Here, at least, I'm proven sane, as insanity has surely set upon me, especially this morning.
"I don't care about the laws of physics, I'm late for an English exam!"
Yes, I really did say that this morning. There were a few ill-judged moments on the way to school, and I'll let you peruse them at your leisure:
So after all that fun I finally make it to the Hall and sit talking to friends. Our Head of Keystage is sending in people row by row. Apparently I'm in row E. It's a little odd, I've never been earlier than J in the alphabet seating arrangement, being an S n'all.
I realised I was right to doubt as I walked into the Hall along with K. Ebanks, A. Effendi and C. Elsey (coincidentally all on a row the same as their last name).
I approached one of the stern old ladies we only see at that special time of year when it's seen appropriate for teenagers to sit in the same seat for more than an hour.
"Uh, I don't think I'm meant to be here."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Rachel Seller."
"No, I mean what's your exam number?" I'm sorry, when did this become the Armed Forces? As if I have name, rank and serial number etched on my mind. So I do the logical thing and stare at her like she's grown an extra head, to which I get the response I wanted.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm an S."
"Oh, you're in a classroom. Go out there and wait til you're told to go."
"Right. Ta." I wander out of the Hall, painfully aware of my boots on wooden floor in total silence, and go back to my seat in the first Hall, remembering with panic the conversation with my friends I'd just had:
- [Upon seeing two people taking up the pavement with umbrellas]: I can make that.
- Bugger it's raining. Should I swap my VELVET school bag for something more waterproof? Nah...
- Those earphones will untangle.
- On average it takes me two songs to get to school. If I play Intro by the Gorillaz and Prelude 12/21 by AFI I'll get there quicker.
- That guy's made of smoke. I can walk through him.
- If I turn up the volume, the road workers won't be making such a noise. They'll disappear and I can walk my usual way.
- Cutting across a bumpy field and a wider corner will get me up the hill quicker instead of a tight paved curve.
- I see Shane. I can't be late. (N/B: Never trust Shane's punctuality)
- If I refuse to meet Miss Ram's eye, she won't try and talk to me. ('Don't you have an exam this morning?' Yes, and if you'd let me carry on I might make it there before everyone's FINISHED WOMAN!)
- [Contemplating school-run-filled main road]: I can make that.
- My locker will shut if I just stuff everything in quickly.
- That girl's made of smoke. I can walk through her.
- Kids smaller than me will get out of the way.
So after all that fun I finally make it to the Hall and sit talking to friends. Our Head of Keystage is sending in people row by row. Apparently I'm in row E. It's a little odd, I've never been earlier than J in the alphabet seating arrangement, being an S n'all.
I realised I was right to doubt as I walked into the Hall along with K. Ebanks, A. Effendi and C. Elsey (coincidentally all on a row the same as their last name).
I approached one of the stern old ladies we only see at that special time of year when it's seen appropriate for teenagers to sit in the same seat for more than an hour.
"Uh, I don't think I'm meant to be here."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Rachel Seller."
"No, I mean what's your exam number?" I'm sorry, when did this become the Armed Forces? As if I have name, rank and serial number etched on my mind. So I do the logical thing and stare at her like she's grown an extra head, to which I get the response I wanted.
"What's your surname?"
"I'm an S."
"Oh, you're in a classroom. Go out there and wait til you're told to go."
"Right. Ta." I wander out of the Hall, painfully aware of my boots on wooden floor in total silence, and go back to my seat in the first Hall, remembering with panic the conversation with my friends I'd just had:
Me: I'd hate to sit this in a classroom.
Her: I don't know, it's smaller, less pressure.
Me: Nah. Put me in an exam Hall I put my head down and work. In a classroom there's noises and doors and windows with CLOUDS on the other side of the glass...
Her: I don't know, it's smaller, less pressure.
Me: Nah. Put me in an exam Hall I put my head down and work. In a classroom there's noises and doors and windows with CLOUDS on the other side of the glass...
Fun fun fun. Exams with distractions. At least I can do English. So I sat and contemplated the impending struggle I was facing in keeping my eyes on the paper (which I lost on a couple of occasions I'll have to admit) when Head of Keystage says, in a casual passing statement meant for nobody in particular "Anyone in classrooms should not still be here."
"WHAT?!"
"Where are you meant to be?"
"I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S WHY I'M STILL HERE." (Forced calm there, I'll have you know.)
I ended up at the back of a tiny maths classroom with a wall to slouch against (wall seats are always the best). Unbeknownst to me, however, I was at the 'wheelchair table'. We don't actually have any wheelchair-using students in the school, but just in case, every pod (collective noun for set of classrooms grouped by subject) has one. And I'd been sat at this pod's one for my exam. Probably obviously, people in wheelchairs don't need to stretch their legs. So upon trying to stretch my legs in the middle of the exam instead of passing easily through air my shins came in to very painful contact with a screen of metal. I don't know why there's a screen of metal across the front the the 'wheelchair table', nor do I know why this changes it's performance to make it more suitable for wheelchair-users than ordinary tables. All I know is they hurt. And they make a very loud noise when kicked.
So when the woman supervising our room looked over at the massive BANG she probably saw the girl who had rushed in late to a gabbled sosorrydidn'tknowwhereiwasreallysorrywherethehelldoisit? biting her knuckles with her eyes screwed shut hissing 'bastard, bastard BASTARD' to herself. Fabulous.
Later on I was sitting with the friends mentioned before discussing what we wrote about in the fiction prompt section. I agreed with a friend that the best prompt had been 'Write A Story Beginning With The Line: 'Some Days Just Have To Get Better'.
But while I had written the poetic mind-wanderings of a girl fleeing her life down a rainy street until she gets herself deliberately lost, she had written about a girl believing she was pregnant, then discovering she wasn't, but had an STD.
"WHAT?!"
"Where are you meant to be?"
"I DON'T KNOW, THAT'S WHY I'M STILL HERE." (Forced calm there, I'll have you know.)
I ended up at the back of a tiny maths classroom with a wall to slouch against (wall seats are always the best). Unbeknownst to me, however, I was at the 'wheelchair table'. We don't actually have any wheelchair-using students in the school, but just in case, every pod (collective noun for set of classrooms grouped by subject) has one. And I'd been sat at this pod's one for my exam. Probably obviously, people in wheelchairs don't need to stretch their legs. So upon trying to stretch my legs in the middle of the exam instead of passing easily through air my shins came in to very painful contact with a screen of metal. I don't know why there's a screen of metal across the front the the 'wheelchair table', nor do I know why this changes it's performance to make it more suitable for wheelchair-users than ordinary tables. All I know is they hurt. And they make a very loud noise when kicked.
So when the woman supervising our room looked over at the massive BANG she probably saw the girl who had rushed in late to a gabbled sosorrydidn'tknowwhereiwasreallysorrywherethehelldoisit? biting her knuckles with her eyes screwed shut hissing 'bastard, bastard BASTARD' to herself. Fabulous.
Later on I was sitting with the friends mentioned before discussing what we wrote about in the fiction prompt section. I agreed with a friend that the best prompt had been 'Write A Story Beginning With The Line: 'Some Days Just Have To Get Better'.
But while I had written the poetic mind-wanderings of a girl fleeing her life down a rainy street until she gets herself deliberately lost, she had written about a girl believing she was pregnant, then discovering she wasn't, but had an STD.
Me: I think that's probably worse...
Her: Piling on the misery gets you marks!
Me: If you write for Eastenders
Her: Yeah, well, I thought I'd stick an STD in there.
Me: That's what he said.
Her: Piling on the misery gets you marks!
Me: If you write for Eastenders
Her: Yeah, well, I thought I'd stick an STD in there.
Me: That's what he said.
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