her, complete with a note thanking her for the use of her locker (the unwary reader may be a little surprised at how Charlie managed to get into Giuseppe's locker. Well, her locker combination is an open secret among her friends. Even I know it. And I can barely remember my own. I forgot it once, and had to search the school to find someone who knew it). What's more, she'd been considering it, and thought she knew who the person was. Unfortunately, she wouldn't tell me. She did give me the fortune from the middle of her cookie. It said 'Ask the right questions and you'll get the right answers'. I took this as a sign. But she still wouldn't tell me.

The next day, Aviator had received another note, again through Giuseppe's locker. This one thanked him for the moustache. It seems Charlie has now left us, presumably to go and get Hitler's autograph. Good luck to her, I say. As long as the real Stalin doesn't turn up while she's trying to fool our friend Adolf, she's in with a good chance. Assuming she's managed to build a time machine. The fact that they can time travel could give us some useful hints as to their identity. It may be this person:

But, then again, I was never a Tennant fan. It's just as likely to be this person:

As we all know, the Eleventh Doctor is far superior to the Tenth. I was actually having a long argument with Falcon about this the other day. He and Peanut ganged up on me. Marie-Clare and Ames are generally on my side regarding this crucial issue, but Marie-Clare wasn't there at the time, and Ames has never actually watched any of the episodes. She just likes Matt Smith because I told her he wears suspenders. Which he does. And which are far superior to whatever David Tennant used to stop his trousers from falling down on set. Anyway, Aviator was involved in the argument too, but he kept swapping sides to confuse and perplex us. Eventually we got to the point Peanut and I invariably get to when discussing the Tenth Doctor vs. Eleventh Doctor problem, which is yelling at each other and ignoring whatever the other person says. Falcon eventually looked on the library computers (yes, we were in the library at the time. MBD? Probably). 'It says here there's a book in the library about Doctor Who. We'll look at that, and then we'll see who's right.'

'You can't,' I said. 'I borrowed it on Tuesday. For my brother,' I added hastily, as all eyes turned to me.

'Well, look at it when you get home and you'll see that David Tennant is the best by far!'

We kept this argument going all the way out of the library, and part of the way into our locker areas. Unfortunately I was so involved in making what I considered to be a vital point in my argument I accidentally collided sharply with someone coming the other way. Aviator found this so amusing he spent the rest of the day pretending to walk into walls when talking to me. ARE THOSE THE ACTIONS OF A SANE MAN? In short, someone, who can be trusted in making important decisions Matt Smith/David Tennant-wise? I think not. Besides, we all know I'm right.

Anyway, that is the mystery as it currently stands. We know the perpetrator reads this blog because one of the texts said something along the lines of 'Hello Aviator, yes, that's right, I read Leslie's blog'. Who knows if this post will encourage or discourage her. Only time will tell.

And so, dear readers (also less dear ones; I wouldn't want you to feel left out), I am forced to leave you at this deeply suspenseful moment. But fear not! No doubt an update is coming soon on the . . . 

CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS FORTUNE COOKIES

Survival of the Fittest

September at last. There's something on the breeze, something pervading the atmosphere and infiltrating the air we breathe. Something is looming up on the horizon, something we can't help but be aware of, teacher and student alike . . .
No, it's not spring, although that's certainly here. I'm referring to the Athletics Carnival.
Yes, time, once again, for that joyous day. The day on which we turn up at the sports stadium, sporting house colours, some of us wearing the appropriate track pants and jumpers, more of us shivering in the so-called spring weather wishing we were wearing track pants and jumpers. The house captains are invariably dressed up for this year's theme, a different one for each house, wondering why nobody else bothered to make an effort (some people have forgotten. Most people just don't care). Then come the events themselves. This part of the year is always intriguing. I've devoted some thought to it, and I think it can mostly be summed up with a basic maths equation. The number of events you actually do is, almost always, less than the number you signed up for, but more than the number you want to do. There are a couple of exceptions to this rule, of course. There are, surprisingly, the people who really care about the Carnival. You're going to have to take my word for this, because I haven't met one yet, but circumstantial evidence has convinced me that their existence is a definite possibility. The far larger category is of people who are so phenomenally, amazingly weak-willed they can be persuaded by a relatively determined house captain to go into events they haven't a clue about, and have no wish to do. I belong unashamedly to this category. I think the problem is that I'm very suggestible. With most things, I can evaluate what I know about the person to figure out if they're telling the truth or not. For example, part of the way through the day Shoelace attempted to convince me that David Tennant was, and is, a hugely successful porn star. Thanks to what I know about Shoelace, I could then be fairly certain this wasn't true. With people I don't know as well, however, I go all to bits. It was even worse on the day when I was actually signing up for events (a good week before). Marie-Clare and Gwen are both in my house, Acacia of the yellow shirt, but Marie-Clare is the only one in my age-group (well, obviously there are other Acacians in my age group. Marie-Clare is the only one to have received a nickname). Anyway, unfortunately for me, 25 is also in Acacia. In fact, that's the way she discovered him. During the cross country, she nudged me and pointed out a boy, playing soccer with his friends, his back to us, and the number '25' on the back of his shirt. Since then she's been smitten. Marie-Clare was convinced that the better we did for our house, the more impressed 25 would be with her. So she signed up for discus, triple jump, and high jump. I went up to the sign-up board convinced that all I wanted to do was 200m. What came afterwards is rather a blur. All you need to know is that by the end of it I'd been signed up for 100m, 200m, triple jump, high jump, and was the reserve for 400m.
So, obviously, I wasn't looking forward to the day itself. I made it to the stadium with an unusually low number of false starts - my father has a thing about sun-protection, and drove us back home when he realised we didn't have hats - and chatted amiably to Vyvan. We discussed the people who hadn't bothered to turn up - GIUSEPPE, LALA, ARIANE, NESS, and AVIATOR, you know who you are - and the newfound relationship between Ames and Lox. They've had an on/off friendship for a good number of years, and they finally got it together this weekend. I sincerely doubt either of them read this, but just in case, congratulations, people. In a short space of time, during which I accidentally married Shoelace, adopted Vyvyan's younger brother, and re-named him Carey (for a short space of time, it was unusually full), the day had begun. Oh, joy of joys. I skipped the 100m and sat on the (fake) grass with Shoelace, Gwen, Midge, Vyvyan, Marie-Clare, and Ames. I read a draft of Shoelace's history essay. She'd misspelt Hitler's name. That's all you need to know. I did actually compliment her on a description she'd written of one of Germany's art galleries. She replied with 'Oh, that bit? Yeah, I copied it off a website.' Enough said.
I was somehow persuaded into running the 400m, which took a bit out of me. I came in at an honourable eighth position. Of the eight people running the race. To replenish my strength I read part of Stephen Fry's autobiography. Yes, it sounds sad, but I wasn't being half as antisocial as Peanut was. She spent the whole day reading a book, no races, no track events. She was actually sitting in a whole row of people reading. She was at one end and a teacher, Mr W, was at the other. Whenever I went to talk to Peanut he shouted down the row 'No socialising down there! This is the reading row. For antisocial behaviour only'. Eventually Peanut and I went up to the canteen so she could buy some M&Ms. We then spent an instructive ten minutes figuring out whether or not we could taste the difference between the blue ones and the normal ones, after Ames had explained that she liked all colours but blue. I could. Peanut couldn't. You see, this is the kind of thing we'd be far better off learning in schools. Although it wouldn't really help with the national obesity crisis.

I then ran the 200m. I may have come last. Again. But at least I maintained my dignity, unlike Peanut, who didn't move from her bench after the M&M excursion. Yes, there's nothing like throwing yourself around a circular track, wheezing pathetically and attempting to keep up with the other, infinitely fitter people powering along in front of you, then passing the finish line to collapse, curled in a foetal position, on the (fake) grass, to really give you a sense of dignity. Lucky, lucky Peanut.

I missed the high jump due the fact that the 200m was on at the same time. Tragic. No, really. Marie-Clare skipped the high jump too. She decided to regale her exhausted senses with a trip to the coffee van that was parked conveniently next to the canteen of the stadium we were at. This was one of the harder points of the day. Marie-Clare, while one of my greatest friends, and possessed of innumerable good qualities, has one major fault. She is incapable of making even the smallest decision. Actually, that's not true. She's great at coming to decisions. So good she can make up to ten or twenty of them before reaching a definite conclusion. In this case, Vyvyan and I followed her to the coffee van, which was, as it happens, quite fortuitous, as otherwise I suspect she would have been there for a good fifteen to twenty years.

MARIE-CLARE (MC): What do I want from here?

VYVYAN (V): It's a coffee van. How about coffee?

MC: No, I don't like coffee.

LESLIE (L): Why don't you buy a biscuit?

V: You should buy a hot chocolate, then.

MC: The iced chocolates look nice as well.

V: But it's freezing! You can't buy iced chocolate!

L: I think you should buy a biscuit. Look, that one's got chocolate on it

MC: I still think I want to buy an iced chocolate.

V: All right. You do what you want.

MC: Oh . . . but they're quite expensive, aren't they?

V: Quite expensive, yes.

L: The biscuits aren't too expensive.

MC: I think I'll have a hot chocolate instead.

(We line up to buy a hot chocolate. Marie-Clare peers over the shoulder of the person in front of her)

MC: What's he buying?

V: I think that's an iced chocolate.

MC: Look, the iced chocolates have cream on top. Why don't I buy one of them?

L: You know what goes well with iced chocolate? Biscuits.

MC: I suppose I could just buy a medium one. Hang on - they look tiny! I'll have to buy a large one.

V: So buy a large one.

MC: But they're so expensive. Maybe a medium.

V: We're nearly at the front of the queue. You'll have to make up your mind.

MC: Oh, I'll have to buy a hot chocolate. Yes, a hot chocolate. It's cheaper, and the weather's right for it.

V: If you're sure.

L: Biscuits go incredibly well with hot chocolate as well. You should try it.

V: I don't care about biscuits.

L: What kind of an attitude is that? I just think she should buy a biscuit.

V: I don't think - hey, that biscuit has sprinkles on it! It's like a giant chocolate freckle!

MC: You're not helping. So I want a hot - no, an iced - no, definitely a hot chocolate that's medium - or can I afford large?

SERVER (S): So, what did you want?

MC: Um . . . nothing. I'm going to the canteen instead.

(She heads out of the line for the coffee van and lines up for the canteen. Vyvyan and I trail along behind her)

MC: What do I want from here? Do you think they sell drinks here?

V: No. Just buy some chips. Or Skittles.

L: Hey, look what they're selling here! Biscuits!

MC: But everything is so expensive!

V: It's up to you.

L: Listen! This is my favourite song! They're playing my favourite song on the radio!

(I listen for a bit)

L: No, this isn't my favourite song.

MC: I don't even really want anything from here anyway.

V: What do you want?

MC: I want an iced chocolate.

(She leaves the canteen line and re-enters the line for the coffee van. As always, Vyvyan and I follow her)

MC: So I'm going to get a hot chocolate.

L: I thought you wanted an iced chocolate?

MC: No, they're too expensive. Unless - could I get a medium one?

V: MAKE A DECISION! PLEASE!

MC: What do you think I should get? I don't know!

L: You should buy a biscuit.

V: Get a hot chocolate. It's better weather for it.

L: Or, as I was about to say, a hot chocolate. Buy a large hot chocolate and have done with it. Unless you feel the need to buy a biscuit as well. In which case, I'm not going to hold you back.

MC: A hot chocolate, then? You think so?

V: Yes. Buy it now.

MC: I will.

(The line moves forward until Marie-Clare is in front of the server)

MC: I want a hot - or should I get an iced chocolate?

L & V: NO!

MC: A large iced chocolate, please.

(She watches them make it, anxiously)

MC: Or maybe I should get -

L: It's too late, Marie-Clare! Stay with your iced chocolate!

V: Are we done?

(Marie-Clare is given her iced chocolate. We walk along as she drinks it)

V: How is it?

MC: It's excellent. I knew this was the one to buy.

(Vyvan and I share a deep and meaningful look)

The day was finished off quite nicely with a round of triple jump for Marie-Clare and myself (that is to say, there were others involved. Marie-Clare and I were the only ones from the proud house of Acacia). The only other nicknamer [person with a blog nickname. I've gotten sick of having to type 'person with a blog nickname' every time] there was Shoelace, who was competing for her house, Karri of the navy-blue. It was raining slightly at this point so we were forced to huddle in a public toilet until our turn came. Dignity. Always dignity. We went alphabetically - that is to say, alphabetically by house, and then by last name. Acacia is the first house, and Marie-Clare's surname is before mine, so she was first, I second. She went quite well, qualifying with her first jump. I believe she came fifth or sixth overall. My jump was less spectacular. Well, I didn't know you were supposed to jump before the line. I thought you could jump on it. I was automatically disqualified. What a day! Last in two events, disqualified in a third. I wasn't feeling overly dignified by this point. Still, Shoelace disqualified too - by about a metre over the line - so I had company.

The day closed about fifteen minutes earlier than schooldays do normally, which was nice. Unfortunately, we still had to hand around to clean up. Part of this involved removing all scraps of rubbish from the benches we were sitting on. I had regained morale after my disastrous day competition-wise, and decided, instead of picking them up and putting them in the bin, to crush two M&Ms with the sole of my shoe. Gwen watched me sceptically. I was astounded to notice that the sweets failed to break, even after a good ten or twelve goes. Yaz had also been watching me critically. 'No, you've got to get them with the heel of your shoe. Like this.' He stepped on them confidently, then examined the still-whole M&Ms carefully. Milly, his twin sister, stepped in. 'Perhaps you're not doing it hard enough.' No - even that failed to do it. I swear I stayed there for a good five minutes, and the things refused to give in. Forget the Athletics Carnival. This was serious. Eventually I collapsed on a bench, defeated by cheap confectionary.

Yaz came up once more and devoted a closer look to the M&Ms. One was orange and one yellow. 'Um - Leslie?'

'Yes?'

'Those aren't M&Ms.'

'What?'

'They're Skittles. They're virtually indestructible.'

Well. I, for one, intend to write an extremely stern letter to the relevant authorities as to the necessity of being able to tell M&Ms and Skittles apart. Either that, or insist we have Skittle-breaking competitions in the next Athletics Carnival.

I considered this on the walk home. This had clearly not been a good day. What could I do, in order to maintain my dignity for the next year?

I paused this thought briefly when I saw someone in a passing car who looked exactly like Chas Licciardello. After Gwen had assured me that it couldn't be him, and had gone back to muttering deprecatingly about my state of mind, I resumed my train of thought.

I needed to get fit. Not to lose weight - I, for one, can easily be mistaken for an anorexic hat rack. I make up for it by being the slowest thing on two legs since the penguin was invented. I tend to base my running style on that of this superb animal as well. Well, that would have to change. As of the next day, I would become good at exercise, and sports, and all those other appalling physical things that no sane person cares about.

This resolution lasted me right up until second period of the proceeding day.

PE is never good for me. PE when we're outside is worse. PE when we go outside the school boundaries is exceedingly awful. And PE in which we get bicycles and ride to neighbouring suburbs is, as I like to put it, Completely, Ridiculously, Amazingly Pointless.

I hadn't ridden a bicycle in some months. This was made astoundingly clear to one and all as soon as I got on my bike, rode a few metres, and was unsurprised to find myself wobbling all over the road. This is quite similar to my driving technique. At a shout from my PE teacher, I turned around. She was running up behind me. 'Leslie!'

'What?'

'You've got the handlebars the wrong way round!'

And I hadn't even got out of the school yet.

Vyvyan, Ames, and Midge are all in my PE class. Unfortunately Ames and Midge are Slightly Less Able Class Kompanions (sorry for that K), and are Extremely, Reluctantly Slow. They decided not to turn up with their PE gear. I'd forgotten to bring my PE shirt, but borrowed a spare one from Giuseppe. The ride was painful. I'm not used to riding with multiple gears. At one point we went off-road for a bit, and I was confronted with a large, muddy puddle covering the whole trail we were supposed to be following. The sensible thing to do at this point would have been to (a) put the brakes on and (b) move carefully through the puddle. What I did was (a) mistake the handbrake for the gear changer and (b) speed up, careening madly through the puddle and spraying myself and those around me with a liberal coating of mud. At one point I nearly fell off going up a slight hill. Luckily I didn't, as I might have been killed. Imagine what they would have to have put on my grave: 'HERE LIES LESLIE M. HARPER. TAKEN FROM US IN THE 2010TH YEAR OF OUR LORD BY A DECEIVINGLY GENTLE SLOPE. WE HOPE SHE IS IN A BETTER PLACE, PREFERABLY ONE WITH NO BICYCLES'. I remember, at one point, my teacher thought it would be a good idea to go and ride around in an abandoned carpark. While I swerved randomly, gritting my teeth, I heard the student in front of me laughing with carefree abandon. 'This is fun!' she yelled. 'Just like riding a car!'

'No, it's not,' I called back firmly. 'I haven't driven into anything yet. Although goodness knows how I've been so lucky.'

I was incredibly relieved to make it back to our school bike sheds without any other major incident occurring and crippling me. I got changed, wiped most of the dirt off my countenance, and presented Giuseppe with her shirt back in the hope that she wouldn't notice the mud-stains (although now I've published that on the internet, I doubt she can help but notice. Sorry, Giuseppe. I'll wash it for you if you want). Never again, I swear. From now on, I'll stick to netball.

Netball is a sport I've been playing since year 7. At the moment, Marie-Clare is on my team. Our training begins at five in the afternoon, one day a week. As school ends at 3:30, this gives us an hour and a half free, normally spent in the library. There are any number of interesting things to do there, contrary to what you might think. 

For example, they've taken down the picture of Hugh Laurie. Travesty, I know. I've been thinking of getting a petition up to bring it back. I probably won't, although anyone else is welcome to. They've replaced it with one of Stephen Hawking. When Marie-Clare discovered this, she folded up into a gentle heap beneath the new poster and moaned for a good couple of minutes. She then stood up, brushed herself off, said 'I'm actually a big fan of Stephen Hawking' and left. If only we could all get over loss that quickly. The Twilight poster is still there, although there is now a Batman one near it. Peanut was thrilled.

Another thing we did before netball this week was to re-enact John Lennon's death scene in the 800-900 row of the nonfiction section. I was Mark Chapman. Marie-Clare was the Beatle himself. Lala was Yoko Ono. Apple provided a surprisingly convincing Sean Lennon. So far as I know, it's the only death scene ever in which the victim turned to the potential murderer after a single shot and yelled 'It's five shots! John Lennon was shot five times! You have to shoot me again!'

Netball training itself paled in comparison. The keeping-fit plan is not going to be a successful one, I fear. Take right now. I could be out exercising. Instead I'm sitting at home, listening to my blue iPod and typing this. Still, who needs it? Physical Education is, I'm sure, occasionally useful, but I wouldn't like to live there.

And I can say this confidently, with the knowledge that it is still a year until the next Athletics Carnival.