And In The End . . .

Dear everyone,

It is, basically, the end of the year. Exams are over, spring's come - at last - and the holidays are, once again, in view. It's time, once again, for my end-of-the-year post (that is to say, considering I started this blog some time in July, it's time for my first ever end-of-year post. But that sounds less effective). 

In fact, any number of interesting things have happened between now and the publishing of my last post. Unfortunately, I've been far too busy to write about them. And even more unfortunately, my school is a fairly interesting place, and my year group are people who do fairly interesting things on a more or less regular basis. I could be a slacker, I suppose, and try and fit everything into one post. But really, I have no excuse for doing that. I have no homework - at least, none that's assessable, although the Geography teachers clearly still have much to learn about the pointlessness of giving us assignments after our exams have finished - and as I'm currently spending my time moving between Facebook and trying to find a website that will let me watch that episode of Top Gear with Andrew Hansen and Craig Reucassel on it (something I haven't succeeded with yet, so any advice would be welcome), I think I can devote the time that is needed to truly cover this end-of-the-year fiesta.

So, don't consider this as an end-of-the-year post: think of it as end-of-the-year part 1. I'm hoping to cover many of the school related eccentricities that have been occurring in my - and others' - day to day life. My next post will cover everything about school I haven't had the time or the energy to write about in this one, specifically stuff related to the way the different teachers and subjects I take are reacting to the end of the year, such as my last-ever PE lesson, the time I nearly killed Gwen, Falcon spilling acid on himself, and why I'll never be able to look at Pacman in the same way again. I think I'll only need one more post after that, about everything that's been happening out of school, from Malice in Wonderland, Vyvyan's torch-breaking experience, a truly insurmountable amount of time spent in town, and exactly why Peanut should never be let near anyone religious. For now, though, the educational end-of-year celebrations.

The end of the school year is a time of great celebration. We get the fete, exams, and the end of exams (which is, frankly, a lot better than the exams themselves - obviously). 

The fete is, generally speaking, fun. It was a lot more fun this year as I was one of the Year 10s who hadn't volunteered to help out, and there's something quite enjoyable about watching your friends slave away to entertain/feed/help the bored/hungry/incompetent masses. I arrived about half an hour after the fete started - only hoping I wasn't too late to prevent the fateful moment that seems to occur every year. For the story of what happened up to that moment - and what occurred afterwards - read on.

1. Arrive at fete. See Gwen, Kapeesh, and Marie-Clare - both of whom volunteered to help - standing at school entrance, holding big cardboard signs saying 'NO PARKING INSIDE SCHOOL'. Go to talk to them and gloat about the fact that I don't have to do anything.

2. Talk to Marie-Clare, who is bored and tries to persuade me to stay with her.

3. Pick up cardboard sign. Stand with Marie-Clare. Berate myself for being such a pushover.

4. Man comes up to talk to us. Asks how we got stuck with this job. Explain to him that I have no idea.

5. Begin to question logic of having Year 10s holding sign when sticks would do the job just as well. Decide it is down to high price of sticks, whereas we are basically slave labour.

6. Peanut, Ness, and Shoelace arrive.

7. Abandon my post as cardboard holder. Walk off with Peanut, Ness, and Shoelace, with Marie-Clare's threats ringing in my ears.

8. Peanut and Shoelace decide to go on a ride. Ness decides not to. I decide not to. Ness and I are left holding their things. Decide cannot be bothered to carry Peanut's hat, so wear it instead.

9. Vyvyan arrives. Refuses to go near me so long as I persist in wearing two hats. She tells me I could not be more embarrassing.

10. I prove that she is wrong.

11. Vyvyan agrees that she was wrong, and furthermore asks me not to sing in public when with her.

12. Vyvyan films Shoelace and Peanut on the ride (which I cannot find a picture of, but which looked like a kind of partial ferris wheel).

13. Ness and I look forward to seeing Shoelace and Peanut screaming in a terrified way at top of ride. Are much annoyed to see they are, in fact, having a calm conversation. While upside-down.

14. Wander around looking at stalls. Everyone is extremely amused to see signs marked 'pre-loved'.

15. At this point I bought some things, but I don't think it's really important to mention what as the moment of truth was coming up: the moment which I have, since coming to this school, learnt to dread.

16. The moment of truth arrives. Shoelace spots the White Elephant stall.

I don't think I can go on without explaining exactly why I dread this moment. So I'm going to smoothly segue into an anecdote. The last fete I went to - not last year's, as I was on camp, but the year before - I was unfortunate enough to be left behind with Shoelace. It was the end of the fete, and in the White Elephant stall, they had this thing going in which they gave you a cardboard box, you filled it up with whatever you wanted, and they charged you $2. Shoelace, who is always glad to find a bargain - in the past, she's bought items of clothing from Hot Dollar, for heaven's sake - was keen to take advantage of this generous offer. However, she does have several unrealistic notions as to what you can reasonably fit in a cardboard box. I was looking at something when I turned around to see her (unsuccessfully) attempting to shove huge blue beanbag into a box.

LESLIE (L): Shoelace, that is not going to work.

SHOELACE (S): Yes, it is.

(We both watch as she tries, fruitlessly, to cram the beanbag into the protesting box. A small girl arrives)

GIRL (G): Sorry to interrupt you, but I was just about to buy that.

S: Well, you can't. I saw it first.

G: But I only left it there so I could go and get the money!

(I intervene. The small girl drags the beanbag away with her. Shoelace looks disconsolate)

S: I was just about to buy that!

L: How would you have got it home on the bus?

S: Oh, yeah. Right.

(We both go our separate ways again. Once more, however, I turn around to see Shoelace trying to fit something inappropriate into the box)

S: Leslie, can you give me a hand with this?

L: Shoelace, I appreciate that you're trying, but there is NO WAY you will be able to fit a swivel chair into that box.

S: Just watch me.

She didn't get it in.

That was the last fete I went to. This time, I was more prepared. Also, Vyvyan was with me. We managed to talk Shoelace out of buying an owl made of shells, a fluffy picture frame, an intercom, several classical music tapes (yes, tapes. Not CDs), and a box of biscuits that had expired some time in the previous decade. All in all, we were rather off our guard when she spotted the miniature spacehopper. Luckily someone else bought it just in time. Shoelace was annoyed.

'That was the only thing I wanted to buy!'

'In that case, can we go and buy ice-cream now?' Vyvyan wanted to know. So we left. A potential disaster neatly averted, I thought.

Then again, I can't really talk. After the same fete where Shoelace tried to buy her chair I came home with two toast racks, a suitcase and a Doctor Who lunchbox.

The fete was actually some time ago - a few weeks, anyway. But it's in the pre-exams period which, to me, at the moment, feels like years in the past. We did the exams this week. Geography, then Maths, and then English first thing the next day. I don't actually mind exams and tests so much as some forms of assessment. They're over relatively quickly. Still, there's nothing like the moment when they're over, as anyone in Year 9, 10, 11, or 12 will agree.

The Year 12s, for whom the end of this year is probably far more significant than for any of us (that is to say, it's a path to later life for them, while for me it's only a source of material for me to rant on about in the vague hope that some of what I write turns out to amuse people), get muck-up day. The really excellent thing about muck-up day is that I always forget when it's on. Which is why it was especially confusing when I turned up at school a couple of weeks ago to realise someone had constructed a giant string maze in the Year 10 locker area. Don't get me wrong. It was AWESOME. I get to school ridiculously early in the morning - thank you, new bus timetables - and there were very few people actually there. The few that were there were having considerable trouble trying to get through the string to their lockers. It's actually a lot harder than it sounds, trying to get through a string maze to your locker while carrying a large bag on your back. Oh, yes, and the lockers were all sealed with cable ties. Nevertheless, I was prepared to give it a go. Chinny, who also gets to school early, watched me with surprise. 'Leslie, what are you doing?'

'Just a minute,' I told her. 'We can continue your Chaser education as soon as I've gotten through this. Can you hold that bit of string up for me?'

(NB: As Chinny has had little or no contact with popular culture over the course of her life, I'm attempting to solve this by showing her a Chaser video on my blue iPod every morning. Not sure if it's working or not, but I'm determined to give it a go anyway).

Chinny tried to hold up the string for me, but, as mentioned above, I was wearing my school bag - 'extremely tangled' doesn't cover it.

'Why are you trying to get through that string?'

'So I can get to my locker,' I said with as much dignity as it is possible to muster while tied up in jute string. Chinny sighed.

'Leslie, your locker is on the other side. If you just go around, you can get to it without having to go through the string.'

I considered this. 'In that case, can you help me get untangled?'

As it turned out, by the time I was fully untangled my history teacher had come out with a pair of scissors and was cutting the string with an annoyed expression on his face (well, where else would his annoyed expression have been). I considered asking him to leave it up, remembered that he was (a) carrying a pair of scissors and (b) not in a good mood, and decided not to. He was halfway through the cutting of the string when Tip arrived unexpectedly. He gazed around in astonishment at the string, the cable ties, and the clingfilm (which had been artfully arranged between several poles). 'So this is what it's like when you get to school early!' he said in amazement.

I won't go into the rest of the day. I'm sure people wouldn't be interested in hearing about how Year 12 somehow managed to get Pink Floyd's 'Another Brick In The Wall' to play out of the school loudspeakers, or had a real MarioKart race at recess (they were using cardboard boxes with pretend wheels stuck on; several people in my tutor group found one of these cardboard karts during tutor period, and pretended to drive around in it until it broke), or persuaded one of the most serious teachers at our school (in my opinion, anyway) to do a version of the Old Spice ad.

Being in Year 10, the end of the year is fairly significant for us too. We're all choosing subjects, getting prepared for Senior School. I swear that there has never been a less decisive bunch. I believe I wrote a post about it some time ago, although I can't actually remember (you'd think I'd be able to, but I was reading some of my old posts a couple of weeks ago - right before the English exam, actually - and I couldn't remember half the stuff happening, let alone writing about it). Anyway, I wrote something about how Midge was one of the more certain ones. Not so. I have been up to Mr L's office with her three times now, to change her subject choices. The first was to swap from Photography to Biology. She then realised that she was doing six Ts, and swapped from Geography back to Photography. Finally, she swapped from Maths Methods to Maths Apps. Marie-Clare isn't any better. I can't remember how many times I've been up with her so she can change subjects, but it's a lot. Mr L now knows me as 'the girl who accompanies people'. He knows Midgie and I so well he's taken to letting us out the back way of his office.

Not that I can be entirely absolved of blame. Until recently I was doing a double English next year. Then I decided that it would be sensible to 'broaden my portfolio', as a lawyer put it to me, by taking a single English and doing Chemistry instead, just in case I ever decided I wanted to become a doctor (which is not going to happen. Really. I can't even watch the gory bits in House without closing my eyes. I refer you back to my post 'Tales of Mocktails and the Fail Whale', August 5th, about a third of the way down the page). Even more recently, however, I made an important discovery:

I SUCK AT CHEMISTRY

Like, I've doing it for a whole term and I STILL can't remember the difference between an ionic and a covalent bond. Or the whole 'base + metal = salt' thing, or whatever that's about. So possibly - just possibly - swapping to Chem next year wasn't the brightest thing I've ever done. Coupled with the fact that I somehow managed to get full marks in the English essay - despite using the word 'bigness' twice - confirmed this fact.

Which leaves me heading back to Mr L's office for the sixth or seventh time this term. Luckily, Marie-Clare was with me, as she'd decided to do what Brandine did and swap from Methods down to Apps. We both managed to swap - I went back to double English - reassured Mr L that this time would definitely be the last time we'd come to see him (I doubt he believed us; I certainly didn't) and went back to the locker area. I don't think it will be the last time. So much for decisiveness.

Anyway, that wasn't the point I was trying to make, I was just trying to fit a mention of Marie-Clare in so she doesn't come to my house and stab me in the middle of the night, something she once told me she'd do unless I wrote something soon. In fact, I think I might finish this post with a little archive of the comments Marie-Clare has made to me on Facebook regarding my non-completion of certain posts. Assuming I get time, of course, I don't want to wake up dead tomorrow.

The point I was actually trying to make was about the Year 10 jumpers and jerseys. Almost everyone in Year 10 recently received their choice of a jumper or jersey to commemorate the fact the fact that we came to this school. You got to choose a nickname which was written on the back. Some people went with their real names. I went for 'Leslie M.' on the back of my jumper, for reasons which you should have picked up by now. A gratifyingly large number of people went with the nicknames I'd given them. In some cases - Peanut's, or Lala's, for example - this had nothing to do with the blog, it was just their actual nickname. In the cases of Giuseppe, Marie-Clare and Aviator (to name but a few), they all went with blog names. I love the nicknames. It means I don't have to think when picking a name for somebody new, I just have to chase them around and figure out what's written on their back. It's not that much simpler, but there's less thinking involved - although I do then have to think of an excuse as to exactly why I was running around after them.

At last count, me, Giuseppe, Ness, Shoelace, Peanut, Marie-Clare, Eggleston, Gwen, Aviator, Lala, Midgie (who is now Brandine), and Ames (ditto Sharona) all went for their blog names. If you have gotten your blog name on the back of your jumper/jersey, and I've forgotten you, tell me; I'm hoping to get a group photo of our backs to post on the blog. I may not be able to reveal any of our identities, but I don't think our backs are going to give much away.

At the very least, the jumper/jersey nickname thing has shown that I have several readers, at least. Actually, a surprising number of people I don't know all that well have turned out to read it. This has led to a number of interesting incidents. I've discussed this blog with my Geography class, my PE class, someone I was running a race with (while we were running), with people in line at the canteen, and I recently had a conversation with somebody about it over my English classroom; he sits on the opposite side to me, leaving a fair number of people between us wondering what we were talking about (the person I was talking to doesn't have a nickname yet, but you know who you are: I recently had a loud, albeit brief argument - well, it was more yelling than arguing - with you in the library as to whether Matt Smith or David Tennant really is the better Doctor. Why does everyone disagree with me about this?).

Also - quick point of interest - if you Google 'gratuitous Andrew Hansen' my blog is near the top. So if Andrew Hansen ever gets up and goes 'Man, I'm feeling pretty gratuitous today. And it's about time I Googled myself again,' he'll find it. It could happen. That wasn't related, I just thought you might find it interesting. If you didn't, just don't read it. Which you can't, because if you're reading this bit, you've already read the bit above. Whatever. Seriously, what else were you going to do with those fifteen seconds of your life?

If you read the blog, and like it, tell me - as you'll soon see below, I get enough negative comments already. I'd like to find out exactly how many people read this blog. At first I thought of doing something like going 'If you read this, stick a post-it note on locker 669' (which isn't my locker, it's Peanut's), but I'm not sure what I - or Peanut - would do with that many post-it notes. So if you do read the blog, please tell me. Believe me, read Marie-Clare's comments and you'll see why I need it.

Here ends part one of my end-of-school experience. Read my next post to figure out exactly why I've been too busy to post recently. Here, for your enjoyment/disgust/delectation, is:

Marie-Clare's Negative Blog-Related Comments Throughout The Ages™

(from Andrew Hansen's birthday to the current date, featuring Ness)

NB: Whenever the name of the comment's author is not mentioned, the author is Marie-Clare

18 September: "LESLIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! why did you not post anything on your blog tonight???? hmmm???? Not happy."

27 September: "LESLIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am disappointed :( Why have you not posted something on your blog recently??? Not happy."

28 September: "You still haven't written anything!!!!!"

2 October: "Stop making that minging scarf and type something on your blog."

3 October (NESS): "Dear Leslie, 

We (your wonderful friends) are all getting pretty bored without new posts on your blog. So I am begging you to....STOP KNITTING YOUR GOD DAMN STINKING SCARF AND START TYPING WOMAN!!!"

3 October: "Good evening....

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Can you not just type something on your blog, it is really starting to get to me. If there isn't something written on your blog by Saturday, there will be SERIOUS consequences....."

6 October (NESS):  "WRITE SOMETHING WOMAN!"

16 October: "Another good effort on your blog, though a little more of me would be nice....."

20 November: "Write on your blog woman!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You haven't written anything all month you slack ass."

And they wonder why I take so long to write the posts.

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.