The Day

Today was the day. Or rather, The Day.

Or, to be even more specific, Aviator's day.

It was the middle of lunch, and Giuseppe and I had just entered the grass area where a good part of my year group invariably spend their free time. Aviator was standing in the centre of the lawn, holding a banana peel and looking at us solemnly. He said 'Today's the day, I can feel it. Watch this.'

This seemed to mean something to Giuseppe, as she immediately stopped to watch; I did the same thing, although at this point I had no idea what he was on about. Aviator turned and threw the banana peel towards the bin (and luckily not in the direction we were in), which, as we estimated later, was a good twelve metres at the very least. The peel arced gently across the lawn, bounced off a wall, and landed exactly in the bin.

Aviator promptly turned around, hi-fived Giuseppe, and cheered 'Today was the day! It's the day! At last!'

I was still confused. Luckily, Giuseppe took a moment to fill me in.

According to Giuseppe, virtually every day, for the past year, Aviator has valiantly attempted to get his rubbish in the bin from at least ten metres away (I'm not sure why. It can't be laziness, as after he's thrown it he has to go and pick the rubbish up from wherever it's fallen to throw it away properly). And every day, for the past year, he's missed.

'You can tell this is a big deal,' Giuseppe added when all this had been duly explained. 'That's only the third time I've hi-fived Aviator in my life. The first time was by accident. The second was when I made that call about how Aviators have never gone out of fashion at your Doctor Who competition.'

She and Aviator then discussed the awesomeness of Aviators (as in, the glasses) for some minutes, so I'll resume the conversation after that happened.

'You should write about this on your blog,' enthused Aviator. 'I think I'm making a bad impression. Last time you represented me as a pervert who has a thing for Doctor Who actresses.'

'That's what you are,' Giuseppe pointed out.

'What's wrong with some more flattering descriptions?' he replied indignantly. 'What about "Aviator, with his sense of style and rugged good looks . . ."'

Giuseppe and I both assured him that there was no way that description of him would make it on to the blog (in Giuseppe's case, quite forcefully). 'All the same, though,' said Giuseppe after we'd finished, 'I think you should write about it. We should give this day a name.'

'Really? I thought it was just "The Day",' I said doubtfully. 'Anyway, I don't think I'm going to write about it.'

Look how that turned out. Anyway, back to today.

'I like "The Day",' Giuseppe agreed.

'It's The Day. Nothing can go wrong today,' said Aviator happily, going off to boast of his astonishing feat to the others.

And so, here we are with 'The Day'. It's not only Aviator, in fact. It's become quite a sport recently to throw things in the bin from a distance away, but with a different conclusion. It's called 'Pants-off'. You shout somebody's name, throw something in the bin, and if you get it in, they have to take their pants off. It's not complicated. And, speaking as someone who has now seen Aviator, Lox and Cuttlefish remove their trousers on separate occasions, it's honestly not that pleasant, either. It's actually extremely unpleasant. Even dwelling on it is causing painful flashbacks ('The pastiness! My God, the pastiness!') so I'm going to stop now.

The fact that everyone is throwing things doesn't excuse Aviator from doing bizarre things. As with all my friends, he is still a Stranger Thing. On Friday I happened to be walking past him when he stopped, shoved a piece of folded paper into my hand, muttered 'I have completed my task. The prophecy is complete,' and took off. When I unfolded it I found a picture of a wheelchair. It was, in fact, this picture, although the one he gave me was in black and white and was far more pixellated.

I had to wait until this morning to ask about it. Even then, he refused to say anything beyond 'The prophecy is complete. It is now your responsibility.' Personally, I'm convinced he's doing it purely to annoy the hell out of me. I could be wrong, though. If we wake up tomorrow to discover that the whole world is slowly and painfully burning up, then it may possibly be due to the fact that I didn't pass the picture on to the person it was intended for. Either that, or global warming is progressing WAY faster than previously expected.

Anyway, the point is that I wasn't entirely ready to believe Aviator when he said 'This is an auspicious day. Everything after this moment is going to go perfectly.' Although, to be honest, I could do with an auspicious day. My own weekend was particularly inauspicious in parts.

I was recruited - even I'm not totally sure how - to help with the 'pre-loved clothing' stall at the school fete they were having at my primary school. Don't get me started on 'pre-loved' clothing. What's wrong with 'second-hand'? Is it just a marketing technique? Do these fete-runners think we're more likely to buy 'pre-loved' than 'second-hand'? If so, I'm not sure it's working. I personally am relatively happy to purchase clothing which I know has been previously owned. I'm not so sure about clothes that have been 'loved'. What does loving entail? It may be something perfectly innocent, like that the previous owner wore the item of clothing every day of their life until they regretfully decided to pass it on. Or possibly died (maybe even while they were wearing the item of clothing), and then had it passed on for them. Makes you want to go right out and buy it, doesn't it?

Not that anyone would have wanted to buy this stuff, as most of it was memorabilia from the late seventies and early eighties. Velvet sparkly shirts, retro flower prints, a weird kind of faux-leopard skin jacket I saw three people try on, but which nobody bought. You could tell that all the parents of the little kids had just gone through their wardrobes, gone 'Well, I haven't worn this since I was in my twenties, you never know, maybe it's cool again - I'll give it to the clothing stall.' Which, apart from anything else, doesn't exactly fit as 'loved clothing'. I appreciate I'm not an expert in these things. A casual remark in my third-ever post about 'Aviators supposedly coming back into fashion' prompted a debate that is enduring even now. But surely, I thought, no one would want to buy a black velvet singlet with a huge number of diamantes glued to it, as well as the numerous glue spots where the diamantes had fallen off?

I was wrong, actually, the singlet was one of the first things to go. But I believe the general theory was sound. The problem was with the customers.

Oh, yes, and something else about the 'pre-loved' clothing stall that weirded me out a little (or a lot, if I'm going to be honest): the underwear. Yes, previously 'loved' underwear. Sound tempting? No? Why not?

Luckily there was a second-hand (NOT pre-loved) book stall right next to it, as well as a white elephant stall on the other side, so I spent as much time as possible escaping from the hand-knitted belts and ski jackets and in those stalls instead. The book stall was especially good. I bought the Chaser Annual from 2007 for $2. It was in extremely good condition, and I was convinced I'd got an awesome deal until Aviator told me about what his older brother had managed to do at the stall, later in the day. Apparently he'd just brought a shopping trolley along with him and filled it with all the leather-bound textbooks he could find. They charged him $1. He paid them $10 (clearly Aviator's brother has a greater social conscience than Aviator does) and filled up his bookshelves in the hope that it looked impressive. Then again, this story is from 'Yes, Leslie, my grandad is the Grand-High-Freemason of Australia' Aviator, and therefore cannot be relied upon.

On the other side of the clothing stall, as I've previously mentioned, was a white elephant stall. The high point of my day was when an eight- or nine-year-old girl, having had several Barbies (as well as one Ken) pointed out to her by a woman who was presumably her mother, went 'Let me get this straight - there's four of the girls, and one guy? That's a bit dodgy, isn't it?'

The lowest point of the day was probably watching my dad, brother and uncle playing in a band. My dad was the guitarist. My brother (Drummer Boy) was the back-up drummer. My uncle was extremely noticeable insofar as he was wearing a bright pink-and-aqua Hawaiian shirt I could have sworn he'd bought from the pre-loved clothing stall. Also, he was playing a banjo. An extremely stylish man, my uncle. Luckily there were about eight people in the band altogether (they were playing mostly Irish folk tunes), and much of the crowd's attention was being given to the ten-year-old accordion player, so I was saved from any major embarrassment.

So, given that my weekend, if interesting, was not overly enjoyable, I think it's about time I got something back. I know it's nearly the end of today, which wasn't that amazing either. The most interesting thing (apart from The Exciting Adventures of Aviator and his Rubbish-Throwing Abilities) was watching Mr W's novel way of dealing with students who yell outside his classroom when he's trying to teach. It consists of going outside, yelling at the student in question (in this case, it was a student called - well, not actually called, but this is what I'm going to call him - Arch), and then dragging said student back into the classroom and introducing him to the crowd of Year Eights. It worked extremely efficiently. I for one am never going to yell outside Mr W's classroom. Or wolfwhistle at Mr W, which is what Aviator nearly did once (a few weeks ago, Marie-Clare, Giuseppe and I had persuaded Aviator to wolfwhistle at the next person who came around the corner. It turned out to be Mr W. It's probably lucky Aviator managed to stop himself in time, as that could have gotten extremely awkward). Anyway, I think I'm about due for something amazing to happen. Like the news that The Beatles have somehow regained their youth and have decided to do a concert here. Or that Strictly Speaking will be back on TV (THEY AXED ANDREW HANSEN'S SHOW! THEY AXED IT! Well, they say they're 'moving it to another time slot, on a different channel', but it's been AXED. That's it. Here's a gratuitous clip of Andrew Hansen doing his stuff, just to keep us all sane).

Anyway, as I was saying, it's unlikely that two of The Beatles are going to come back to life, or that Andrew Hansen is going to turn up outside my door holding chocolates in one hand and the complete Series 5 of Doctor Who in the other (which would be nice - although just Andrew Hansen, without the chocolates or DVDs, would be fine by me). Still, there's a couple of hours left, and I can always hope.

After all, today's the day.

The Sport of Kings

To clear up some confusion from my last post, the point of the elf joke is that it isn't supposed to make sense. I actually thought it was quite funny, but I accept I'm in the minority.

So far as I can tell, an increasingly largish number of people are starting to read my blog. Good for you. I would mention who they are, but most of them don't have nicknames yet. 

On the subject of nicknames, Ames and Midgie asked me specifically to change their names to (respectively) Sharona and Brandine. I really don't want to have to go back and change their names in every single one of the posts I've done so far. Therefore, here is:

The Leslie M. Harper Quick & Easy Guide To Name Changes

(current as of October 2010)

Ames = Sharona

Midgie = Brandine

Or, alternatively:

Midgie = Brandine

Ames = Sharona

That should clear it up for everyone. If you still have trouble remembering these name changes, just sit back and pretend none of it ever happened. This works extremely well for me in Physics. That is to say, I don't do very well in the subject. But it does mean my brain isn't full of useless Physics knowledge. It's obvious I'm the winner in this situation.

As I believe all of you are aware (I doubt anyone not from my school would find this remotely interesting, or in any way related to real life) it is currently fourth term. We've been working fairly solidly all year. The exams are coming up in a couple of weeks. And do we get a break now?

Frankly, no.

That's not entirely fair, actually. There are just one or two things that ruin it for the rest. Maths, for example. To celebrate the spring weather and rapid approach of the end of the year, we're learning about polynomials. Wonderful. I can't tell you what they are because I've forgotten. However, hard as they are, the really nasty thing about them is that to divide them (as our Maths teacher told us cheerfully), you have to know long division.

In primary school, I'm certain I learnt how to do long division. I can readily imagine myself sitting down and doing . . . the things you do in long division. I just have no memory of it. Which is not the best situation to be in when studying polynomials.

Luckily for me (well, kind of luckily) my Maths teacher was prepared for this, and spent a whole lesson teaching everyone the methods you need to know to do things involving polynomials (I'm a little hazy on the specifics). I was relieved to realise I wasn't the only one in the class who couldn't do it. We courageously struggled on until the end of the lesson - at which point somebody asked Mr G what we'd be doing next lesson. 'We'll be learning how to divide polynomials without having to do all of this,' he said, to a complete silence in the room. Still, I can now divide at length, which is something.

I believe I've written about my PE lessons in this blog before, most specifically in relation to lacrosse and cycling. I've ranted on at some length as to my inability to pick up a lacrosse ball, the way I once got the handlebars on my bike the wrong way around and nearly fell over (which Vyvyan still hasn't forgotten), and the time I hit myself in the shins with my own crosse (I don't think I've written about that yet, but it was fairly painful and not a little embarrassing. By which I mean quite a lot embarrassing). 

In fact, my PE class went for a bike ride today. I was hampered only by the fact that I'd forgotten to bring my PE gear in with me. I was forced to borrow Peanut's. Thank you, incidentally, Peanut, you basically saved my life (or saved me from a detention, anyway, which isn't exactly the same thing), and I hate to criticise. After all, the bike ride (given my level of ability) was never going to be exactly magical. However, if anything is worse than a regular bicycle ride, then it's when you go on a bike ride wearing shoes several times too small.

The ride itself was fairly interesting. I was somewhere near the back of the class, but there were still people behind me: Sharona (AMES), Brandine (MIDGIE), Indie and Cat. I was unlikely to forget that they were behind me, given that they screamed whenever we went up a hill. Or down a hill. Or on a flat bit of road.

Anyway, this is basically what happened on our ride:

1. PE class collect bike helmets. I get my fingers stuck in the buckle while trying to adjust the strap. A fine beginning.

2. PE class head up hill to bike shed. I begin to experience first feelings of resentment for Peanut's shoes.

3. Bikes are chosen. Mine is too big. Attempt to remedy this by lowering the seat.

4. Get fingers stuck in seat-lowering device. Enlist Beartrap's help. Manage to get out unscathed.

5. Start ride.

6. Sharona, Cat and Brandine decide they need a distress signal after Cat is nearly run over by a car.

7. They decide ideal distress signal is making quacking noises very loudly as opposed to something like, say, shouting for help.

8. Passers-by get confused as groups of quacking students pass them. Decide something needs to be done to raise the reputation of the school. Ames suggests we should greet pedestrians in a friendly manner (bear in mind that throughout this we were riding the bikes, so when it says 'suggests' it really means 'yells').

8. Vyvyan decides an ordinary 'Hello' is too boring and goes for 'Bonjour' instead. I go for a more conventional 'Guten tag'. Somebody behinds me goes for 'Top of the morning'. Everybody we pass is greeted in a number of culturally interesting ways. Not sure if this raised the reputation of the school at all, but it was fun.

9. Chain falls off the gear wheel on my bike. Klaus (previously unmentioned) suggests extra assistance is needed. Beartrap puts it back on again.

10. My bike now makes interesting clicking noises whenever it's in a certain gear. Decide to ignore it.

11. Stop at playground. Get off bike, nearly fall over. Blame Peanut's shoes, which are by this point quite uncomfortable. PE class enjoy playground in a manner unfit for people of our age.

12. Sharona and Indie look for ducks.

13. Sharona and Indie find some ducks.

14. Sharona and Indie are chased by ducks.

15. PE teacher recommends Sharona and Indie stay away from ducks.

16. Start ride back home again.

17. Pedals stop turning on my bike. Discover it is because chain is wedged awkwardly. Beartrap unwedges it.

18. Chain slips off gear wheel and becomes wedged simultaneously. Give up on bike. Beartrap fixes it. Suggest that Beartrap has his own show, similar to 'Jim'll Fix It' but with bikes. Beartrap declines.

19. Make it back to school. By this point, am really beginning to hate Peanut's shoes.

20. Try to ride up hill to bike shed. Give up. Get off bike and walk up hill to bike shed.

21. Leave bike, leave helmet, go back to change rooms and remove Peanut's shoes.

22. Vow never to repeat experience. Until next PE lesson, anyway.

There you have it. An account of my cycling experience. Not quite as bad as the time I mixed up the gear change and the handbrake and went through a puddle at a speed more commonly seen in F1 racing cars, but still pretty bad. I'd like to think it wasn't my fault but the bikes that the chain kept slipping off, but I suppose we'll never know. Actually, if anyone in my year rides bikes in PE, and gets bike #25, can they fill me in about it? If the same thing happens to them I'll be slightly reassured about my riding ability.

All of the above makes a point. A long point, admittedly, but a good one, I feel. The point being that cycling is NOT my sport. Neither is lacrosse. Both of these things have been established.

I hadn't, however, bargained on there being something worse than both of those sports. It's not worse than both of them put together. In fact, this new sport is EXACTLY as bad as cycling and lacrosse put together. 

This is because it is, in fact, cycling and lacrosse put together. I call it either 'cyclacrosse' or 'hell'. 'Hell' is shorter, so that's the one I normally go with. It's also amazingly accurate.

I'm not sure what was going through my teacher's head when she thought this would be a good idea. I can ride a bike with both hands. I can't do it with one. I especially can't do it when I'm holding a lacrosse stick in my left hand and steering madly with my right whilst careening madly in ever-decreasing circles around the oval. Oh, yes, and I'm supposed to care about the ball in the middle of that too.

I think it would be fair to call cyclacrosse the sport of kings. After all, a good portion of kings were bastards, weren't they? Look at Henry the Eighth. Louis the Fifteenth. William the Conqueror's other title was, actually, 'William the Bastard', although it should be mentioned that only people who didn't like him called him that.

I can imagine one of those kings sitting down and thinking 'A combination of cycling and lacrosse, what a good idea. I'll get rid of the iron maiden and/or guillotine and let my enemies play cyclacrosse instead.'

Except they didn't have bikes back then, and I'm not sure about lacrosse. I suppose the closest they would have come would have been to ride around on horses with sticks.

Which, come to think of it, is exactly what jousting is. But I should mention here - and I'm going to have to be firm around this - that while I can put up with bikes, crosses, and the inevitable amounts of pain that come when the two are combined, if my teacher ever comes in and suggest that we joust on the oval, I'm going to revolt.

The Elf Joke

For some years now - three or four at the very least - I have had a weapon of unquestionable power that I can wield whenever I choose. Readers, I've given you a number of useful tools over the months I've had this blog. Peanut can hardly go a day without someone coming up to her and going 'Tubes!'. In fact, someone even wrote it on her locker in whiteout. I doubt Giuseppe will ever truly be able to escape the anchovy/artichoke incident (Anchovygate?), especially now that she has a job in a fruit and vegetable shop. Whenever Shoelace tries to convince us that she isn't, in fact, as gullible as we think, we merely have to look at her with a steely eye and say 'So, Shoelace, how did you get that scar? Attacked by a tuna fish, were you?' And Marie-Clare is now known to the whole of Year 10 - in fact, I wouldn't be surprised to find out it was the whole school by now - as 'that girl who's obsessed with 25', although that's less down to the blog and more down to the fact that everyone knows she spends lunchtime trying to spy on him.

The point that I'm trying to get across here is that while I've imparted a number of useful secrets in my time, the one I'm giving you now - a free gift, if you will, for putting up with this blog for so long - outdoes them all. And the beauty of it is in the pure simplicity of it. For, friends, this isn't an embarrassing anecdote, complicated code word, or flagrant obsession.

It's a joke.

And not just any joke.

It's THE joke.

It's not the funniest joke ever told. That honour has to be given to this joke.

I have a long-held conviction that the joke they're talking about is, in fact, the joke that is my secret weapon. It wouldn't surprise me to discover it went back that far.

But I truly believe that, notwithstanding the video above, the joke I'm talking about has the most power of any ever told on this planet.

I first heard it from a cousin of mine, Salamander, several years ago. I've heard it from her two and a half times in total. The first time, I'm not sure I realised quite how much power the joke had. I remember thinking it was quite funny, even if it did seem to go for an excessively long time. The second time (a year or so later, she didn't just sit down and tell it to me two and a half times in a row) she couldn't get it out, she was laughing so hard. I had to tell the ending for her. The third time I think I realised exactly what this joke could do when she was forced to stop at the third house (read the joke, you'll understand which point I mean) due to time restrictions. After twenty-five minutes of joke-telling.

The odds are that if you're reading this, I've already told you this joke. I've certainly told it to most people I know. The first person I told it to was Gwen. Now, if I so much as get halfway through the first line of it, she runs away. It's the same with Chinny. I admit that I tend to be prone to exaggeration when writing. This isn't exaggeration. I only need to say 'So, there's a man who lives in a big house . . .' for her to make her escape. The only thing I've found to be more effective against Gwen is to start recounting Tony Slattery's life story ('Born on the 9th of November 1959 to Irish immigrants . . .' usually does the trick, if you want to give it a go). But that's less practical. Very few people will want to stop and listen when you say 'So, can I tell you about an obscure British comedian?', while they're more likely to hang around for a joke.

Peanut sees this joke as my secret weapon, and has asserted that it could cause serious damage if listened to too frequently. Or, indeed, listened to at all.

I don't doubt that most of you will by now have realised what joke I'm referring to, and a good half of you will probably have stopped reading by now. You may have worked it out from all the references I've been giving it. Or possibly because the name of it is in the title. Subtle things like that. But if you don't know what joke it is, well, that's the reason I'm writing it up here. It's time this joke was in the public domain. For a start, once certain people have realised I have devoted a good two thousand words to the discussion and telling of this joke, my life may be in considerable danger.

And so, to the few members of the audience left after that extremely long introduction, I bequeath my secret weapon, to be used as and when the time is right (in my experience, during an awkward pause in a conversation is generally a good time to tell it). I present to you this joke, known only as:

THE ELF JOKE

© Salamander & Leslie M. Harper

WARNING: May cause motion sickness if not read with appropriate safety equipment.

So, there's this man who lives in a big house. A mansion, in fact. He's got a full staff of servants to tend to his every whim, the walls are plated with gold, and he has a television half the size of a movie screen in his living room.

One rainy night he's sitting at home, watching TV and drinking hand-ground coffee from a cup carved out of diamond when he hears this knock on the door. He assumes his butler has answered it, and stays sitting in front of the television. However, a couple of minutes later there's another knock on the door. This time the man gets up, walks down to the front door, and opens it. He looks around but can't see anybody there. So he goes back up to the living room and turns the television back on. Just as he's beginning to forget about the mysterious knocking, though it happens again. So he goes back to the front door, opens it, and this time he looks down. Standing there is an elf, shivering and dripping wet after being out in the rain. The elf looks up at the man and goes 'I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but it's freezing out here, and I don't have anywhere to go. Can I stay with you for the night? I promise I'll be on my way in the morning.'

So the man thinks about it, and he can't think of any reason as to why the elf can't stay - after all, he's got a giant house, and lots of empty rooms - so he agrees. He invites the elf in, calls the butler to bring him a cup of coffee, and then he and the elf sit together in front of the television for a while. After some time, the man decides it's time to go to bed, so he directs the elf to one of his nicest spare rooms, with silk curtains and a door made of solid silver, and then heads up to bed himself.

At about midnight, the man wakes up. He is shocked to realise that his whole house is on fire. He quickly grabs his dressing gown and runs outside. Then he remembers the elf, runs back in, grabs the elf, and runs outside again. The man quickly calls the fire brigade, and then stands there watching his house burn down, the gold-plated walls melting and the rooms collapsing, one by one. By the time the fire brigade arrives he remembers the elf again, and looks around to see if he's all right. However, the elf is gone.

So it's a couple of years later and the same man is living in a slightly smaller house. It's still nice, of course, but his insurance couldn't pay for everything. He's got a wide-screen TV but not a massive one, a single servant instead of a whole staff, and diamond coffee-cups are a thing of the past. He's sitting in the living room one night, drinking a cup of coffee out of a porcelain mug and listening to the hail outside, when he hears this knock on the door. His servant's gone home for the night so he has to answer it himself. So he does, and, looking down, he sees this elf standing there. The elf looks sadly up at him and goes 'Look, it's hailing, I'm cold, I'm wet, I don't have anywhere to go, can I please stay with you for the night?'

So the man thinks about it, remembers that he has a spare room, and agrees. He and the elf sit chatting in front of the wide-screen TV for a bit, then they both go up to bed.

In the middle of the night the man wakes up uncomfortably hot. He is horrified to realise that, once again, his house is on fire. He rushes outside, remembers the elf, goes back in to rescue the elf, and rushes outside again. He calls the fire brigade, hoping that they'll be there in time to save his house. When they arrive, he looks around to see where the elf's got to, but the elf is gone.

So it's a couple of years later and the man has had to downsize once again, this time to a normal house. He doesn't have any servants, but he's managing to live quite comfortably. One night during a thunderstorm, while he's sitting at home drinking a cup of instant coffee in front of his regular-sized television, he hears this knock on the door. So he goes outside, and there's this elf standing there. The elf is clearly soaked through, and he looks up at the man and goes 'I'm freezing. I've been stuck out in this storm for hours. Please, can I come in and stay the night? I promise I'll be on my way in the morning.'

The man doesn't have a spare room, but he decides that the elf can sleep on the couch. So he lets the elf in, they have a nice chat, they share some instant coffee, and then they both go to bed, the man to his bedroom, the elf to his couch.

So the man wakes up in the middle of the night and knows that something is wrong. He can't figure out what it is . . . until he looks around and realises that his house is on fire. So he runs downstairs, passing the elf on his couch on the way out. He grabs the elf, rushes outside, and they both stand together, looking at the ruin of his house. The man calls the fire brigade. By the time they arrive, however, once again, the elf is gone.

So it's a couple of years later and the man has been forced to settle into a tiny two-roomed house on the outskirts of town. He doesn't have a television, but he does have a radio to listen to. He sleeps on a couch because he hasn't been able to afford a bed. He doesn't make coffee anymore, he has to buy it on the way home from work.

One night it's snowing, and the man is sitting indoors, listening to his radio, when he hears this knock on the door. He opens it and looks down to discover this elf standing there, covered in snow. The elf goes 'Look, friend, I'm absolutely freezing. If you don't let me in and let me stay the night, I think I'm going to die of cold.'

So the man considers it - he has no spare rooms, and only the one couch, so the elf would have to sleep on the floor. The elf assures him that this is fine, and so he comes in, they listen to the radio for a bit, and then both go to sleep.

The man wakes up in the middle of the night and realises that his house his own fire. He races for the door, nearly tripping over the elf on his way out. He grabs the elf, drags him outside, and they both stand on the pavement to watch the house burn to the ground. The man doesn't have a telephone, he can't afford one anymore, but luckily someone else calls the fire brigade, and they arrive within a matter of minutes. When the man looks around, though, the elf is gone.

So it's a couple of years later and the man is living on the streets. He has no television but what he can see through people's windows. Every night he climbs into a cardboard box and tries his best to sleep, even though it's always bitterly cold. One night, a colder night than most, he's nearly drifted off when he hears this knock coming from the side of his box. He looks down to see this elf standing there. The elf goes 'It's freezing. Can I share your box for the night, please?'

So the man is a little dubious, but he remembers what it was like to freeze on the streets before he'd found his box, and so he lets the elf in and they go off to sleep together. In the middle of the night, the man wakes up suddenly to realise that his box is on fire. He grabs the elf, pulls him out of the box, and they both stand there and watch it burn. The man is, by this point, a little suspicious. He turns and looks at the elf, so he can't sneak off like all the other times, and goes 'Look, we've known each other for a long time now, you and me.'

The elf agrees. The man goes on. 'I don't want to offend you, but I just have to ask you. Every time you've come to stay with me for the past ten years, my house has burnt down. Tell me, did you have anything to do with it?'

The elf stands there, looking guilty. Eventually he looks up and goes 'Yep.'

The Firstest Worstest Week

The first week of school is always a fun experience, especially if you take 'fun' to mean 'excruciatingly long' and experience to mean 'time during which I would rather be sawing off my own foot with a steak knife'. Five long, long days to get used to the idea of being back at school again. They don't even ease us into it. If a Formula One racing driver had a horrible accident while on the track, and woke up the next day crippled for life because of it, you wouldn't buy him a car as a get-well-soon present. Partly because Formula One racing drivers make far more than the likes of you or I and they should learn to buy their own damn cars. But mostly because it would be inhumane and bring back all kinds of messy, repressed memories that should really stay bottled up.
Now I've created that metaphor I can't remember exactly what point I was trying to make with it, but I'm sure it was an important one. All I meant to say was that we should be given time to get used to school, an hour a day for a couple of weeks, building up to the full seven hours around week nine or ten. Not thrown, struggling, into the deep end of the pool.
I don't like to get bogged down in metaphors (not after that first one, anyway), but in this case I don't think that applies, because for this week at least, school has been extraordinarily similar to a swimming pool. That is to say wet, cold, and filled with soggy people.
It's spring, for goodness' sake. Yet it poured with rain for three of the five days of our school week. Monday and Thursday were fine. The rest, not so much.
One of the more interesting side effects of rain - aside from the cold, damp, and generally wet-making aspects, which aren't interesting so much as irritating - is that it encourages all the worms, slugs and snails to come out from wherever they're hiding and grace the humans with their presence. Yes, nothing says 'spring rain' so much as a dying worm which has attached itself to the bottom of your shoe in a last, great effort and doesn't seem keen to be unstuck. It also encourages all kinds of different behaviour in people. In me, for example, when walking on pavement, I have to stop every two or three metres to rescue a snail which has strayed on to the path. Not because I like snails, I just hate the noise they make when they're stepped on. In fact, the only reason I move them is so I don't have to step on them when coming down the same path later in the day. This is surprisingly ineffective as snails are not the brightest of creatures and the time it takes them to travel back on to the exact same position on the path is almost always roughly equal to the amount of time it takes me to do whatever I was going on a walk for and come back to the snail. So I move them again, they move back again, and the cycle goes on.

This is nothing, however, to what these creatures do to Ness. Ness has a thing about worms. By which I don't mean that she is fond of them and actively seeks them out: more a kind of mortal terror situation. Vyvyan discovered this early on the Tuesday, and took no little pleasure from exploiting it. At one point, Ness, Giuseppe and Marie-Clare were chatting somewhere near our locker area. I went up to engage them in conversation (I was Vyvyan's decoy). Vyvyan then approached, cheerfully wielding a worm. Ness wears glasses, has quite poor vision, and was therefore not aware of the worm until it was within five centimetres of her face. She noticed it, let out a blood-curdling scream, and pelted away until she judged she was a safe distance from the creature (about five metres - although what would a worm actually do to you if you were less than five metres at you? Jump at you, fall into a puddle and get stepped on?). Giuseppe, who I hadn't realised didn't like worms (that is to say, she'd told me and I'd forgotten), did the same thing, but in the other direction. Marie-Clare remained in the middle, slightly unsure as to what had happened. Vyvyan collapsed, laughing, and I nearly did the same, despite trying my hardest to look like an innocent, oblivious victim. Yes, if you read this post without knowing who we are we sound like six-year-olds. I don't care. Fun for all ages.

Another thing that worms (or slugs, in this case - lovely) have revealed about my friends is Chinny's true nature. Virtually every day before school, Chinny and I are there before most other people. She does homework. If she doesn't have homework she does revision. If she doesn't have revision she studies sheet music. I hang around her and do incredibly witty things like pretending to speak a different language or think that her copy of Bach's Thirty-Second Prelude (or whatever it was called) is a copy of an adventure novel. You know, exciting, hilarious things like that. Anyway, on this morning - it must have been Thursday, as the SCARF INCIDENT (see below) happened on the same day - Chinny arrived slightly before I did. It had been raining the day before and presumably all the table were too wet for her to work on, as she had her books on top of a wall and was working there. The wall was bordering a garden - 'garden' in the school sense, that is to say a large pile of dirt with various shrubs and leaf-litter. I intended to go up and lean on the wall next to her, but was annoyed to find a small slug exactly where I wanted to put my elbow. I carefully rolled it off into the garden with a bit of stick and reclined on the wall. I looked up to discover Chinny staring at me reproachfully. 'Leslie!'

'What?'

'That was animal cruelty. You can't do that to slugs.'

'It was in the way!'

'Well, you could have leant somewhere else,' she said firmly, and picked up her books. I couldn't help being transfixed by something that had managed to climb on to the top of her science textbook. Chinny followed my gaze to see a giant slug crawling (or sliming, or whatever it is slugs do when they walk) along happily. She let out on ear-piercing scream (what with Ness, Giuseppe, and Chinny, I don't think my ears will ever be quite as they used to be) and flung the slug hard onto the concrete we were standing on, before backing away and giving it a disgusted look. After we'd all calmed down again (except the slug, who didn't look like it would be doing anything anytime soon), I looked at her meaningfully. From now on, her name is 'Double-Standards Chinny', or 'Disc' (for those who find it easier. I had to add the 'i' because it's incredibly hard to pronounce the work 'Dsc'. Really. Give it a go. Now. I don't care if anyone's watching you).

One of the less pleasant side effects of the rain - and believe me, worms aren't that pleasant, so that should tell you how bad this was - is that the ovals are now completely waterlogged. Not nice for walking over in the mornings, worse in the afternoons after it's been raining all day and the puddles are up to your ankles. But when it gets really bad is when you have to play lacrosse on said ovals.

For some time now I've been under the opinion that nothing, whether natural, manmade or Act of God, could possibly make my lacrosse-playing-skill worse than it is. Nope. Water, freshly mown grass (so that all the pieces are still lying around, looking like they're still attached), and me with a lacrosse stick are a combination made in either hell or perverse comedy writer's heaven. Add Vyvyan running around with her crosse confidently held at shin-level and you've pretty much got the idea as to what PE lessons have been like for me this week.

In fact, that's not the worst of it. You know what's worse than playing a sport you can't play on ground you're incapable of standing on with a homicidal crosse-wielding lunatic?

It's playing a sport you can't play on ground you're incapable of standing on with a homicidal crosse-wielding lunatic when people are taking pictures of it for the school book.

Luckily, the camerapeople seemed to have picked up the impression from somewhere that the most exciting thing to take pictures of in a game of lacrosse is the person who has the ball, and as my position in lacrosse is 'stay away from the action and it can't hurt you', I managed to avoid the worst of my failures being preserved on film.

In fact, Vyvyan was probably worse off in this case. She's actually quite a good player - well, better than me. Then again, you could just jam one of the sticks upright in the mud and would play lacrosse better than me. Anyway, she did get the ball enough that the camerapeople followed her on occasion. While there were plenty of good shots, somewhere, there is a picture of Vyvyan trying to throw the ball to someone across the field, throwing it up in the air instead, and then being hit in the back of the head with it. That might have been the high point of my lacrosse-playing career. Sadly.

In my year at school we recently received an exchange student from South Africa. She's made an exceptionally good impression on a friend of ours called Skeith. He's appeared in the blog before as 'STUDENT 2' in my 'Not-So-Sweet-16' post, when I couldn't think of a name for him. Luckily we were discussing name changes the other day in Media, and I discovered that his middle name is Keith, while his first initial is an S: S. Keith. Thus, 'Skeith' was born.

Anyway, Skeith has a number of clever ruses going to attract the attention of this exchange student. His first idea was feigning ignorance to anything she talked about, so that she would  be coerced into long explanations, giving him excuses to talk to her. After spending some time learning about what water polo is from her (he pretended to have confused it with lacrosse), he decided that a second idea would be in order. In this one, he decided to learn a lot of things instead to impress her with his knowledge. After I prevented him from using our Media computer to google 'South Africa', he decided to quiz me about it instead. 'Is it true that black South Africans don't exist?'

'No, Skeith, I think they exist.'

'You're wrong. They're imaginary, only white people live in South Africa.'

'I don't think that's right. There aren't as many of them, but they're there.'

'You're wrong.'

'No I'm not.'

'Yes you are.'

We went to the Wikipedia page for South Africa and scrolled down in an effort to find out if black South Africans existed or not. I pointed to one of the first pictures. 'That is a black South African, Skeith.'

He shrugged. 'No, that's a migrant.'

'What about those ones?'

'More migrants.'

'Well, how about -'

'No, they're all migrants.'

'They can't all be migrants!' I countered. He looked amazed. 'Of course not! The white ones aren't.'

I suggested that he try something else.

In that same Media lesson, we had resumed work on our project when Skeith had sudden doubts (we decided not to use the Drama students for our project, by the way, which was tricky as we'd already filmed some bits with a Drama student as the main character, a clown. So the clown swaps from being a Drama student to being Skeith halfway through the film. Saying that it looks tacky doesn't cover it). Anyway, Skeith nudged me and said 'Can I borrow your scissors?'

'Why?' I asked suspiciously. I haven't forgotten the time Vyvyan took my gluestick and used it to glue her socks up.

'Look at my hair at the back!' He spun around on the chair and showed me.

'What about it?'

'It's too long.'

'Well, cut it when you get home.'

'I can't. We have French after lunch and the exchange student is in our French class.'

'And?'

'If I cut it now, she'll never notice!' he enthused.

I was suspicious. 'You mean, you want to cut your hair at the back - without a mirror - with my scissors, to impress the exchange student?'

'That's it.'

I lent him the scissors, partly because I was interested to see if he'd go through with it.

He went through with it. Not a bad job, either, so far as I could tell, considering he couldn't see what he was doing. I'm not sure if the exchange student noticed or not, but our Media teacher certainly did. I won't go into that.

On the Thursday, I finally brought in the scarf I'd knitted for Falcon. I was confident - nay, certain - of its phenomenal powers of hideousness, the sheer clashing tastelessness of it all.

Therefore, I was quite put out upon Chinny's reaction to it (this was just several minutes after the DSC incident).

'It's pretty!' she exclaimed. 'I want a scarf just like it!'

I was shocked. How could she like the scarf?

'Well, I like that colour of green,' she admitted. 'And those pompoms look really soft.'

I charged her with wearing it, to see how much she liked it after everyone else commented on it. It didn't work. 'It's really comfortable too.'

It was quite funny to see how tactful people can be. 'That's . . . an interesting scarf, Chinny.'

'Leslie knitted it.'

'Ah. Well done, Leslie. It looks really . . . well done.'

I had to explain that I'd knitted it for the purpose of being horrible, which I'm not sure relieved anyone of the impression that I'm mentally ill, but at least reassured them that my taste isn't quite that bad.

Giuseppe and Marie-Clare's reactions were far closer to what I wanted. 'Oh, God, that's disgusting!' said Giuseppe after glimpsing it for the first time. Marie-Clare made a similar comment, but I can't remember what it was as she was laughing too hard. Aviator was extremely pleased with it. 'Give it to Falcon now, I want to see his reaction. We should catch it on video.'

Marie-Clare and Giuseppe acted as scarf bearers. On the way to Falcon we passed a friend of Marie-Clare's, Dancer, who is (it's only fair to say) fairly stylish. I swear he actually took a step back when we passed him with it, and the look of horror on his face would have photographed just as well as any of Falcon's.

When we did get the scarf to Falcon, there wasn't horror on his face so much as shock. 'I did tell you what to expect,' I said firmly.

'Yes, but I didn't realise there would be quite so many pompoms . . .'

He wore the scarf to half of Media (Media people are clearly far less tactful than most, as most of the scarf-related comments showed), then removed it for the rest of the day. DESPITE having promised - on a signed contract, no less! - to wear it for a whole day of school. I confronted him about it in Chemistry. 'Well, I didn't want it to get damaged in Woodwork,' he said guiltily.

Sure, Falcon. Because last time I checked, Woodwork didn't go for the whole day. Blog-readers, I know that a good few of you - Aviator, Marie-Clare, and Giuseppe, anyway - were interested in the progress of the scarf, and we can't let him get away with it. We need the other six-and-a-half periods of scarf wearing he promised in the contract. People of school, I'm relying on you.

Anyway, nothing brightens up the second week of school like a lime green/hot pink/pompom covered scarf. True fact.

Photograph courtesy of Phoenix, who is a close personal friend of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Read her blog. All the cool wizards are doing it.

What I Did In My Holidays

I would like to take a moment to apologise to my small number of fans, and slightly larger number of easily enraged readers, for the long time period I've left between my published posts. Clearly you people have a collective power I hadn't bargained on. For my own personal safety (and yes, Marie-Clare, the threats have mainly come from you), I am now presenting you with a post summing up my holidays, from the last day of school up to the present moment, so far. I could publish it in a number of smaller posts. That would keep you all off my back (metaphorically speaking) for any number of weeks. However, I have decided to do the noble thing and instead write a single post in sections. Some of what I've written was actually finished at the time, I just never got around to publishing it.

I would also like to take a moment out of my busy schedule to thank Giuseppe for standing up for my blogging integrity against the combined forces of everyone else, who really should have known better.

So, now I've frustrated all of you with this needlessly long description and apology (serves you right, too - you know who you are. Clogging up my Facebook page with negative comments regarding my blogging consistency. NESS. MARIE-CLARE), I present you with:

What I Did In My Holidays

an epic saga in four parts

1. Part the First - last day of school

Last day of school, thank you - for lack of a God - whatever it is you thank when you're an atheist. It coincided magically with the day I (a) brought my iPod to school and (b) discovered that my iPod has a video camera. I may do Media, but I think I have a great deal to learn in the filming department. I took a film of Chinny running away, one of me asking Shoelace to dance (for the sake of interesting filming - she gave me a quick jig and then gave up), and a two-second one of me confronting Aviator, yelling 'Smile!', with him responding 'Please don't'.

As it was the last day of school, the teachers should, by rights, have been just as keen to get out as us. They should have shared this feeling of approaching freedom by showing movies, playing games in class and maybe even letting us out early into the relatively glorious beginning-of-spring weather.

Unfortunately, teachers are also very unpredictable.

In English we analysed a poem of that most excellent of English writers, Robert Browning, entitled 'My Last Duchess'. Oh, yes. Nothing like spending your last day studying a poem about a man who hated - and possibly killed - his wife for being too nice to others. Wahay!

Following an entree of English was the main, double Geography. Actually, that wasn't too bad. We watched an Australian mini-series called 'Marking Time'. I quite enjoyed it. For an Australian series, I mean. Obviously it has nothing on Fry & Laurie.

Marie-Clare was sitting next to me. The main actor in the series wasn't too attractive, so I settled down for a peaceful hour and a half of watching, knowing that she would be unlikely to disturb me. Unfortunately - and he really should have known better - the father in the TV show mentioned George Harrison in passing, while discussing his love for the guitar. She didn't calm down again for a good few minutes, after disturbing most of the multiple Geography classes watching with her excited cries.

PE, then Chemistry to finish with. In PE we are playing lacrosse. WHY? I'd thought that game had gone out of fashion way back in the 1950s. In England it's only played by posh girls in private schools. In England, they have more sense.

Can I catch a lacrosse ball? No. Can I throw a lacrosse ball? No. Can I pick up a lacrosse ball from the ground with one of those ridiculous little nets on the ends of sticks you're supposed to play with? Yes. Barely. After several goes.

Half of the horror of this PE lesson stemmed from my inability to wield this stick with anything approaching competence. The rest, from Vyvyan.

Vyvyan is not a good person to have around while playing sport. When we did badminton, she hit me in the face with the racquet. When we did table tennis, she hit me on the wrist with the racquet while trying to give me a 'racquet hi-five' and then again in the face (this time without the racquet) when trying to give me an actual hi-five. I'm not sure if it's uncoordination or malice. Probably some sick combination of the two. All I know is that within ten minutes of picking up a lacrosse stick (or 'crosse', as I've just discovered they're called), she'd hit me once in the forehead with a ball, hit me twice in the shins with a crosse, and then hit me on the head with the net on the end of the crosse because it 'made a good hat'. This is what they look like.

Lethal, aren't they? All you need is a bit of a spike on the end and you'd have the perfect weapon. Assuming you were fighting people who didn't have guns, poison gas or long range artillery, that is. In that case it might not be such a perfect weapon.

Anyway, the second lesson - which is the one we had on the final day - I was more prepared.

Also in our PE class is a friend of ours called Beartrap (his chosen name. I didn't choose it. Still, it seems to work for him). He frequently claims to have either no heart or a heart made of complete evil. I'm a little confused about this, actually. I mean, he can't have both. Maybe he's just conflicted. Anyway, he seemed the perfect person for the job I had in mind.

LESLIE (L): Beartrap? Can you do a job for me?

BEARTRAP (B): What is it?

L: I need you to act as a bodyguard.

B: I could assassinate someone for you if you'd like. I'm not so sure about the paid protection thing.

L: That would work too. Can you assassinate Vyvyan?

B: No! I can't kill a girl. Why would you want me to kill her?

L: Well, it's like this - hey! Give that back!

(Vyvyan steals my shoe. I threaten her with my sock and then push her off the bench. Shoe is thankfully retrieved)

B: I can see why you might need personal protection. Can you pay me?

L: Yes. In a non-literal sense, of course.

B: I can't do it then.

L: Well, how about instead of paying for my retirement in fifty years time you give me personal protection now?

(Long story, but earlier this term we made a bet, the deal being that the loser would have to pay for the winner's retirement. Beartrap lost)

B: That sounds . . . reasonable.

That made this lesson far more bearable. Entertaining, too, as Vyvyan took grave exception to my having hired protection against her. Luckily, Beartrap took the brunt of it. I don't think I'll be missing my retirement money.

Last in the day was Chemistry. Not my best subject, especially on the last day of school. I made up three elements in the quick quiz our teacher gave us (although I'll be pleasantly surprised if 'Thithium' turns out to be real) and then spent the rest of the lesson talking to Falcon about the epic battle we intended to have later in the holidays. Read below for more. Anyway, the bell went, we followed shortly, and school was OVER for another term.

2. Part the Second - post-birthday dinner

The last day was over, school was complete, and I could now relax for the holiday? Not so. For I had organised a dinner at a restaurant near my house to celebrate both my birthday - despite the fact that it was weeks afterwards - and the end of term.

I had invited about eleven people, but only five ended up making it - Gwen was at the opera, Chinny was 'busy', Midgie, Shoelace and Vyvyan couldn't come for reasons I have now forgotten (but they must have been good ones, as otherwise I would've remembered), and Peanut somehow expected me to believe the flimsy excuse she gave of no longer being in the country. I'm serious. To show how committed she is, she even posted on HER blog about how she's gone to America - all lies, obviously. I mean, we all know she's just hiding in her house, refusing to answer the phone. Still, what can you do with someone like that? She even left school a day early, claiming 'that's the day the aeroplane is leaving'. Ridiculous.

Aviator had wanted to be invited. After I turned him down point-blank the first time he asked, he decided to use slightly more subtle techniques, such as this one.

AVIATOR (A): Hello, Leslie. How was your afternoon yesterday?

LESLIE (L): Good, thank you. And yours?

A: Oh, well, I didn't have dinner last night. My parents never give me dinner. It's terrible, it really is. So hungry . . . so very hungry . . . if only there was some way in which I could get dinner, maybe go to a restaurant with a kind friend . . . but that's probably just a crazy dream.

L: Nice try, but no.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to get across here is that the only persons in attendance were Marie-Clare, Ness, Lala, Ariane, Giuseppe, and myself. Ness arrived first. I gave her a quick tour of the house - featuring Drummer Boy, doing what his name suggests, as the main attraction - and we then retired to the kitchen, where we played with the magnetic letters on the fridge. We may be 16, but we're no more mature. Ness was considerably annoyed at the way there were no 'm's on the fridge. 'I mean, how can you spell words properly?' she complained, after fruitlessly searching for the letter that would change the phrase she was working on from 'happy en' to 'happy men', for reasons best known to herself.

I was perplexed. 'There are lots of 'm's.'

'I can't see any.'

'Look, there's one here!'

'That's not an 'm'!' she said indignantly. 'That's an upside-down 'w'.'

Ariane arrived shortly afterwards and changed it from 'happy men' to 'hoppy men'. After that, Marie-Clare and Lala arrived together. Lala had ignored my express wishes and brought me a present. I unwrapped it suspiciously.

'Have you nearly got the paper off?' Lala inquired cheerfully.

'Nearly - what's this?'

'Yeah, I wrapped it twice,' she explained. 'Once in proper paper and once in newspaper.'

Ariane, standing nearby, laughed. 'Why couldn't you just have used the paper or the newspaper? You didn't need both.'

'You know, I have no idea,' Lala told her thoughtfully. So nice to have this insight into the minds of my friends.

Anyway, once the present was unwrapped, it was revealed to contain (a) a pen that looked like a pencil (b) a stuffed panda and (c) a small box. Lala promptly seized the box, got down on one knee, and proposed to me with the ring that was inside. I accepted. Obviously we were married before, but it's nice to have it made official. I wore the ring for the rest of the evening and most of the next day. Then it got uncomfortable, so I took it off. It's still a commitment.

At this point, all necessary persons had arrived, and we made our way to the Vietnamese restaurant we'd chosen. I hadn't originally meant it to be the Vietnamese restaurant. I'd wanted to book at an Italian restaurant, for the sole reason that Marie-Clare is incapable of eating Asian foods. I'll never know how she managed to survive her sojourn in Japan: I suppose it's just one of life's mysteries. However, that restaurant had been booked out. Which left me a little worried as to what Marie-Clare was going to be able to eat. Still, we'd face that when we came to it.

We got to the restaurant in good time, and had ordered before Giuseppe arrived. Marie-Clare had decided that she actually quite liked the idea of sweet-and-sour pork, and ordered that. I don't have time to devote all that much to Marie-Clare's bizarre eating habits. In fact, I'm considering writing a post all about that - what to do when escorting Marie-Clare to a movie or restaurant. It could be invaluable to 25, you never know. However, I won't discuss it now. Enough to say that she got by mainly on the rice, which, thank goodness, was plentiful.

There's not a lot to say about the dinner, except that Lala and Ariane decided to try and convince Ness that Ariane was red-green colourblind, and enlisted everyone else to maintain this illusion. Sorry, Ness, if you're reading this now.

After the dinner we returned to my house, to await the arrival of various parents in an hour's time. We decided to pass the time by playing Monopoly. Lala was bank, I was property, and Ness suggested that Ariane take houses. Ariane looked at her sorrowfully. 'How can I give the houses and hotels out when I can't even tell them apart?'

'What are you talking about? They're different colours -' I began, before suddenly remembering the colourblind thing. 'Which, of course, you are unable to tell apart.'

'Don't worry,' Ariane assured me. 'I'm used to people not knowing.'

Anyway, Lala got a little carried away with the whole 'banker' thing. Being keen to play Monopoly I can understand. Putting a pimp hat on, drawing a moustache on in eyeliner, and glaring suspiciously at anyone trying to take money out of the bank is a little harder.

I was the one actually drawing with the eyeliner. We kind of forgot about the Monopoly then. I gave Ness a heart on her forehead (never know when it might come in handy), drew a flower on myself (which is harder than it sounds - it came out like a diseased cloud), and the Ariane and I collaborated in drawing on Marie-Clare. We drew her initials on one cheek and the initials of 25 on the other. We never got around to drawing on Giuseppe because she left early. Before she left, she presented me with a present, which was from her, Marie-Clare, Ness, and Shoelace (in absentia): a hard drive, with about 300GB of music, TV shows and movies on it. Does nobody pay attention to anything I say? I'm not complaining, though, I now have about three times as much music as I ever considered existed, as well as the complete series of The Chaser's War On Everything. In fact, I think it's about time for a gratuitous Chaser picture (yes, that time again):

Anyway, thank you again, Giuseppe. After Giuseppe left, we decided to completely forget the Monopoly game, much to Marie-Clare's annoyance. It seems fated that I am never to finish a game of Monopoly I have with Marie-Clare. Very strange. At any rate, I got my iPod out and made a number of short films of everyone. People left one by one, until finally only Lala remained. We'd decided to film a nature documentary with my panda, and were just setting up, when her sister arrived to take her home. Tragic.

3. Part the Third - an epic battle

For a long time, Falcon and I have had quite a serious argument going. He sees it one way, I see it the other, and there doesn't seem to be any way of compromising our views. Eventually, we decided we would have to take this argument to the next level and sort it out, once and for all. Permanently. No turning back.

The subject we argue over is 'Who is the best Doctor Who?', and the battle we intended to have would be one of watching television.

The problem is this. Falcon believes that David Tennant is the best doctor of all time. I, on the other hand, believe it is Matt Smith. There seemed no way of making a decision.

We managed to think of one, thought.

Early in the morning in the first week of the holidays - early, that is, for a group of teenagers not on school time, which is to say at about 9:30 - I, Falcon, and our chosen three judges arrived at my place of residence. Well, I was already there, but you know what I mean. The judges had been selected individually on the basis of their Doctor Who-ignorance. Aviator, the first judge, had never seen an episode and was openly sceptical of the concept. I personally am of the opinion that he only turned up in the first place for the sake of the bet contract he'd made. More about that later. Our second judge, Giuseppe, is easily the most ignorant of all the people I know. She was once yelled at by her entire English class for not knowing what a Dalek was. Our third and final judge was Marie-Clare. I'd opted to have her on the basis that she owned all the series of Doctor Who except for the Matt Smith ones, meaning I'd only have to hire the latest series. Also, although she didn't have a particular favourite Doctor, she was inclined to lean towards Matt Smith. Falcon was indignant when he found this out. 'Are you trying to cheat, Leslie?' However, he soon came around and we settled down to watch. It was extremely hard first of all. Giuseppe and Marie-Clare tried to continue an argument they'd been having as to whether it was appropriate to celebrate John Lennon's birthday with a shop-bought cake or not, only stopping when Giuseppe got a call on her mobile and was forced to answer that for a few minutes. We managed to get a few minutes further in before Aviator pretended to get a call on his mobile and talk loudly on it for a few minutes. Eventually, we put subtitles on, and managed to get through four episodes, two for each of our chosen Doctors, with only major interruptions between episodes.

Of the people who read my blog, I'm not sure how many of you watch Doctor Who. I was going to add a list of the episodes we watched, but reconsidered it on the basis that most of you wouldn't understand it. So here is a clarified version for you non-Whovians.

EPISODE #1: THE GIRL IN THE FIREPLACE

DOCTOR: David Tennant

ACTUAL PLOT: Clockwork, humanoid monsters invade the life of Madame de Pompadour, mistress to Louis XV of France, via a number of time windows contained on board a spaceship, in the hopes of removing her brain and using it to power the ship.

SIMPLIFIED PLOT: Ticking things try and kill the king of France's girlfriend. They don't manage to. The Doctor saves the day.

COMMENTS:

GIUSEPPE (G): I don't think that was a proper episode.

LESLIE (L): Why not?

G: There weren't any Daneks.

L: It's pronounced 'Daleks'. And the Daleks aren't present in every episode.

G: What? Are you serious?

MARIE-CLARE (MC): Giuseppe! How can you not know that?

L: Right. What did you think, Aviator?

AVIATOR (A): Well, the girl was pretty hot.

FALCON (F): She was, actually.

A: Can we watch another one with a hot girl?

EPISODE #2: THE ELEVENTH HOUR

DOCTOR: Matt Smith

ACTUAL PLOT: The Doctor appears to a young girl, and fixes a crack made in space and time in her wall. He comes back to her as a woman, and discovers an alien called Prisoner Zero hiding in her house. The Atraxi, who originally held Prisoner Zero hostage, threaten to incinerate the Earth unless Prisoner Zero is returned to them. The Doctor eventually takes on the woman (Amy) as a new assistant.

SIMPLIFIED PLOT: The Doctor mends a wall, finds a snake-thing, and gives the snake-thing to a giant eye-thing. The Doctor saves the day.

COMMENTS:

A: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS GUY?

F: You're right. What do you mean?

A: He comes out of his box -

MC: TARDIS, it's called.

A: - finds a little Scottish girl, and forces her to cook for him, then spits yoghurt in her face. Why would you do that to a kid? She was adorable. I want a kid just like her.

L: Really?

A: A kid that can cook, AND has a Scottish accent? That would be both awesome and hilarious.

G: Yeah, he doesn't come across as a nice person.

A: Although when she grew up she was pretty hot. Let's watch another one with a hot girl.

EPISODE #3: FEAR HER

DOCTOR: David Tennant

ACTUAL PLOT: The Doctor and Rose (his companion) discover a girl with the ability to trap people in drawings. After she traps an entire stadium full of people from the 2012 London Olympics in a picture, the Doctor realises she is possessed by an Isolus and is able to free her of it, as well as releasing everyone in the pictures.

SIMPLIFIED PLOT: Girl possesses creepy powers. Doctor discovers she has been taken over by small white annoying flower-thing. The Doctor saves the day.

COMMENTS:

F: Did they know that the 2012 Olympics were going to be in London when they filmed this?

MC: Maybe they didn't! Maybe the writers have secret powers.

A: No, I think they knew. They have these things organised way in advance. Who was the blonde girl, again? She was in the first one we watched as well.

L: Rose. Well, Billie Piper.

A: Wasn't she in that TV series about a prostitute? It was called something like 'The Life of a Prostitute'.

L: 'The Secret Diary of a Call-Girl'.

A: Yeah, she was pretty hot.

EPISODE #4: THE BEAST BELOW

DOCTOR: Matt Smith

ACTUAL PLOT: The Doctor and his companion (Amy) arrive on the Starship UK. After some investigation, after which they are almost fed to a mysterious beast (which is 'below' the rest of the ship - oh, you cunning, cunning title writers), they discover the animal is actually a Star Whale and is being tortured in order to fly the ship. Amy prevents the Doctor from killing it, and proves that it doesn't need to be tortured to fly.

SIMPLIFIED PLOT: The Doctor and friend arrive on what is basically England on a space ship. They wander around a little, are shoved into the mouth of giant mystical space whale-like creature, escape from the mouth of giant mystical space whale-like creature, and generally make everything good. Amy saves the day.

COMMENTS:

A: I'm serious. There is something very, very wrong with this guy.

L: How do you mean, exactly?

A: Did you see in the beginning, how the Scottish girl was floating around in space? Well, he was looking up her skirt. And she was in her NIGHTDRESS.

MC: How does that make it any different?

A: Well, who wears underwear to bed?

L: What are you talking about? Who doesn't wear underwear to bed?

A: Actually, I -

L: I don't want to hear it!

G: He's right. That is unduly creepy. At least David Tennant never did that to any of his assistants.

MC: No, but he did kiss Madame de Pompadour. Which is a bit strange.

A: That's acceptable, though. And not creepy.

F: What did you think of Amy, though?

A: I thought she was hot!

The watching over, it was time to vote. Before we did that, though, Aviator had a suggestion to make. 'Look. I made this bet contract yesterday. Basically, whoever loses has to do something. I don't know what yet. I thought we could decide now.'

We considered this for a good while. Aviator was unhelpful.

A: I think if Falcon loses, he should have to pull his pants down and run around Leslie's house.

MC: How can he run with his pants down?

A: That's part of the fun!

L: He'd have a hard time getting around my house, there's a fence and a garage in the way. I don't think it's a good idea, anyway. My family are easily scared.

A: It's a serious bet here, Leslie. It needs serious consequences.

F: I'm not doing that.

A: Come on, Falcon, we won't film it. Actually, that's a great idea! Leslie, do you have a video camera?

G: Forget it, Aviator.

A: You'll come round to my point of view eventually.

We didn't.

Eventually we decided that if Falcon won, I would have to knit him a scarf, and if I won, we'd get to spray Falcon with the hose for a minute and a half while filming it, and put it on Facebook.

Then, it was time to vote. I gave out voting slips, people filled them in, and then we put them in a pimp hat (actually, this hat has previously made an appearance in this post, as the one Lala donned to feel more like a banker. That hat has lead a rich and varied life). Here is the final result:

DAVID TENNANT: 4

MATT SMITH: 1

Remembering that I'd voted for Matt Smith, that meant everyone else had voted against me. 'All of you? Really?' I asked despairingly. 'I demand a recount.' It was still the same result.

'It was the yoghurt thing that did it, really,' confessed Aviator. 'I would have liked to see Falcon sprayed with a hose. But I just couldn't understand why Matt Smith would spit yoghurt at a Scottish girl. I mean, with that accent?'

This left me, then, having to knit Falcon a scarf. I did, however, manage to extract a promise from him that he would wear the scarf for at least one day at school. What's more, I would be able to pick any colours I wanted.

There IS such a thing as small victories.

Anyway, we had to stop at this point, as Aviator and Falcon were shortly going bowling and Marie-Clare was going to get her nails done. We spent the remaining time in my room, despite the fact that I'd done all I could to keep them out: I'm not the tidiest person. I showed everyone a love letter Marie-Clare had written for James McCartney the previous year, and that I had saved for an occasion such as this one. Aviator tried to convince us (a) he was an amazing jazz Irish whistle player and (b) he had syphilis (this is an extremely disconcerting thing to hear from someone when they've spent the last ten minutes playing your Irish whistle). Then everyone else tried to convince me that Matt Smith was gay.

'Come on! He's practically admitted it!' Aviator enthused.

'How has he admitted it?' I asked, annoyed.

'It's the hair,' said Falcon solemnly. 'Nobody can have hair like that and be straight. Google 'matt smith gay' and you'll get your answer.'

We did, and came up with an article he'd done for the Gay Times.

'That proves it!'

'No, it doesn't! Look, he's going out with an underwear model!' I said.

'A male underwear model,' Giuseppe contributed.

'No, a female one - look, here's a picture of her -'

We found a picture. Aviator sighed. 'All right, you win.'

'I do?'

'Yes, you're right. He's definitely bisexual.'

I was quite glad when they all left.

Everyone but Giuseppe, that is. For we had a nobler purpose in mind. We went into Civic with but a single thought: to buy the wool for Falcon's scarf. That is to say, our single thought was 'buy wool for scarf'. When it got down to the actual details of the thing, it got a little confusing.

G: You should knit his name into the scarf.

L: Not sure my knitting abilities are up to that.

G: You know what you should do - you should knit David Tennant's face into the scarf. Or Matt Smith's.

L: Again, my knitting skills aren't up to much. Either way, I'd end up with a blobby pink face and various distorted features. I'm not sure you'd be able to tell who it was.

G: That's probably right. It was a nice thought, though.

L: I think I'll just stick to stripes.

G: Well, you should make it vomit coloured. Or just generally hideous.

L: Sounds good.

We entered the wool shop. First of all, I settled on a charming lime green wool. Giuseppe approved. We then found some of that wool that changes colours as you knit, in a number of exciting colours and flavours. I went for one that swapped between lime green/dark pink/light pink. We were just deciding the last one when we accidentally stumbled across a type of wool that - well, it's hard to describe. It's essentially a think cord of thread. Except every five centimetres or so is a large pompom of wool. Obviously, this was hard to resist. Giuseppe was keen to go along the 'vomit coloured' route and buy the orange. I, however, decided that I wanted it to match, and went for some that swapped between green, white, and pink. I started the scarf when I got home. That was a week ago, and I'm already more than half done. It truly is a thing of beauty, insofar is it is impossible to look at for more than a few minutes without your eyes watering at the hideousness of it. I have to wear protective goggles while knitting. I'll have it done for the first day of school, Falcon, promise. I look forward to seeing you wear it. Serves you right for thinking David Tennant is the best Doctor. I may be down, but I'm not out.

4. Part the Fourth - family holiday

I've spent the past few days on holiday with my family. Not much to do. We watched many movies ('Brazil' was awesome. Everyone must watch it. With the proper director's cut ending, though, not the happy American one), played table tennis - I knitted and listened to my iPod.

Actually, a bizarre thing happened pertaining to my iPod (the blue one). One night, I was listening to it, perfectly innocently, when it completely cut out. The screen went black, none of the buttons worked, it wouldn't appear on my computer desktop, etc. I considered it to be dead and duly mourned it. The strange thing is that the next night, at about the same time, it came back to life again. I was pleasantly astounded. I would have been happy for it to stay that way, but it was not to be. The next night, again, at about the same time, it cut out again, right in the middle of what I was listening to. This time it still makes the clickety-click noises when I press the buttons. It just doesn't do anything. Not so much dead as comatose. I've a sneaking suspicion that it was what I was forcing it to play. Both times, it was halfway through an episode of BBC radio comedy.

Actually, come to think of it, that's not all that coincidental, seeing as that's basically all I listen to.

That was exactly a day ago. I'm hoping it'll come back to life in a matter of minutes. I'm not optimistic. Still, you never know.

And there you have it, dear friends and less dear friends (Ness. Marie-Clare. NO COMMENT). My holidays as they've been so far. There are only four days left now, so not a great deal more to sum up. There is, of course, a great deal I haven't mentioned here - mostly, it must be said, the unexciting stuff. For example, I briefly created a Wikipedia page for Gwen explaining how she was an expert on the use of hard 'g's is the English language. The Wikifolk have taken it down now, but I've still got a screen shot of the page if anyone's interested. I also created a page for one of 'my' comedians, Lee Simpson, which is still up - I thought it was about time he had one, although the Wikifolk clearly don't approve and have covered the page in irrelevant tags. The way I see it, I'm fighting against internet oppression. Nice to have achieved something. I'm also friends with two of 'my' British comedians on Facebook. Well, I'm friends with one, and friends with the alter-ego of the other. Yes, one of them has an alter-ego who is a therapist. Sound familiar?

I suppose it's not actual friends, really. I mean, they'd probably take umbrage if I turned up at their houses in the middle of the night asking to come in. But it's a start.

And so, I hope this puts to rest all the complaints and complainees of the world - at least, all the ones pestering me - and convinces them to let me sleep for another couple of weeks.