Happy Ironic Christmas

Christmas. The festival that we've been celebrating, more or less constantly, for the past 2011 years.

A time of magical lights and gifts, when everyone fills up with the milk of human kindness until it more or less starts dribbling out of them. Is it? Is it really?

The answer to that is a resounding NO.

Trees? Fake snow? Father Christmas? Please. NO ONE celebrates Christmas GENUINELY anymore.

So this Christmas, celebrate the IRONIC way as you experience the ghastly overrated event that we experience once every 365 days, with the help of my handy guide:

HOW TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS THE IRONIC WAY

1. Consumerism

You will need:

-       a shopping trolley

-       a helpful assistant

-       a spare couple of hours

The second-worst thing about consumerism in the Christmas season is that the so-called ‘Christmas’ shopping period actually begins in November. The worst thing is the way everyone points this out, and then does all their Christmas shopping in November anyway. Passé as it has now become to criticise the blatant consumer-focus of modern holiday time it’s as good a point as any to begin your new, ironic celebratory activities.

First, LOCATE a shopping centre close to you. WAIT until the busiest time of the year, and then enter the store with the largest shopping trolley you are physically able to manoeuvre. Find some young, idealistic casual worker and ATTACH yourself to them as you attempt to complete your Christmas shopping.

INSIST that they advise you on each and every item of decoration you are considering purchasing. Relentlessly DEMAND a personal guide and escort to each new department within the centre you move to. If possible, make very specific inquiries regarding each product you examine and stipulate that other team members are brought to you for cross examination. By the end of your shopping trip, you should ideally have acquired two or three employees, each of whom are becoming steadily more irritated with your persistent queries and stern demeanor. For extra employees, award yourself bonus points. Double it if any are management. Your trolley will be crammed as full of Christmas tack as is humanly possible. Again, extra points for each item you have persuaded the store workers into carrying for you. Possibly that novelty glowing Christmas tree was just a little too bulky to balance on top of the rest of your purchases. Maybe the matching reindeer statues are too fragile to be entrusted to your trolley. Having reached this point, decide to call it a day.

As the relieved employees begin to usher you towards the registers, pause. Watch the sinking looks of exhaustion and desperation in their eyes as you candidly inquire ‘Actually, do you have any Easter products out yet? That’s what I’m really after.’

Presumably one of the workers will at these point say something along the lines of ‘I’m sorry, sir/madame. We don’t have anything for Easter out at this time of year.’

This is, of course, if you’ve been going for a couple of hours. If it’s been over six hours and this employee has been with you every step of the way, it’s far more likely to be something like, ‘NO. No we don’t. Now are you going to come this way and BUY your items or are we just going to keep STANDING here examining the CHRISTMAS CARD DISPLAY?’

Whatever the nature of the response, the moment you receive your negative answer frown fiercely and cry ‘What kind of shop is this? December and no Easter supplies up yet? It’s just four months away!’ Leave your trolley in the middle of the aisle and stroll away from your disbelieving helpers, darkly muttering ‘And they expect my custom,’ under your breath as you walk away angrily. Just before you are out of sight, turn and yell ‘A very merry ironic Christmas to all!’ before running away.

While at first glance this may appear a little unfair to your blameless helpers who, after all, are not responsible for their employer’s policy regarding shameless Christmas consumerism, fear not. Rather than experiencing frustration or anger at the expense of your waste of their time, they will instead by so amused by your refreshingly witty antics you leave them laughing merrily in your wake.

2. Buying gifts

You will need:

-       a lot of money

-       yards of wrapping paper

-       tyre-sized rolls of sellotape

Having ironically expressed your feelings for Christmas consumerism in the previous activity, it is now actually necessary to purchase gifts for your loved ones. However, you are not going to conform to Christmas season stereotypes by getting them things they WANT or NEED. No, what you are going to buy for your family is the IDEAL GIFT.

… by which I mean every single item you find that is labelled or described to you as the IDEAL GIFT. Not actual quality things they might enjoy, like, say, those new large-screen televisions or an MP3 player, as that would defeat the point of the exercise. All the more unusual IDEAL GIFTS you can find. After all, if they’re the perfect gift, that means perfect for EVERYONE. So about fifty gift cards, for a start, then power tools, deck chairs, the boxed set of every British and American comedy released over the past sixty years, novelty Christmas T-shirts, picture calendars, scarves, coats, raincoats, knitting catologues, mosaic kits, a complete set of colour encyclopaedias, glue, a new kitchen, and possibly even some homeless kittens I saw someone giving away in a cardboard box labelled ‘PURR-FECT CHRISTMAS GIFT!!!’. Which would surely not be false advertising.

Having acquired all these items, wrap them – possibly more than a one-person job, especially given the kitchen – and send them on their way. Let Grandma pour her delighted thanks out to you as she receives a complete set of power drills. Modestly accept the incontrollable pleasure of your father as you present him with a homeless stray kitten. Revel in the excitement of your young cousins as they unwrap the boxed set of some English comedy/drama set from the 1950’s – colour an optional bonus.

Of course, if your grandmother is a DIY fanatic, your father obsessed with adopting small, defenceless animals from the streets and your small cousin VERY into the British comedy scene it might be a good idea to switch the gifts. Also, your family is very unusual.

At any rate, hopefully the confusion spread by your liberal showering of IDEAL GIFTS upon everyone produces the appropriately confused response. As soon as each present is unwrapped, and the appropriately puzzled expression is appearing on each of your relatives’ faces, dramatically cry ‘A very merry ironic Christmas to all!’ and sprint from the room.

3. Sun God festival

You will need:

-       an alarm clock

-       yellow clothes

-       attractive sun themed bling

-       a musical instrument

The 25^th December hasn’t always been the formerly Christian, now blatantly consumerist occasion we know and ironically comment upon today. Initially it was a pagan Sun God festival. The festivals were combined by one or other of the Roman emperors who was hoping to join the Christian and pagan members of his empire. Presumably the date is remarkable for its proximity to the date of the Summer Solstice.

Now, there is no reason this noble festival should be so frowned upon. Perhaps you, as an ironic Christmas protestor, know very little about pagan customs. This should not stop you.

At the crack of dawn on Christmas Day, set up a carpet on your front lawn. Dress yourself in bright yellow robes – an old-ish sheet should do, if that’s really all you can manage – with an attractive, sun-shaped headdress. Papier maché is always useful. Bedeck yourself in the manner of a Christmas tree with plenty of glittery decorations, and, if possible, acquire a triangle, tambourine, or some kind of hand-worked instrument. A recorder is not a viable option.

The moment the sun rises, begin to CHANT loudly with words of your own composition. ‘Hail, Almighty Sun!’ is always a good starter. Play your instrument and dance winningly in order to appropriately honour the Sun God on his/her special day.

Do not worry about disturbing your neighbours. They probably all have excitable five-year-olds who work them up at three a.m. anyway, and the ones who don’t will surely be too pleased by your ironic celebration of the spirit of Christmas to resent the early waking. As you dance, play and chant, to the delight of everyone else on your street, cry ‘A very merry ironic Christmas to all!’

4. Deception Santa

NB: Christmas Spoilers alert, people.

You will need:

-       a member of your family with young, gullible children

-       excellent climbing abilities OR a ladder

-       a house, preferably not more than two storeys high, with a chimney

For young children, Christmas is a fun-filled adventure populated by amazing gifts, fantastic food and presided over by a jolly giant clad in red and white, right?

WRONG.

Christmas is a time in which older generations take advantage of the inexperience of others in order to tell them shameful, barefaced lies and selfishly manipulate their beliefs to further enjoy their own holiday experience. Marx knew it (who among us has not heard the noble name of ‘The Christmas Manifesto’?). Guavera knew it, even if he never explicitly said it or indeed gave any evidence that he knew it. However, it has been going on long enough.

I am not suggesting by this introduction that you should in any way feel obliged to disillusion your young, carefree relations as to the existence of a certain magical present-dispensing multi-centagenarian. That would be unnecessarily cruel and, besides, they are not the true targets of your ironically driven actions.

On Christmas Day, after the triumphant dawn ceremony for the honour of the Sun God, WAIT until you can find an opportunity in which all the adult members of your family, including the parents of the young children, are together in some secluded location. Subtly lead the conversation around to the topic of the erstwhile Father Christmas. Ideally one of the parents will say something like ‘Oh yes, it was adorable seeing them open their presents, isn’t it nice to see how they still believe in Santa at that age?’

THIS is your moment. Allow your lower lip to begin trembling slightly, and then slowly choke out ‘You mean – he isn’t real?’

Hopefully your family members will now be looking slightly uncomfortable. Now is the time to bring out the big guns. If you are capable of producing fake tears, do so. Otherwise simply put your head in your hands and run, wailing, from the house. Find a bush to hide in, and crouch there as your concerned family flood out to find out exactly what you were doing. Presumably they will soon head back inside, discussing your reaction in muted voices.

Now is your chance. Scale the walls of the house with your Spiderman-like gift of climbing. Either that, or use a ladder in a concealed location. Then proceed to sob loudly. VERY loudly.

Your family members will flock out and, unless you’ve tried too many of the other ironic Christmas activities on them already, look upset to see you in a position of mortal peril. Now is your time to shine.

Stand up and declare ‘If Santa Claus can’t do it, then I will have to do it myself. I will shortly throw myself down this chimney to be more like the great man. If only I hadn’t been lied to so frequently!’

Then sob a little more, for added effect.

Congratulations for your completion of this ironic comment on the harmful nature of the trivialised deception of children. You are now standing on a roof, your family staring horrifiedly up on you, crying and wailing dramatically and threatening to throw yourself down the chimney. I bet they feel foolish right now!

Finally, let yourself be talked down. As you gracefully descend the ladder, cry ‘A very merry ironic Christmas to all!’

And THAT is how to celebrate Christmas the ironic way. 

The Eleventh Hour

11:11 on 11/11/2011.

Or, if you prefer the American date system, 11/11/2011.

The 11^th of November is a renowned day in our history. Remembrance Day, for a start. We remember all the soldiers who pro patria mori’d their way through the First World War, and reminisce about how lucky it is we all learnt from that example and never entered into world-wide conflict ever again. Other things have happened on November 11, too, apparently – at least, according to the lyrics of a Whitlams song I like about the life of Gough Whitlam (you see where they cunningly derived their band name from?), which goes something along the lines of:

November 11

Armistice Day

A bushranger was slaughtered and Gough was betrayed

November 11

He wouldn’t survive

The Governor General in ’75

November 11, yeah

A big day for all of us

I said November 11

Ned Kelly died

Shame, Fraser, shame

And we all cried

For you, Gough

No idea who Fraser is, but this song is evidently deep and meaningful despite that.

It’s also the only one I know that mentions the name of the town I live in.

None of these things are, however, the most crucially crucial event to occur on this day, ever.

 

Which is:

Ariane’s birthday.

 

Which I am choosing to honour with a graphic I made in five minutes on photoshop.

Given that I have little to no ability to work that app, despite having owned a Mac for virtually my entire life.

Wahay!

 

Anyway, as you can see, 11/11 is a significant day in world history. One that is routinely celebrated and one that, for some reason, is having an abnormally large amount of fuss made over it, purely because the arbitrarily chosen number of the year we’re in happens to end in double digits.

Supposedly this is a time of magical luck and wonder. The number 1 repeated 10 times within a single date and time, remembering to ignore, of course, the 2 and 0 digits, because that just ruins the whole thing for everyone. Yes. A lucky day. Maybe after you’ve made your magical definitely-coming-true wish you could go out and catch a leprechaun. Or go around all day with your eyes closed JUST IN CASE you accidentally look at a black cat. On the plus side, you could probably catch up on some sleep like that.

I’m not so big on the whole superstition thing. Honestly, I don’t think many people really are now (unless you count religion), which is why it’s so perplexing as to how great a deal of fuss certain people are making about today. Probably the lack of precedent.

I mean, think about it:

ANY B.C. DATE – different year system used. Obviously. It’s not like they were enthusiastically counting down to 0 B.C.

1 A.D. – if Jesus existed, he would only have been one, and hence naming a type of calendar after him would have been a little premature.

11 A.D. – I don’t think even eleven-year-old Jesus would have had much calendar-related influence by this point. Or any kind of influence, really. Harry Potter was far more well-known by that point in his life.

111 – 1111 A.D. – system would probably have started by now, but most of the population couldn’t read anyway, so wouldn’t have been much help.

1211 – 1711 A.D. Ditto.

1811 A.D. – the Age of Enlightenment occurred roundabout now, so I’m assuming they rejected superstition as a matter of course before the Romantics turned up and screwed that whole thing up for them. Hopeless Romantics.

1911 A.D. – alright, maybe they had the lucky-number-one thing then, but given WW1 followed in less than two years, I’m not sure that’s the best example.

1994 A.D. – Ariane was born. 

2011 A.D.  – Now.

11111 A.D. – The luckiest year in history. However, I’m not sure if the robots ruling the Earth, having crushed humankind underfoot in the infamous apocalypse of 2012, will feel like celebrating it. Also they will probably have designed a totally new system by then, built on binary code, meaning everything will have 0s and 1s in it anyway.

 

In short, we have very little idea as to what is likely to happen. Probably a normal day. You never know, maybe someone’s predicted the end of the year for today. That’s always fun. I enjoyed the Rapture earlier this year. The Apocalypse of 21^st December 2012 seems likely to be a high point of the next year. Apparently, the only reason the Aztecs thought that would be the end of the world was because they kept their calendar on a giant wall and ran out of room at that point. See, there ARE more arbitrary ways of marking dates and years than the one we use.

You may have noticed, observant reader, that I am somewhat sceptical of the whole ‘lucky day’ thing. This is mostly true.

Being of a scientific bent (that is a blatant lie told because it makes the sentence sound nicer), I decided to disprove this theory of fortuitous events happening on 11/11/11 with an EXPERIMENT. This started on Tuesday, after an extremely unlucky event occurred, and I continued it throughout the week. The results surprised me.

THE 11 EXPERIMENT

HYPOTHESIS: That I [Subject A] will be no luckier on 11/11/11 than any other day of the millennium. This hypothesis will be examined in terms of occurrences that happen between Subject A and Lala [Subject B] in the days preceding, and including, Friday the 11^th of November 2011.

OBSERVATIONS:

Day 1, 8/11/11

While running into the Senior Common Room after school in heavy rain, Subject B attempts to speed up proceedings by gently shoving Subject A in small of back. Subject A trips, grazes knee, and rolls into a puddle. Does not dry fully until some hours later that night.

CONCLUSION: Extremely unlucky

Day 2, 9/11/11

While walking to assembly, Subject B playfully shoves Phoenix [Subject C] into a railing, evidently having forgotten that Subject A is walking on other side. Result: Subject C is fine, Subject A is left draped over a railing with a tasteful bruise on right side of the body. On the plus side, this looks great with the graze from the day before.

CONCLUSION: Unlucky.

Day 3, 10/11/11

Nothing untoward occurs between Subject A and Subject B.

CONCLUSION: Neutral

 

Day 4, 11/11/11

D-Day. Teacher’s birthday in the morning. Free cake is dispensed to all. Peanut [Subject D] purchases lunch for Subject B, forgetting that she will be absent due to a former engagement. Subject A receives free lunch from Subject D and no injuries.

CONCLUSION: Lucky

 

Therefore, I have managed to prove myself wrong.

Great.

 

So evidently 11/11/11 does have a certain significance.

However, lucky or not, it’s still Ariane’s birthday, to which I can only say A VERY MERRY ANNUAL WOMB EMANCIPATION DAY at this time, the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year of this millennium.

I mean, it would probably better if you were turning 11, but we’ll work with what we’ve got.

The Text Adventurer

I’m no stranger to the Internet.
I’m a member of Generation Y. I have Facebook. I use the word ‘Google’ as a verb. I’m capable of navigating through a series of emails without giving my bank details to estranged African princes so they can safely remove fabulous quantities of cash from their country and, of course, give me a percentage, or deciding to send on mysterious chain mails about ghosts who somehow inhabit the entire world’s plumbing system and will definitely kill you or something if this message isn’t forwarded to 666 people in the next three seconds, or accidentally purchasing an Asian mail-order bride after clicking on a concealed link. I check Cyanide & Happiness every day, without fail, and do the same for Pottermore; I have three email accounts on the Google server alone. I use Wikipedia for basically everything, from actual research to a kind of general hope of improving my general knowledge. Did you know that the Vanuatan national anthem is in Bislama, a form of Creole? Or that the hokey pokey was supposedly invented by nuns? Or that you can get to the page for Philosophy from any Wiki page, purely by clicking on the first link mentioned in every article until you arrive? Because you can.
I live by YouTube. It’s entirely thanks to that particular site that I’ve watched the entirety of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and as many episodes of CNNNN as are available. I even take time out to write about my experiences with the Internet, on the Internet.
Sure, I’m not totally clear on how it works, and am still partially convinced that it’s a form of magic developed by researchers in Sweden to spread the joy of badly spelt poetry about dead pets and dodgy porn sites to the world, concealed by technical jargon. But the point I’m trying to make is that I spend a large portion of my life in this computerised form of reality, as does about every other person I know.

Hence why it came as such a surprise to me recently to discover a portion of the Internet that I’ve simply never come across before. Not such a surprise, I suppose, as the development of increased technological ability was anathema to this particular fountain of undiscovered pleasure. This (based largely on the renowned source of ‘stuff I Googled earlier today when I figured it might be useful for a post’) is the history, so far as I understand it:

Once upon a time, a long way back in the 1980s, there was no such thing as computer games. At least, not as we know them now. Not the kind with fancy switching viewpoints and multiple controls and changeable heroes and, above all, graphics chips.

Fortunately for the ‘80s people, this was not the end. Because they had something far, far greater than any of those glitchy action-filled experiences that amateurishly shows what’s happening to the character. Something that actually tested players’ powers of logic, memory, and lateral thinking, rather than their ability to hit a button as repetitively and aggressively as they can while staring at some pixellated troll. Something that relied on the imagination as much as on specialised coding and design.

Yes. Not only were the 1980s known for bizarre, now retro clothing, and the release of some of E.L.O.’s greatest music, they were also the home of the text adventure game.

Most of the people reading this will have absolutely no idea what a text adventure game is. Let me explain. The game will begin with a simple description of the scene, such as:

You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door. To the north is a path into a forest. Next to you is a closed letterbox.

In response to this, you simply type commands, such as:

>Open mailbox

Or

>Go north

If you open the mailbox, you will receive a leaflet saying something like ‘Welcome to Zork, the exciting fun-filled empire we look forward to having you explore,’ (the above description of game is taken from a game called ‘Zork 1: The Underground Empire’ and is definitely not an exact quote. The original wording was more inspiring). From this point onwards you are free to explore the Underground Empire, slaying enemies, collecting treasures, and being eaten by grues, which has happened to me a far greater number of times than I’m really happy with.

While, in the 1980s, these games were played by inserting a floppy disk into your obscenely large and box-like computer monitor (remember floppy disks?), they are nowadays freely available on the Internet. This is how I play them, mostly because the manufacturers of the computer in my house, strangely enough, completely neglected to include a floppy disk slot into the design. Also, where do you buy floppy disks from now? The same places they sell vinyl records?

Another thing about text adventure games: they’re not all that complicated. Code-wise, I mean. Playing-wise, it’s hard to think, offhand, of something with more twists and turns. Anyway, I feel it’s time to mention now that Peanut, my oft-mentioned friend, is an IT double major, and hence is one of the only people I know who actually understands the concept/appeal of these text-based pastimes. I know I’ve written previously about her desire to become a game designer. Well, this semester in her Programming class they’re actually creating their own text-based games. I’ve called the right to be the first official player. Several times. It’s going to be awesome. In my English double major class we’re looking at the the novel ‘Regeneration’. It’s alright, yes, but hardly up to the standard set by other major classes.

Anyway, in my admittedly limited experience, I think Zork is by far the best text adventure game, possibly to be excepted with whatever Peanut ends up designing. There are three games within Zork, although I’m stuck on the first one. I swear, I’d been playing for about two hours when my lantern suddenly ran out in the middle of a coal mine and I was eaten by a grue. Grues are these supposedly terrifying creatures that lurk within dark places and viciously attack you if you venture towards them without a light. And somehow, when you don’t have a light, they’re always there. This is normally how it goes:

>Go through trapdoor

You go through the trapdoor. It is dark. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.

>Turn on lantern

You have no lantern

>Turn on light

I do not know the word ‘light’

>Go north

A grue attacks you with its slavering fangs.

***You die***

You have lost all your items, including the lantern you didn’t have anyway because you failed to take it after you foolishly assumed it would not be necessary.
Do you feel clever now?
You achieved 3 out of 391 possible achievements.
You suck.

The best known games are Zork, and Zork’s predecessor, called Colossal Caves or Colossal Adventure or something like that. Evidently they’re not best known by me. I haven’t tried playing that one yet because I’m determined not to move on until I have completely defeated the smug Zork narrator, which could take a while, largely because that’s not actually possible within the game.

Anyway, novice as I am, I think these games are awesome. Maybe it’s because I don’t own a Wii or a PSP3 or whatever the hell they’re called and so don’t actually play normal, picture-based games. Possibly.

In all fairness, that makes a lot of sense: recently, during a brief lull in the conversation with Phoenix at her house, I suggested she give the text adventure game a go. Phoenix plays a multitude of Sims and Wii games. She wasn’t all that thrilled with the text-based world over the games she normally spends her time at. This is how it went:

You are standing in an open field west of a white house, with a boarded front door. To the north is a path into a forest. Next to you is a closed letterbox.

>open letter box

Opening the letter box reveals a leaflet.

>kill leaflet

What do you want to kill the leaflet with?

>sword

There was no verb in that sentence.

>kill leaflet with sword

You have no sword.

Phoenix turned to me. ‘Leslie, this game is stupid.’
‘Maybe you just don’t get the game,’ I said defensively. ‘What about, you know, READING the leaflet?’

>read leaflet

Welcome to Zork!

After that, we managed alright up until the moment when Phoenix found the way to get inside the house. If you’re interested, there’s a window ajar on the east side. Open it and go through. If you’re not interested, why are you reading this?

You are inside the kitchen of the white house. A table seems to have been used recently for the preparation of food. A passage leads to the west and a dark staircase can be seen leading upward. On the table is an elongated brown sack and a glass bottle. The bottle contains:

A quantity of water

>open bag

There is no bag here.

>open sack

Opening the brown sack reveals a lunch, and a clove of garlic.

>eat lunch

Much appreciated.

>make cookies

I do not know the word ‘cookies’

>use recipe to make cookies

I do not know the word ‘recipe’

>you’re stupid

I do not know the word ‘stupid’

>drink water

There is no water here.

>yes there is water here

I do not know the word ‘yes’

>screw you

Such hostility.

After her initial enthusiasm at this response – ‘Look, it knows I’m insulting it! Stupid game,’ – Phoenix began to be galled once more.

>throw bottle

Throw bottle where?

>throw bottle at wall

Which wall do you mean, the granite wall or the surrounding wall?

>i don't care

I don't know the word 'don't'

>what?

I don't know the word 'what?'

>that's stupid

I don't know the word 'stupid'

>go west

You are in the living room. There is a doorway to the east, a wooden door with strange gothic lettering to the west, which appears to be nailed shut, a trophy case, and a large oriental rug in the centre of the room. Above the trophy case hangs an elvish sword of great antiquity. A battery-powered lantern is on the trophy case.

>take sword

Taken.

>stab self

If you insist ... Poof, you're dead!

***You have died***
You lose.

‘Look at that,’ Phoenix said, smiling cheerfully. ‘That’s made the game more interesting.’
‘You just killed yourself,’ I said. ‘On a text adventure game. I didn’t even know that was possible. Do you want to have another go?’
‘No. No I don’t.’

Honestly, it’s hard to associate the idea of these games with the modern era. There’s probably a reason most people prefer games with pictures, something I’m just missing. The only reason people still make them is because they’re given them as IT assignments.

I’m no stranger to the Internet. I’m essentially like any other websurfing, Facebooking teenager. I email. I blog. Evidently.
Except for that one part of me antiquated enough to absolutely adore the concept of text adventure games. I don’t know why more people don’t play them. I don’t know why more people don’t like them. I only stopped trying to get through Zork to blog about how I’m trying to get through Zork.

It’s only people who were actually alive at the time, and played the games properly, and people like me, who haven’t been exposed to actual games and hence enjoy the opportunities provided by the freedom of the text-based world, who cling on to this game. We’re a lot of losers wasting time on something that’s the technological equivalent of an evolutionary dead end.
And as someone who is, apart from that, a bland, boring, appalling normal Internet user – with Facebook, Google, and countless email addresses, everything the same as everyone else in the same situation worldwide – I have to ask:
What’s wrong with that?

Free Periods

Let me recreate the situation for you:

It was a French lesson. We were in the labs. We were, basically, doing nothing.

Phoenix and I were trawling through the files on my school server, looking for a certain document I was fairly sure should be there but for some reason couldn't find. Well, I was trawling and she was watching somewhat disinterestedly over my shoulder.

'What's "Shakespeare&Napoleon.docx"?' she inquired after some time.

'Last semester's History seminar.'

'How about "ReinhardHeydrich.docx"?'

'This semester's History seminar.'

'What about that one called "Free Periods"?'

I paused. 'What?'

'"Free Periods", it's right there.'

'I have no idea,' I said briefly, still hoping to find my other file. 'It says I made it sometime back in May.'

'Well, what's it about?'

'I really can't remember. Now, getting back to finding that document I made about Francophone countries last week -'

Phoenix glowered dramatically and unrealistically. 'Let's look at it.'

I sighed. 'OK. Let's look at it.'

I opened it.

I stared in amazement.

'What is it, exactly?' Phoenix asked doubtfully.

'It's a spare blog post. It's a blog post I wrote in May and never posted,' I breathed, barely believing my luck. At this point I was still in my two-month writer's block phase. 'I wrote virtually an entire post in the spare fifteen minutes at the end of one of my free periods last semester, and forgot about it. I just have to stick an extra 200 words on the end and it's a finished product. This is marvellous.'

Phoenix grinned. 'And this is why you listen to me.'

I never did find that document about Francophone countries around the world; I had to type it up again from scratch. But yes, thanks to Phoenix's curiosity, I discovered a post that would probably otherwise have been deleted by the server, unnoticed, at the end of the school year. And that's the important thing.

My free periods are the biggest waste of time since reality TV was invented.

It’s probably something to do with the name. In other schools they’re called ‘study periods’ or even ‘study hall’. My school chooses to refer to them as ‘frees’, which, being pleasantly reminiscent of ‘free time’ in kindergarten, I don’t think is likely to encourage us students to actually get things done.

Like now, for example. A perfectly normal free. I should be doing work. Instead I’m sitting here typing about not doing any work, which, to be honest, is a greater waste of time than not actually doing any work.

Let me explain to you what I’ve been doing.

 

It’s not a perfectly normal free today, to be honest. Initially, I was supposed to have been helping my Hospitality teacher out with preparing numerous snack-like foods for selling to the teachers, to raise money for something I’m not totally clear on.

I was prepared for this when Marie-Clare arrived this morning. ‘Ready for the English presentation, Leslie?’ she said blithely.

‘What presentation?’ I asked, somewhat confusedly.

‘The one during Period 2 today. It’s those Poetry in Action people again, remember?’

I had forgotten the English presentation. Probably something to do with sleep deprivation. I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep recently. I’ve taken to getting dressed in the mornings without getting out of bed.

‘That’s annoying,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Now I have to go and see my Hospitality teacher and tell her I can’t help out,’ I explained. ‘Do you want to come?’

So we went up to see my Hospitality teacher. I knocked on the door, waited for a reply which didn’t come, knocked again, was almost slammed into the wall by the sudden opening of the door, explained why I wasn’t able to come, and left. That’s the problem with being charitable. If I’d decided not to help with the preparations I wouldn’t have had to worry about anything. As it was, I had to go to the effort of explaining when I couldn’t actually go. The world is hideously unfair.

Anyway, Period 1 passed with relatively few events – I’d forgotten to do my homework, but that turned out to be all right because the bell went just before I had to present – and, at the beginning of Period 2, I walked up to the Hall with Marie-Clare.

While I was missing a free to see this presentation, she was missing Japanese, and so was extremely happy. I considered this to be somewhat tactless. At any rate, we made it up to the Hall, where we met up with others in our class. They were discussing the prospect of another Poetry in Action presentation.

Today’s Wednesday. The same people presented to us on Monday about the war poetry of Wilfred Owen. Marie-Clare and I found them quite amusing. I think this was, on her part, mainly because she thought one of the players was very attractive.  Anyway, we were quite cheered at the idea of seeing them again.

To our surprise, while there were a few props set up in the Hall, the players were nowhere to be seen and only six people were there. After a few minutes of this Liss decided to call our English teacher (although why she has his number …). We watched as she talked to him.

After a minute, she turned to us and said ‘It’s not in the Hall, it’s in the lecture theatre, and it’s just for the Australian Literature class. They must have put the wrong dates on our note.’

So Marie-Clare and I walked down to the lecture theatre to see if this was the case. To our annoyance, it was; we stood behind the building for a bit and glared at the presenters through the windows, but it didn’t seem to do much.

To do this we had had to walk past the Hospitality classroom twice. Both times, I’d sprinted past, on the basis that my teacher wouldn’t look at me, and judge the reality of my so-called presentation, if I was merely a blur of light rushing past the window – or, more likely, a somewhat uncoordinated Year 11 jogging slowly along in plain view. Magically, she managed not to notice me.

She even completely failed to see me when I walked past for a third time. Marie-Clare had wanted to head back up to the Hall, just to double check they weren’t there. Despite the fact we had just seen them performing in the lecture theatre. She did assure me that this enthusiasm had nothing to do with not wanting to return to Japanese. However, she did also explain that she didn’t like the Poetry in Action people solely for the attractiveness of their members, and so, once again, I’m left to sadly point out that her word really can’t count for much.

In the Hall, we found three screens set up to look like a theatre’s curtains, a green bag full of mysterious black items we didn’t look at, several costumes, some steps, a few chairs, and a large leather suitcase.

‘Nothing here,’ said Marie-Clare disconsolately. ‘Let’s go. To the Common Room, I mean. There’s no point in me going back to Japanese halfway through the lesson.’

I was standing over by the screens when she said this, trying to figure out what was on the back. ‘All right, let’s head off.’

We were just crossing the room when I stopped suddenly. ‘You know what I worry about at times like these?’

‘What?’ Marie-Clare asked suspiciously. In tutor period I’d gone off on two separate five-minute-long tangents which had only stopped upon threat of, and actual, violence. I can understand her hesitation upon the prospect of listening to anything else I had to say.

‘That the whole room is really full of people. Like, it’s actually an hour later in the day than I think it is, and for some reason I’m hallucinating that the room is empty. But really, the presenters are standing up by the screens wondering why I was walking around them, and the audience are waiting aghast for me to stop making a fool of myself, and now they’re just confused because what I’m describing is actually happening, and maybe in a moment one of them will come over to me and –‘

I stopped at this point because I was experiencing what has now become a familiar sensation for me. That of being dragged forcibly from a room.

I’d honestly like to say that that was the end of it. That would have been the end of it, if not for that part of my brain that subconsciously knows when I’m going to do stupid things and appears to find it hilarious.

Surely everybody has that. The tiny part of you that goes ‘No, seriously, Leslie, it’s a GREAT idea to see how far you can lean back on this log while wearing a heavy bag. What? You’ve fallen over backwards and are now trapped in the straps of your bag, meaning you’re forced to just lie on the ground until Phoenix and Cambridge stop laughing and help you up again? HA HA HA.’

Or ‘Look, Leslie, you’re wearing your watch. Why don’t you go and put that away. STOP LET’S GO BACK TO THE KITCHEN RIGHT NOW. What? You mean you tried to go in both directions at once, lost your balance and accidentally dived into the wooden floor in the hallway? Never mind. I’m sure your knees aren’t damaged permanently. Although how the hell would I know? I’m in your head.’

Actually, maybe it’s just me that has that part of the brain.

In this case, it’s the part of the brain that goes, ‘Ah. Marie-Clare is dragging us from the hall. This is a considerable loss of dignity. Let’s do this the proper way. Disentangle yourself from her. Good. Now go and stand on that leather chest the War Poetry people left behind. Then salute, and then leave the hall.’

At that point there was a brief, action-filled pause.

‘Ah, I see you tried to salute with some degree of force, hit yourself in the eye, closed both eyes in pain, overbalanced and fell off the chest. How ‘bout that. I bet you have a black eye and have to explain this awkwardly to people for the next two days.’

That kind of thing wouldn’t happen if they were called study periods.