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.

Not-So-Sweet Sixteen

I turned 16 on Tuesday (the 31st of August, for those of you who aren't so good with dates).

I'm allowed to marry. I can drive in certain parts of the world. This isn't terribly useful, as I can already drive. 'Can' in the sense of 'am allowed to', not as in 'am capable of'. The last time I tried to drive I drove into the tree in our driveway. There is now a fetching dent in the front of our car. The tree, however, as I'm sure you will be glad to know, is fine.

I'm not all that certain being allowed to marry is useful either. Obviously, I was married before. Lala could tell you that. Also any of the fifty trillion people who now read this blog (well, it seems like that many. The word is spreading). But now, it's legal. I'll have to be careful of what I say unless I want to end up in breach of promise cases, bitter divorce court battles or even alimony payments. Still, it might be useful. If ever the urge takes me to marry someone suddenly, I will now be allowed to (don't hang on for it, though). With parental consent, of course.

The day itself was not noticeably different to normal days, except that every so often someone would sprint up to me, embrace me, yell 'Happy Birthday!' and run away again. So, not all that similar to regular days, really. Ariane was probably the best example of this, hugging me for a good two minutes before I managed to get into Physics classroom. Thank you, Ariane. Here is a picture for you. I found it ages ago and have been looking for an excuse to use it. 

Only three people actually remembered in the morning. Ness, Vyvyan, and Giuseppe. Giuseppe gave me a card she'd made the previous night. It was a blue piece of paper with a picture of me drawn on the front, and a caption saying 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY LESLIE M. HARPER'. On the inside it said:

'Dear Leslie M. Harper,

Joyous anniversary of your birthday. If it were not for you, we would not have an awesome blog to read, or numerous rants about Stephen Fry. Happy 16th ;)!

Love,

Giuseppe'

It's nice to be appreciated.

It did confuse me for a little, mostly as I hadn't realised the cartoon on the front was of me until Giuseppe pointed it out. I believe her very words were 'It's you. I made you look like John Travolta from Pulp Fiction. Anyway, happy birthday.'

Chinny didn't remember, but she's probably not to blame for this as I spent a good ten minutes trying to convince her she'd recently flown to the moon in a hot air balloon. It's hard enough remembering things without people attempting to convince you that you haven't seen them for a year (that being the length of time it takes to fly to the moon).

Word had spread by about recess time, so I wasn't sure who had remembered and who hadn't. Peanut informed me that she was going to make me a birthday cake. I thanked her and forgot about it. She actually turned up with the cake two days later. It was chocolate, and she'd decorated the top with fruit loops (as in, the cereal). She claimed they spelled out something. When none of us could see it, she pointed out, visible only to the trained eye, the words 'HAPPY LES' (yes, it didn't actually say that - my real name not being Leslie - but it would be quite pointless if I actually told you what my name is now. Almost everyone who reads this blog knows my real name, anyway).

Anyway, the actual day was quite ordinary. Media was quite exciting. And by exciting I mean excruciatingly painful. Let me set the scene:

Three Media students (myself and two others) are attempting to work on a group project with Drama students (six of them, including Peanut). It is a windy day. We are making a short film involving a balloon seller on the oval. Wide open space + wind + balloons = unsuccessful film. The balloons escaped nine separate times. Not counting when one of the sticks broke. Or when I accidentally let all of the air out of the crucial black balloon. I quickly took the role of Personnel manager, leaving the other two Media students to manage the camera.

STUDENT 1 (1): Look after this camera.

STUDENT 2 (2): OK.

Both students wander off. Camera falls over.

1: I told you to look after the camera!

2: I wasn't doing anything!

1: Well, you should have been looking after the camera! Go and hold the balloons.

Student 2 holds the balloons, then releases them to their freedom on the oval. Drama student runs and retrieves them.

2: Sorry about that. I'll hold them properly this time.

It happens again.

2: Well, I'll hold on to them properly now.

And again. Balloons are confiscated from student 2 and given to one of the drama students instead.

1: Well, you don't have the balloons any more. Can you please look after the camera while I talk to the Drama students?

A brief pause, then student 2 comes up and attempts to get student 1's attention.

1: What is it now?

2: Something's fallen out of the camera!

It didn't really improve after that. The only filming that occurred was the video one of the Drama students took on her phone, watching us fail in an epic manner.

I had netball after school, so I hung around in the library and pretended to be working on my English essay, while reading Giuseppe's copy of the play she was studying. I had to stop this when she wrested it from my grasp and sat on it (so I'll never know what happens in the end), so I went to help Shoelace with some pages she was photocopying instead. MBD is afflicting even more people than before, possibly because I devoted a whole post to it. There are some good effects, some bad. The best example of this is the Hugh Laurie poster in the library. I pointed it out to Marie-Clare and Giuseppe as we were passing it yesterday. Giuseppe was disappointed; for some reason, she was convinced that I'd written about a poster of Stephen Fry. Please. Not everyone I write about is Stephen Fry. I doubt he appears in more than three-quarters of my posts. Anyway, Marie-Clare supported the showing-respect-to-the-poster campaign by kissing it. It was touching. And more than a little disturbing. Giuseppe was less respectful. She kindly enough narrated what she was doing, 'So you can write it on your blog. I'm extending a certain finger on one of my hands - and now the other hand - and now I'm moving both hands up and down repetitively at the poster. Take that, Hugh Laurie!'

I think her mind's going. I'm under the opinion that she did this in order to take revenge on me. Earlier, she'd been trying to read me a picture book (can't remember why. There probably wasn't a reason) and I'd interrupted. So she made me stand in the corner for fifteen minutes. It's only too likely that she may attempt this so-called punishment on others. And so, here is one of my handy Leslie M. Harper Survival Guides™:

The Leslie M. Harper Survival Guide™:

What To Do When You've Been Placed In A Corner By A Deranged 16-Year-Old Who Refuses To Let You Out

#1. The most important thing that you DO NOT PANIC. Firstly, assess your surroundings. As your attacker is likely affected by MBD, I will assume you are in a library. The first step is to attempt escape. If your captor has forgotten about you, this will be easy. In fact, people have probably been wondering exactly why you've been standing in a corner with no one else present. Stroll casually out of the library. If your captor is standing near you but you can see the exit, make a run for it. You may wish to cause a diversion at this point. How you do it is up to you. A casual sentence such as 'My goodness, is that a T-rex over there? It appears to be coming straight for this corner' works well. If you're unable to think of an appropriate verbal attention-grabber, a swift kick on the ankle and a sprint to the exit is just as effective. If this doesn't work, or, as it was in my case, you have been wedged into the corner facing the wall, move on to #2.

#2. If you are, as I have assumed, in a library, this means that you have been placed in a corner made by (a) a bookshelf and a wall, or (b) two walls. If the case is (a), move on to #3. If the case is (b), go straight to #4.

#3. If a bookshelf is within your reach, as it was in my case, you may want to pull a book from the shelf and attempt to hit your captor with it. This will either (a) defeat them or (b) enrage them. If (a) is the case, you're fine. Stroll casually out of the library (or run casually, depending on how hard you hit your former captor with the book), making sure to salute any posters on the way. If the case is (b), book-hitting is probably no longer an option. In this case, move on to #4.

#4. If no potential weapons are within your reach, now is the time to look for potential allies. Do not worry about embarrassing yourself. Face it. You're standing in a corner next to an enraged girl prodding you uncomfortably whenever you attempt to move. You have no dignity. Scream for help. If an ally - such as, in my case, Marie-Clare and Peanut - does appear, encourage them to use brute force to get you out. If they are able to pry you away from your captor, stroll towards the exit (casually. Always casually). Otherwise, move on to #5.

#5. If you are on this step, I will assume that either (a) brute force has failed but your allies are still present or (b) it has failed and your allies have disappeared or been incapacitated. If (a) is the case, move on to #6. If it is (b) move on to #7.

#6. Brute force has not worked. Cunning may. Get your ally to so annoy your captor they, too, are forced into a corner. When Marie-Clare had spent some time hitting Giuseppe with books (it's becoming rather a habit with her), Giuseppe pushed her into the corner opposite mine. If I'd taken the above-mentioned course of action, by strolling (casually) towards the exit, I expect I would have made it. As is, I attempted to sneak quietly into the next row of bookshelves. Giuseppe noticed and I was soon recaptured and shoved into a new corner, similar to the previous one insofar as it was just as hard to get out of. The only difference was that in the new corner, I was immediately next to a glass door, through which I could see my tutor chatting to a different teacher. Despite frenzied gestures, she completely ignored my plight. Call this pastoral care?

#7. Your allies have been incapacitated. Marie-Clare's attempt to save me had failed. Peanut had collapsed to the floor laughing some time previously. Note to those who are in this situation: Peanut cannot be counted on as an ally. She is of no more practical use in desperate situations than a piece of scenery. At this point, your escape attempts have all failed. In the interests of preventing serious harm from coming to yourself - also, by this time there are likely only five minutes until the time of your release, the end-of-lunch bell - it may be sensible to simply wait. Do not converse with your captor. They're unlikely to be moved by your pleading, and you may accidentally impart some crucial information. I'm not sure what kind of crucial information you're hoping to conceal, but it's unlikely you want your captor to find it out, no matter what it is. If your captor does not attempt to engage you in conversation, fine. Simply wait for your release, at which point you will stroll casually towards the exit, or until hostage negotiations are opened. If they are attempting to talk to you, move on to #8.

#8. Things are urgent. Do not, under any circumstance, be moved into having a conversation with your captor. They have you trapped in a corner. Whenever they try to converse with you, simply state 'I can't hear you. I'm in a corner'. If they become so irritated with this they release you, congratulations! You have succeeded. Stroll casually and unconcernedly towards the exit, looking as if this type of thing is part of your every-day routine. At any rate, the bell will shortly go. Simply stand in your corner and pretend you don't know your captor. This may preserve some of your dignity. It's unlikely to, though. If you are at this stage, move on to #9.

#9. The bell has gone. You are released. Stroll casually past your captor to the exit.

I hope the guide is of use to you. I do apologise for that phenomenal, completely unrelated tangent I just tripped happily off on. Back to my birthday. I discovered Shoelace photocopying several pages from an art book. This may be a case of MBD, or it may just be Shoelace's natural vagueness. But somehow, when it asked her how many copies she wanted, instead of '1' or '2', she typed '447'. I found her at about copy #12, frantically trying to stop the machine. With Marie-Clare's help, we managed to stop the machine and restore normality. We disposed of the extra copies. I was still concerned about the photocopier - it's not every day it's asked to print out nearly 500 copies - so I tried photocopying something myself, when Marie-Clare had gone. I tried to find a book with a picture of Richard Hammond on the front, on the basis that if the photocopier did break, and printed out the remaining 435 copies, I could always give the pictures to Marie-Clare. Richard Hammond is one of her numerous loves. Giuseppe and I recently tried to act out their potential marriage ceremony. I was being Richard Hammond. Marie-Clare was unimpressed to find me kneeling down, claiming that this would make me closer to his actual height. What can I say, Marie-Clare? The man's short. I'm fairly sure he's already married, as well. And he's about three times your age.

Anyway, I couldn't find a book by Richard Hammond, so I grabbed the closest book and photocopied that instead. It turned out to be a large picture of Hitler. And this would have been fine had the photocopier not done as I'd predicted it would, and tried to finish its enormous photocopying load with my Hitler picture. We managed to make it stop after it had produced ten copies. We were forced to dispose of these in the recycling bin. There are few things in life as disconcerting as opening a recycling bin and seeing ten pairs of Hitler-eyes, staring up at you, as I discovered several minutes later when, having forgotten about them, I went to throw something away.

The rest of my birthday passed passably. It took me about three tries to blow out the candles on my cake. What can I say? Sixteen candles! What happened to the good old days when there were ten or less? And my dad was convinced that the generic 'Happy Birthday' tune was no longer appropriate, and played a completely different song on the guitar while everyone else was trying to sing normally. For my birthday I got:

1. An iPod. Whenever I tell people this, they always go 'Really? What kind is it?'

To which I reply: 'It's blue.'

They normally respond by saying 'Yeah, you're funny. Really, what type is it?'

Well, I DON'T KNOW. I'm sorry. I'm not a technological person. It's blue. That's all I know.

Also, people, here's a heads-up. I'm not funny in person. I don't know how I occasionally manage to make people laugh by writing things, and it's great that happens, but really. If you think I'm making a joke when you're talking to me, no. I'm just ignorant.

2. One heck of a lot of Stephen Fry books. I'll be quoting from them for the next year.

3. BBC radio comedy. Wahay! So far, the only thing I've used my iPod for is to listen to 'That Mitchell & Webb Sound', series 1. Is that a waste? Probably.

4. Anchovies. No, Giuseppe, not capsicums. I really like anchovies. I really, really like them. Can there be more joy in life than eating anchovies on toast while reading Stephen Fry and listening to Mitchell & Webb on a blue iPod? I think not.

Although if you disagree, I'd be grateful for your suggestions. I'm fully aware of how sad my life is.

All I need now is Andrew Hansen, preferably carrying some form of confectionary, to complete the list of ideal gifts. There's a gift suggestion for my next birthday. Only four more birthdays, and I'll be half his age. Wahay! I think it's time to finish with some gratuitous photos. There can be no better way to conclude a 16th birthday. And yes, my actual birthday was several days ago. But that's no reason to ruin this golden finishing technique.

MBD - The Case Studies

So I was thinking back over the past few days, trying to remember the strange things that have been happening around school. There has certainly been an unusual number of bizarre incidences, like when I put my jumper on again after PE on Tuesday and was convinced it wasn't mine, and went around the school trying to find the actual owner before my friends managed to convince me it was definitely the one I'd had on that morning. Or when I wrote all my notes in Maths backwards to perplex and bemuse Gwen (it didn't work amazingly well. She spared it a brief glance before going back to her own work, leaving me to try and interpret my own mirror writing in an attempt to recall a formula. Not something to try again). But I was giving it some thought when I realised that what most of the incidents I was considering had in common was that they took place in the library. Yes, what should have been the quietest room in the school, full of people working hard or reading quietly, was in actual fact quite the opposite. These events occurred after school, within our free time, or even during the classes themselves. The only common factor is the location. At this point I was forced to stop my train of thought and get on with my Physics questions (I'd like to know a better time to plan future blog posts than in the middle of Physics), but I devoted a great deal of thought to it at a more appropriate time later in the day (Geography), and came to a conclusion. I have recently made a number of strange discoveries in my professional guise as Dr Leslie M. Harper, PhD (Uttoxetercamfordbridgedam). For example, that schoolitis is a dangerous disease. And that cow tipping has its own Wikipedia page. However, I think this may be one of my strangest. 

We've had schoolitis, and covered it thoroughly: I believe what causes these bibliotomous events is a branch of that disease. It's almost certainly due to the presence of books. Our Technological Generation adolescent brains are unequipped to cope with such a large quantity of the printed word at any one time, especially when our immune systems have already been crippled by the savage onslaught of schoolitis. Hence, I term this strange condition, which causes the incidences of behaviour such as I have listed below, Mad Book Disease, or MBD (yes, I know it's misleading, seeing as it's not the books themselves that are ill, but Mad Youth Disease seemed too broad. Also I want to keep it for a future band name, just in case).

Case study 1: In which I am viciously and ironically attacked by Marie-Clare

I am willing to admit that this incident is at least partly my fault, although I still maintain I had only the best intentions at heart. Long-time readers - also anyone who has ever met, spoken to, or passed within a metre of Marie-Clare - will know that she has a morbid and unrealistic obsession with an older boy. I'm sorry, I meant a healthy and endearing crush on an older boy, whom we shall refer to as 25. It's surprising when Marie-Clare decides to like someone in her vicinity. Normally she goes for people like Paul McCartney or Richard Hammond. It's a nice change for her to fancy someone who is less than thirty years older than her. So obviously, we (everyone but Marie-Clare) are doing our best to facilitate said relationship. I happened to be having a conversation with Gwen the other day when we passed 25, talking to some of his friends. He's on crutches at the moment, and had paused briefly. I didn't want to waste this opportunity. I promptly raised my voice - fairly loudly, I wasn't in the library at this point - and said something along the lines of 'Marie-Clare is an amazing person! She loves people suffering from minor disabilities!' while Gwen gave me concerned looks. Honestly, I doubt 25 even noticed. Yet when I mentioned this event to Marie-Clare in the library after school, she was less pleased. I still don't think this was any reason for her to seize a book from the shelves, hit me with it, and leave. This, in itself, wasn't noticeably unusual, but this is the book she chose:

 There's nothing like seeing a giant peace symbol coming towards you, being wielded by a friend with violent intentions, to really demonstrate the meaning of the word 'irony'.

Case study 2: In which Marie-Clare attempts to prove that she is not a stalker

I'll set the scene for you. Marie-Clare, Peanut, and I are in the library for Geography. Our Scottish teacher is occupied a couple of desks away. We've got laptops and are supposed to be doing our assignment on them. Peanut has, instead, opened my blog to the previous post and is laughing at what it says about polar bears. Marie-Clare is Googling people she finds attractive and showing me their pictures. Once she'd reached the point at which she was Googling Justin Bieber, I felt sorry for her and changed the topic of conversation.

'So, how are things going with 25? Talked to him yet?'

'Well, he thinks I'm strange now. But at least I'm not stalking him. I wouldn't do that.'

'Do what, exactly?' asked I, intrigued. I'd previously considered her behaviour to be extremely stalkerish. 'What kind of thing would you consider stalking?'

'You know, looking him up on Google Images to see if there's a picture of him, like this.'

She proceeded to type his name into Google, look at the images, scream when she saw a picture of him, and slam the computer shut. I won't go in to how hard it was to persuade our teacher we were still doing work at this point.

Case study 3: In which Giuseppe finally reveals a form of ignorance

Throughout our time together, I have always regarded Giuseppe as one who, despite my many attempts to prove otherwise, is a superior being - to me, at least. She gets better grades than I do. She is older than me (her birthday was yesterday - she's now sixteen, to my petty fifteen years, eleven months and twenty-seven days. I'd made an animation saying 'HAPPY 16TH GIUSEPPE!' to upload on this blog, but it didn't work - if you want to see it, you'll have to ask me in person). This week, however, I found a weak spot, a single point of ignorance.

It was during RAVE (Religious and Values Education. Apparently it used to be called Religious and Philosophical Education, but they changed it). We were on the library computers. I was Googling the Cambridge Five (well, I certainly wasn't going to do anything RAVE-related. If they wanted us to do work they wouldn't make us take the subject). From there I got on to the Wikipedia page of a secret Cambridge debating team called the Apostles (yes, they have secret debating teams now. What do you mean, you've never heard of them? The clue's in the name. Although it must be said, I'm not overly impressed with the secrecy levels of this team, considering they have a Wikipedia page). I got Giuseppe's attention, on the basis that she'd probably want to read about it (she's a debater, and she hopes to go to Cambridge. In fact, one of our frequent arguments is Oxford vs. Cambridge. Oxford all the way, my friends. Oxford all the way). We were reading through the page, occasionally making comments like 'So what exactly is utilitarianism?' and 'Natural law can be applied to this problem in a number of different ways,' to make it sound like we were deeply involved in our religion study. We'd gotten down to the bit about how the Apostles like eating sardines on toast (apparently this is the kind of information Wikipediacs think we need) when Giuseppe turned to me and went 'What exactly is a sardine?'

At which point I probably exclaimed at her ignorance. I can't remember, precisely. All I know is that in my head I was going 'WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHAT A SARDINE IS? WHO? WHO?'

I may be biased by my partial British upbringing (I lived for two years in Oxford and three months in Cambridge, and I know which I prefer), but who doesn't know what a sardine is? Who has never played Sardines, or compared a packed room to 'a tin of sardines'?

My answer was tentative: 'A small fish. A bit like an anchovy. You can eat them on toast. Well, I don't like them on toast, but some people do.'

Her response shocked me even more, if that was possible. 'I'd always thought an anchovy was a kind of vegetable.'

I considered this. 'Well, it does sound a bit like 'olive', I suppose.'

'No, I thought it was a type of capsicum.'

We then had to look up both sardines and anchovies, meaning we didn't get any work done,which is the status quo in RAVE lessons. Again, I blame the books for Giuseppe's ignorance. Clearly a deep-seated case of MBD. Q.E.D.

Case study 4: In which Aviator proposes to the librarian

Ames brought in some rings earlier this week, some of which she gave to Ariane. Ariane proceeded to wear one, a gold-ish one with a large "diamond", as a wedding ring (although she's been married three or four times now, she decided it was easier to wear just one. Lala, who now has nine wives, is considering getting a wedding ring for each of them and wearing them on a bracelet). The next time I saw Ariane, she was wearing a silver one with a small diamond (diamond-shaped glass) instead. In response to my questioning, she informed me she'd temporarily passed the gold one on to Aviator. I couldn't think what Aviator needed a ring for, but not being there, I was unable to ask him. The next time I saw him was in the library after school. I was sitting across the table from Giuseppe, who was doing French homework with her iPod earphones in. When Aviator leapt up to her, thrust his hand directly into her line of vision and shouted 'Kiss the ring!' she let out a wild shriek and rocked backwards. When we'd both recovered slightly, and we'd assured Aviator that we were not, in fact, going to kiss the ring, no matter how many other people had agreed to, as neither of us wanted contagious diseases (except for MBD, which we didn't know about at that point), I asked him why he'd borrowed the ring in the first place. Apparently he'd used it to ask someone else in our year, Lis, to marry him. We were sceptical. Finally, he grew tired of our cynicism and said 'Fine, I'll show you how I did it.' The librarian happened to be passing, presumably on some innocent errand, when Aviator got her attention and knelt in front of her, proffering the ring. She was momentarily stunned. 'Where did you get that?'

'I used it to become engaged to someone earlier,' he explained.

'I'm not sure you've got the point of it, then. You're meant to leave the ring with the girl.'

'So will you marry me?'

'No.'

Despite this rather disappointing outcome, it was certainly a diversion to the homework I was supposed to be doing. I'm not sure how Aviator's engagement will fare when he's forced to return the ring to Ariane, but I offer him my humble congratulations, speaking as someone who has been married three times in as many weeks.

Case study 5: In which Gwen refuses to salute the poster

The librarians, in the past weeks, have put a number of posters up in the library. We used to have one of Russell Crowe and one of Frodo Baggins holding a book with the caption 'Reading. Make it a hobbit.' But my English teacher made them take the Russell Crowe one down, on the grounds that it was setting a bad example for students, and the library staff made the decision themselves to remove the hobbit poster and replace it with one of a couple of Twilight stars staring blankly out of the picture as if they've both been hit in the face with bricks (or possibly that's wishful thinking). A bad decision, in my opinion, but I couldn't get enough supporters to fall in with my plan of storming the library and ripping it off the wall. Anyway, the Russell Crowe one has been replaced by a picture of Hugh Laurie. Anybody who claims to know me at all well will know of my preoccupation with the phenomenal comedic powers of Messrs. Fry & Laurie. This poster could only be an improvement. In fact, it seemed to me, when confronted with the poster for the first time, that it was a little callous simply to walk past without acknowledging the man himself. Peanut, who was with me, seconded this notion. Now, when we walk past the poster, we always stop to salute.

I attempt to keep this important custom going even when Peanut is not with me. I also encourage others to do the same. Gwen, however, although she puts up with a great deal of insanity from us Strange Things, has to draw the line somewhere, and she has drawn it right down the middle of the library floor (metaphorically speaking). Not only does she not salute the poster, she shuns me if I attempt to do so. Blog Readers and Strange Things All, I believe we can change her mind. I'm relying on you to spread the message. Don't walk past that poster without a brief acknowledgment. A salute is not necessary. A discreet wave will do. A smile. A parade of honour marching up and down the corridor, stopping before the poster to fall to their knees in awe before the great man, while exclaiming his numerous qualities in loud voices. Any one of these small gestures is fine.

Reading back on this, I think it's fairly obvious that I, too, am afflicted with MBD.

Case study 6: In which the RCG steals a book

My sister, the Reluctant Cheese Grater, who has displayed very few criminal tendencies in the time I've known her, attempted to steal a book from the library after school. Oh, it was subtle enough, and she claims she didn't mean to, but I can see through that. She was walking from the library when she spotted the target - a book about dancing. She seized it, flicking through that pages, and casually attempted to walk out of the library. Obviously the alarm went, and she rapidly left it on the desk and departed hastily. I made her come back and put it back on the shelves (not for any particular reason, I just enjoy asserting my sororal authority), which she did, before leaving for so-called 'rehearsals'. Not only am I related to a criminal, she's an inefficient criminal. A criminal genius would be fine. I mean, there are ways of doing these things. Earlier in the year Aviator managed to liberate a book by slipping out through the door used to enter the library (he thought it would be an ironic gesture. It was a 'Where's Wally' book. I can just imagine the librarians searching for it frantically). By 'slip out through' I actually mean 'grope frantically at until Vyvyan got it open for him', but it still worked. He later returned the book,and attempted to take another one by using the library's various machines to deactivate the little magnetic strip that makes the alarms go. He was caught that time and banned from the library for two weeks. I hadn't considered it before, but that was probably one of the first cases of MBD.

Concerning, isn't it? Luckily, I don't think it's terminal. Until I can fully investigate a cure for this heinous disease (which, let's be honest, might not be for a while, seeing as I'm having so much fun chronicling the symptoms), I can only suggest that people try and stay away from libraries, classrooms, textbooks, and even novels of more than usual length. Any one of these things could set it off. In fact, the only thing it's safe to read is this blog. Yes, The Life & Times of Stranger Things™ is now the only reading material available to those who don't want to come down with MBD, that most feared of disorders (at least, it will be as soon as a proper scientific study is conducted).

And if you'll believe that, you're suffering from a disease far, far more severe than anything MBD can produce. Hello, Shoelace.

If you think you have MBD, I'd recommend that you just sit where you are, stay calm, and try not to propose to any passing librarians. You'll regret it. If you actually follow this advice, you probably do not have the disease.

If you have any concerns regarding this, or other, illnesses, the only thing I can suggest you do is to immediately send money in to the Therapy unit of Uttoxetercamfordbridgedam University. We will devote this money towards finding a cure. If we can't find a cure on our first couple of tries, we will put your kindly donated money to a different good cause, like buying a coffee machine or putting in a swimming pool on the roof.

Thank you for your time,

Dr Leslie M. Harper, PhD (Uttoxetercamfordbridgedam)