Formalities

Dear everyone who is still capable of reading this blog (that is to say, NOT Shoelace or Giuseppe, who are both spending time in the communist anti-blog paradise that is modern China),

I think it's the perfect time to finish my three-part account of the end of the year. 'The perfect time', in my own unique version of blog speak, is defined as 'the period of time slightly after I promised I'd write the thing but slightly before people begin harassing me about it'. In this case, some of the events described actually happened about a month ago. Luckily I was taking notes at the time. I have no doubt that a number of the people featured in this month's installment will spare no time in contacting me to explain exactly how wrong I am about certain details. Still, I am going to valiantly battle on and describe, in as much detail as I'll allow myself, Ariane's Malice in Wonderland party, exactly what happened when sixteen of us thought it would be a good idea to go and see the seventh Harry Potter movie, and of course, our most significant end-of-year event, the formal. Three very different events, and the preparation and incidents - or, in a word, the formalities - that accompanied each one.

The formalities of Ariane's 'Alice in Wonderland'-themed costume party included picking a character to dress as and then dressing as said character. Virtually all the character decisions were made while I was, unfortunately, out of internet reach. Therefore, by the time I'd returned I had very few choices left. Basically, it was either a turtle or a playing card. Neither of which I've ever aspired to be.

Luckily enough, I happened to be with Marie-Clare (who had intended to go as Alice) when she bought a dress with hearts on it and suddenly decided that in order to have an opportunity to wear it, she would go as the Queen of Hearts to the Malice in Wonderland party. Giuseppe had formerly called the Queen of Hearts. After a long chain of events - Marie-Clare took Queen of Hearts from Giuseppe and Brandine took Alice from Marie-Clare - I ended up with Alice's sister, who Brandine had originally wanted to go as. For all those who don't know - and that included me, at that point in time I'd never seen the original movie - Alice's sister looks like this:

Not only that, but I'd forgotten about the party until several days (three days, to be exact) before it actually happened. Basically, I did all I could in the time available, and arrived at Ariane's door wearing a purple skirt and shirt in the vague hope that if you squinted a bit, they did look at least similar to a nineteenth century dress (they didn't, but as it turned out, I wasn't the least convincing).

Ariane and Lala had probably put the most effort in and, as a result, actually looked mildly convincing (if not convincing, then at the very least interesting): Ariane as the cat, and Lala as the Mad Hatter. As for the rest . . . well, to put them on a scale of most convincing to least convincing:

GWEN - Came as the dormouse. I'm putting her at the top simply because of the amount of effort she went to, sticking fake claws over each of her fingernails. It looked (and was) hugely inconvenient - although pretty funny seeing her try to pick up her cup - and she took them off partway through, but it still counts.

MARIE-CLARE - Marie-Clare got into the whole 'Malice in Wonderland' thing and had an Alice bracelet on. Not to mention the dress.

PEANUT - She'd probably go above Marie-Clare - she'd put some effort into her costume - but for the fact that her idea of dressing as the caterpillar entailed her putting on a blue silk dressing gown, a green turban thing, and covering her entire face in green eyeshadow. Quite like something out of the Arabian nights (some of the genies were green, weren't they?). Not all that much like a caterpillar. The eyeshadow gave her a slightly unsettling look, but did mean her entire face glittered whenever it caught the light. She'd also brought a hookah along with her - one of these things:

Although in Peanut's case it wasn't really a hookah, just a teapot with a straw stuck in it. This led to the following exchange:

PEANUT (P): I'm not sure if you pronounce it 'hooker' or 'hoo-kah'

GIUSEPPE (G): It would have to be 'hoo-kah'. 'Hooker' means something completely different.

P: Yeah, you're probably right.

G: Otherwise you'd end up saying something like 'Can I smoke your hooker?'

(Lala walks up at exactly the wrong moment)

LALA (L):WHAT?

There was also another part to Peanut's costume, which she didn't pull out until part of the way through the party.

LESLIE (L): Saying something I don't remember

PEANUT (P): Hang on, I didn't hear that properly. Let me pull out my monocle.

(She does so)

L: Peanut, what is that?

P: It's a monocle.

L: No it's not.

P: It is.

L: Peanut, that's a drink stirrer. It is not a monocle.

P: It's a drink stirrer that works as a monocle!

NESS & SHARONA - They were, at least, wearing the same thing, but the only part of their costume that looked remotely Tweedledum & Tweedledee-ish was the propellor hat each of them were wearing. Then again, I hadn't actually seen 'Alice in Wonderland'. Maybe Tweedledum & Tweedledee are SUPPOSED to wear fishnets and extremely high heels.

SHOELACE - It's probably time Shoelace learned that dressing in brown and taping a small paper 'shell' to your back does not a Mock Turtle make. It was quite a nice shell, though.

BRANDINE - I don't think Alice wore checked shirts and high heels. I suppose she may have done, casually, of course, but not when she's actually in Wonderland. Still, even Brandine put in more effort than Giuseppe.

GIUSEPPE - I've a feeling she had originally intended to come as the white rabbit. Apparently, though, she'd had a busy day and hadn't had time to get a costume. So she arrived wearing a trenchcoat.

'It's Trenchcoat Bob!' said Ariane delightedly when we saw her getting out of the car.

'Who's Trenchcoat Bob?'

'You know Trenchcoat Bob - he's Alice's invisible stalker. He's one of the main characters!'

So Trenchcoat Bob, Alice's stalker, Giuseppe was.

At this point in the story I'm a little torn. I'd quite like to describe the party, but frankly it would be a little hard. I'd have to go through all the details of what Ariane had done to her house, the tea party she'd set up, the signs she'd arranged, and frankly that would involve a little too much effort, even for me. Also, Marie-Clare has started her regular bout of hassling - she even called me up just now, solely for the purpose of telling me to hurry up - so, frankly, the quickest way is probably the best way to go. The easy alternative was to put pictures up. But I can't put up photographs of my friends. That would completely defeat the point of giving them nicknames and being so terribly secretive about everything.

So, the easy solution was to take lots of Ariane and Sharona's pictures (yes, yes, copyright by them, I don't reserve the right to . . . something) and crop the recognisable pictures of 

people out of them. Which is what I've done. Enjoy.

Ariane had decked her garden out with a number of interesting Alice-ish signs:

That's Marie-Clare with the Mome Raths, by the way.

She'd also set up a tea party in her back yard, with teapots (most of which contained what I sincerely hope was soft drink; one, for some reason, was full of smarties), bottles labelled 'Drink Me', and cupcakes upon each one of which somebody had painstakingly spelled out 'EAT ME' in those little sugary ball bearing things. This effort was wasted on Sharona, who spent most of the evening seeing if cupcakes are flammable or not. Discovering that they aren't, not really, she moved on to burning napkins; we stopped her after she nearly set the tablecloth on fire.

As well as being covered with signs, Ariane's garden was covered in playing cards (one of which Sharona ended up setting alight) and watches dangling casually from the trees (such as the heart shaped one in the picture. That one wasn't actually up for very long, Peanut nicked it and concealed it inside her dressing gown for much of the party).

Later on we watched 'Alice in Wonderland' - the original Disney movie, not the Tim Burton one (in my opinion, the Disney one's probably better, although it does suffer from the fatal flaw of not having Stephen Fry in it). Alice's sister only had about three lines. She's also a severe killjoy. Next time I want to go as Trenchcoat Bob. Anyway, turns out Sharona is not only a pyromaniac, she's also an extremely hard person to watch movies with.

(We'd just reached the part of the film where lots of strange, mutant bird things are coming out and looking at Alice. Presumably Trenchcoat Bob was there looking at Alice as well, although we didn't see him)

SHARONA (S): Look, it's a bird with a hammer head! I should have come as that! Forget Tweedledee, I want to be a hammer head.

NESS (N): I thought I was Tweedledee. You're Tweedledum.

S: I don't really want to be Tweedledum - look! That one looks like a cage! I should have come as the cage thing!

PEANUT (P): Sharona, it could be hard to dress as a cage.

S: THAT ONE HAS A SPADE FACE! I want a bird that has a spade face. Oh, yeah, and I should have dressed as it. I could have just stuck a spade to my face.

ARIANE (A): Well, you can't come as everything. You barely even came as Tweedledum. I don't think Tweedledum wears fishnets.

S: I'm not Tweedledum, I'm Tweedledee.

GWEN (G): Look, can we please just watch the film?

A: Yeah, Sharona, stop interrupting.

S: All right, but I really want a spade face bird.

(Brief pause)

S: MOME RATHS! I want to be a mome rath!

Yes, it was a hard film to watch, made slightly harder by the fact that most of us wandered off halfway through to dance in the front room and eat cake (it was a truly inspiring cake, by the way, there's a picture here of Lala holding it).

All in all, 'Malice in Wonderland' was a more or less excellent way to spend an evening, although if there was to be a next time I'd suggest that Sharona isn't allowed to go anywhere near anything remotely flammable. I'd like to finish off the first part of my discussion on formalities with some pictures of Ariane and Lala (Ariane because she was the birthday girl, Lala because she had an extremely good hat on - or two extremely good hats, rather). Ariane's the one wearing purple; I have no idea why she's wearing Lala's hat in the first photo. Probably just the spur of the moment. Still, the way she's jammed it over her face makes an extremely good blog picture. It's Lala's hand in the teacup photo (I had originally thought it was Brandine's. Turns out, it's not. Lala was quick to correct me on that one). That picture wasn't set up. Lala just really, really wanted a cup of tea (or whatever it was in those teapots) and happened to be blocking Ariane's face. That's the way it was explained to me, anyway. I personally love that picture. The photo in the middle is of Lala. Or the top of her head, anyway.

So I've described Ariane's party in some detail; I now feel it's time to move on to the formalities of a completely different event. That of the time Gwen decided to get as many people as possible together and go and watch Harry Potter. 

The formalities of going to see a film with an extremely large group of people involve booking the tickets, of course, and making sure everyone can come - but most of all, it includes finding someone who is either able to or willing to organise everyone else to wherever they're supposed to be. In this case, the task of organiser fell squarely on to Gwen.

I'm going to do my best at remembering everyone who came. We filled up about a row and a half by ourselves, so it's a little tricky.

There was: Gwen, Vyvyan, Giuseppe, Ness, Peanut, Klaus, Hitler, Bob Dylan, Mai, Kapish, Shoelace, two friends of Kapish whom I shall refer to as Smithy and Masterson, and three other people I've forgotten.

No, because I was there too. Two people I've forgotten.

It began fairly inauspiciously: I walked up to the bookshop where we were meeting to see both Peanut and Vyvyan run out. Vyvyan came up to me and said, very seriously, 'I didn't break the torch, OK? No matter what anyone tells you, I didn't break the torch.'

She then started laughing so hard I couldn't figure out what she was saying for the next thirty seconds.

Luckily, Peanut explained it to me: Vyvyan had been fiddling with a torch and it had somehow, magically, 'got broken'. I was unsurprised. If you're going to leave torches in a bookshop and then allow people like Vyvyan to come in, you're bound to end up with one or two breakages. Probably more, depending on how many other people are there to protect the merchandise.

Eventually it transpired that she hadn't actually broken the torch. It's just that while the correct method of turning it off would have been to twist the handle (in exactly the same way as she managed to turn it on), Vyvyan was somehow convinced that it would turn off if she banged it on the table a few times. Which worked, although it did give the impression, once everyone had worked out that that wasn't how you were supposed to turn it off, that the torch was broken.

Anyway, Gwen somehow managed to organise us into the movie theatre, where we watched the film (well, OBVIOUSLY). Nothing major occurred, excepting only one incident, when a snake leapt up suddenly on-screen and Peanut panicked, jumped off her seat, and kicked Vyvyan in the ankle all in one smooth move. That was far funnier than it was traumatic, anyway.

All in all, the movie was a success. Gwen looked extremely relieved once it was over and she could stop hassling reluctant people to do things.

And finally - the main event of the end of school year (for us, anyway. It's probably not such a big deal for people who didn't actually get to go). I present to you:

YEAR 10 SEMI-FORMAL

(Yes, you can see our faces, but it's so small I don't consider it to count. It's not like I've labelled it. Photo courtesy of Vyvyan. That is to say, I haven't asked if I can have the photo, but I really don't think she'll care. This is a public website. It's like her first gig as a professional photographer)

The formalities of formal - well, it tends to vary. Luckily, we all got half a day off school to attend to these formalities. The boys spent it picking up their suits and playing Xbox (at least, so Falcon has led me to believe). It was a little more complicated for the girls.

Peanut and I, neither of us being the kind of person who is overly comfortable with hair and makeup stuff (I don't even know the technical terms. I just call it 'hair and makeup stuff'), banded together for the afternoon. This began with going to a place to see someone who DOES understand about hair and makeup stuff. The journey there, however, was fraught with hazard. Peanut's mother drove us; they have a large blue van, which is probably necessary as Peanut has four brothers and sisters (that is to say, two sisters and two brothers. Not four of each). Anyway, it's one of those vans that doesn't really have a boot that's separate to the rest of the car. It's all joined together, meaning that you can theoretically get to the boot when only the front door is open, if you don't mind hanging over three rows of seats. Peanut explained all this to me shortly after we'd gotten out of the car, when she'd realised that she'd left her phone in the boot. 'So you see, I should be able to get my phone out without having to move the car and get the boot open,' she added, while climbing through the door. Peanut's mother and I watched with interest as she suspended herself over two rows of seats and began to try and reach over the third. 'You look uncomfortable,' I observed.

'That's because I am . . .'

Suddenly, she froze. 'Oh no.'

'What is it? Did you find your phone?' inquired her mother.

'It's in my ****ing pocket!'

I almost expected Peanut's mum to get annoyed about the swearing, but luckily she was laughing far too hard to mention it.

We managed to get to the hair place eventually. I won't go in to what we had done in detail (partly because I'm not all that sure about what half the things the hairdresser/makeup person did were actually supposed to do) but I ended up with slightly curly hair and Peanut had hers straightened. One of the other hairdressers came to talk to us for a bit. 'So you're going to your formal?' she said cheerfully. We assented.

'Oh, good,' she said. 'So you're sisters, aren't you?'

There was a brief pause, during which Peanut and I both stared at each other in an attempt to see the resemblance.

'Um . . . no,' Peanut said firmly.

Anyway, after an hour and a half (it doesn't seem like all that much when you write it down, but at the time it took forever) we headed back to Peanut's house, where we put our dresses and shoes on and then practiced walking around in heels.

'I think it's a knack,' Peanut told me as she walked carefully past, trying not to wobble. 'There's a technique involved.'

I agreed. 'Perhaps if you try like this . . . no, hang on . . .' as I clutched a chest of drawers to halt my collapse.

Our walking attempts were stopped when Peanut's younger sister Hazel decided to become a paparazzo and chase us around with a camera (although we soon realised that if you can't walk in heels, you're unlikely to be able to run, and just stood still and put up with her aggressive photographic technique).

Eventually Aviator arrived with his mother, as Peanut's date. To her horror, he had brought her a corsage. 'It wasn't my idea,' he promised her as he presented her with it. 'I swear. My mother thought of it. Look, I have to wear a matching buttonhole.'

Even so, whenever I'm depressed I'm going to remember Peanut's face as he presented her with the white flowers (I think they were lilies). Her look of stricken horror will always have to be among my fondest memories of that evening. 'What do I do with this?'

'It's a wristband,' Aviator's mother explained kindly. 'You wear it on your wrist. Have you noticed Aviator's got the same flowers in his buttonhole?'

'I had,' Peanut said viciously.

Peanut put it on her wrist and then backed away, while her and Aviator's mothers conversed. 'How long do you think before I can lose this?' she asked in an undertone.

'You could hide it in the car,' suggested Hazel. 'Drop it on the floor and tell him it fell out the window,'

'Or actually throw it out the window,' I offered. 'Pretend you were pointing at something outside and it just fell off. Or that a sudden gust of wind took it.'

'That might work,' said Peanut thoughtfully.

'Anyway, it's time for more pictures,' Hazel ordered.

So we took about a frillion (well, probably closer to fifteen) more pictures, with all of us. 'I just want you to know that I wouldn't have chosen to take this picture,' Aviator explained to us as we got one with his arms around both of us, as his mother had requested.

'Well,' said Peanut, trying not to look away from the three flashing cameras, 'You are the year's biggest pimp.'

'Yes, it's expected of you,' I added.

(I should probably explain this; throughout the year, there has been an epic competition between Aviator and Lox to see which is the year's biggest pimp, a title neither of them want. In assembly that day, Aviator had finally been crowned the 'Biggest Pimp'. Now it's official).

Thankfully Falcon arrived fairly shortly after that. After numerous photos, we finally managed to leave the house. Aviator went in Peanut's car, I went in Falcon's. Somehow, despite the fact that we left slightly before them, they managed to arrive at the venue before us. I'm still perplexed as to how they managed this.

Everybody at formal looked truly awesome, and there's no point describing it because I'd be here all day. I can't really put pictures up but there are any number of albums about it on Facebook at the moment. My personal favourite is Vyvyan's album, which is why I stole the picture above from her instead of everyone else. A dubious honour.

Formal itself was a dinner/dance type of thing. There were a couple of DJs playing music (if you can call it music . . . they didn't even have the waka waka song when Brandine asked for it). If you liked dancing, you could go and do your thing up the front; if you liked eating, the rest of the room was basically tables. The tables were in groups of ten. On my table was Giuseppe, Falcon, me, Vyvyan, Chinny, Kapish, Gwen, Eggleston, Peanut, and Aviator.

Nobody on my table really danced until after the entree. In fact, the most interesting thing that happened during the entree was Aviator standing up. 'I'm going to request a song,' he informed us.

'What song?' Giuseppe wanted to know.

'What song do you think?' he asked, and left.

He returned about thirty seconds later, having spoken to the DJs. 'They said they're going to play it, and say it's a special request from me,' he said cheerfully.

'What song did you ask for, though?' asked Peanut warily.

'James Blunt's 'You're Beautiful', of course.'

I really can't remember if I've mentioned this before or not, but almost exactly a year ago, Giuseppe and I stole Aviator's school diary and refused to return it unless he recorded a cover of James Blunt's timeless classic. He did so. So far as I'm aware, virtually the whole year's heard it. It's well worth a listen - if only there were some way it were available on the internet, on YouTube perhaps . . .

Anyway, this is the song that Aviator had requested. For some reason the DJs chose not to play it immediately. Most of us assumed that they weren't going to play it at all, and so it was quite a shock when suddenly, in the middle of the main course, a voice announced 'And now, as a special request from Aviator . . .' and the song began to play.

I think the DJs were surprised when we gave the song a long round of applause. Aviator listened to it, grinning. 'You know what? I'm going to get up and sing it.'

'Don't do it!' I said quickly. Too late, however, as he'd already gone up the front and begged a microphone from one of the now even more surprised looking DJs. 'I dedicate this to Giuseppe, Leslie, and Shoelace,' he said magnanimously, before breaking out into song. He sang for a good twenty seconds before giving the microphone back to one of the now completely stunned DJs and running back to our table, to riotous laughter and applause. Again, I think the video's up on Facebook - twenty seconds' worth at least.

The rest of the formal was mainly just dancing and talking to people (there were, to the best of my knowledge, no other major Aviator-style incidents). I remember that at one point Aviator decided the dance floor was too crowded and found a space behind the curtains instead, where he pulled me and Giuseppe so we all had room to dance. And he claims not to be a pimp. Actually, there was a surprising amount of room behind the curtains. When I was looking for Falcon at one point, Skeith and I wandered around, looking behind all the curtains ('Just in case!', as Skeith said at the time). We eventually found him in the middle of the room.

The formal went from 6:30 to 10:30, and the time went surprisingly fast (far faster than at the hair and makeup place, anyway, although time never does seem to go particularly fast when someone's poking a small brush into your eye). Peanut never ended up losing her corsage; at least, if she did, Aviator clearly found it again for her, as she was still wearing it at the end of the night, although it was slightly the worse for wear. All in all, it was an extremely good night. Even breaking the end off the heel of my shoe in the car park didn't mar it too badly (mar the night, that is. It marred the shoe quite a lot).

And that was it. The end. The end of the year and the end of my overlong three-part coverage of the end of the year. And it's about time for both of them, I think. Roll on Christmas. And Senior School, but I prefer not to think of that.

Oh, yes, and me & Falcon are going out now. There's formalities for you.

Survival of the Fittest

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

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

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

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

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

MC: No, I don't like coffee.

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

V: You should buy a hot chocolate, then.

MC: The iced chocolates look nice as well.

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

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

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

V: All right. You do what you want.

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

V: Quite expensive, yes.

L: The biscuits aren't too expensive.

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

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

MC: What's he buying?

V: I think that's an iced chocolate.

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

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

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

V: So buy a large one.

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

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

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

V: If you're sure.

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

V: I don't care about biscuits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MC: But everything is so expensive!

V: It's up to you.

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

(I listen for a bit)

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

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

V: What do you want?

MC: I want an iced chocolate.

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

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

L: I thought you wanted an iced chocolate?

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

V: MAKE A DECISION! PLEASE!

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

L: You should buy a biscuit.

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

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

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

V: Yes. Buy it now.

MC: I will.

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

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

L & V: NO!

MC: A large iced chocolate, please.

(She watches them make it, anxiously)

MC: Or maybe I should get -

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

V: Are we done?

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

V: How is it?

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

(Vyvan and I share a deep and meaningful look)

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

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

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

'Yes?'

'Those aren't M&Ms.'

'What?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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