Tea.

It's too sexy for your party.

 

TEA.

It will change your life.

I would just like to write this short post to tell you all that I’m here, I’m still alive (though call me in a couple of days…), I totes changed my ‘custom header,’ and that you should all listen to the immortal genius of Hans Zimmer.

That is all.

My Very First College Assignment

Hey kidkins!

Sorry for the rather sporadic posting of late. I have been a bit run off my feet with this whole ‘college’ thingy. Yeah.
I hope to post some stuff about my Public School Adventures in the near future, but for now, here is a rather emo short story I just wrote for an English creative response.

Title ideas are most welcome!

 

* * *

To whom it may concern:

Once upon a financial year, there was a city. The City exists outside of space and time. The City is grey and heavy. It is made of blocks, rows and rows of blocks, stacked next to, in front of, and upon each other. The City is a machine. It looms ominously in storm drains, in elevators, around corners.

Remember children? Remember mums, dads, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins? Remember family?

There is a house. The house belongs to the Unlucky family. It is a small house, but the Unluckys don’t mind. They love their house. It is filled with memories, possibilities, fun, activity and love. There is barely enough room in the Unluckys’ house for them.

In the small, bright living room the Unluckys have an old piano. The piano was bought at a fete by Grandma Unlucky decades ago. It is very out of tune and some of the keys don’t work, but the Unluckys enjoy sitting in the living room on warm summer nights and listening to Grandma’s creaking old hands try to play songs they used to know. They cheer for Brother Unlucky to sing nursery rhymes in his awful mewling voice, and clap for Sister to play her piercing recorder until their ears bleed. The adults and older children play Monopoly on a faded and battered board amidst the constant noise and activity of the little Unlucky children. At the end of the day, the parents tuck the children into bed and sit on the weather beaten porch, enjoying the last rays of the sun before turning in.

There is a place for everyone in the City. The grey block between the two grey blocks is a childcare centre. It is the perfect place to hide children during the day, where they can play behind closed doors and concrete walls. The childcare workers serve them two thirds of the recommended two serves of fruit and five serves of vegetables a day with fixed smiles and glassy eyes. High up in the grey block is a board of directors who spend their days wondering how to cut the running cost of the centre.

Five blocks down and two blocks across, there is a grey block. The block is a nursing home for the elderly. It is a place for forgetting. The wrinkly inhabitants stay locked inside the block, out of the sight and mind of the City. Their daily lives are reduced for their comfort to a simple mixture of eating, sleeping and watching television. They needn’t think about anything else.

Say, remember smiling? Remember the sun on your face? Laughing together? Remember your friends?

The Unlucky children play in the street with the other children. They build forts and ride their rusty bikes. They play for hours in the park, in the trees and in the sandpit. The warm air fills with the sound of their laughter and carries it into each home in the street. The adults smile and greet each other with genuine happiness, always offering more than they have to a friend in need. The Unluckys’ house is open to them all the time, and is a place of love and sharing.

The residents of the City have many friends. The children sit in their neat, grey rooms and smile unfamiliarly at each other over video messaging. Their affections become twelve-point type on a webpage, suitably impersonal, and their achievements shine through their 200-word ‘About Me’ sections of their blogs. Their personalities become the customised html script that adorns their lives.

The adults’ communication is highly efficient. They leave messages on each other’s mobile phones, or voicemail on cordless home phones. Detached emails whizz through cyberspace, and, very occasionally, printed letters travel in anonymous grey bags handled by grey-uniformed workers and into grey pigeon holes. But not often, as it is very time-consuming.

Remember growing up? Remember how you were going to make your mark on the world? Your fortune?

Birthday parties are frequent in the street. All are invited to the festivities. They eat cake and chat about their own birthday parties in the street over the years. The Unlucky grandparents get caught up in nostalgia and smile secret smiles to themselves as they watch the children play and fight. The children swing from branches and fall on top of each other, laughing gaily. They will grow up; get jobs, start families, have their own lives… but never leave behind their loved ones. For now, stuffing their faces with cake is enough. Birthdays are not sad occasions – they are part of life.

In the City birthdays are large, expensive affairs. Guests drink champagne and talk civilly about the weather. The birthday girl or boy receives extravagant presents and is promptly sent off to university. They spend years in grey institutions before finally graduating. They return then to their own isolated corner of a block – broken, trained, educated – and try to use their new skills to make as much money as possible. They outfit their homes with excessive technology, have children, substitute lavish gifts for love and send them to their rooms alone at night. They hide them in childcare centres, eventually send their parents into nursing homes, and go back to turning the cogs of the City machine.
The City thrives in grey silence.

Please, remember those days.

A Friend

The Box Theory

I have this theory about religion. I call it The Box Theory.
Here goes.

I am being raised as a Roman Catholic. I’ve had all the appropriate Sacraments, gone to church, tried not to sin, etc. etc. but I have always had an overactive imagination and voracious appetite for books, so from a young age the whole thing struck me as very fictional.

I think that I have always been a tad suspicious of organised religion.

Anyway, here is my theory:

Once upon a time, there was a sealed box. It looked like whatever you think it looked like, but you couldn’t open it.
One day, a bunch of Christians came along and told everyone that there was a cake in the box.
“There is a cake in that box,” they said. “Shake the box. See? There must be a cake in the box. You cannot open the box and see the cake inside, but as long as you believe there is a cake inside, you get to eat the cake.”

So millions of people around the world decided to agree with them.

But some other people disagreed. Some Muslims said,
“No no no no no. There is not a cake in that box. There is a teddy bear. We cannot show you the teddy bear, but it is there in the box. And as long as you believe it is inside, you can play with the teddy bear.”

And so, millions of people decided to agree with them.

But still others disagreed. A bunch of Buddhists came along and said,
“You are both wrong. There is a hat. A hat is in the box. No, we can’t show it to you. You have to believe it is there. So long as you do, you may wear the hat.”

And millions agreed with them.

But instead of eating cake and playing with teddy bears and wearing hats, they all decided it would be much more fun to declare war and beat each other to a bloody pulp.

And the last few millennia have been fun, have they not?

Rebellion

Sometimes I lie awake night after night, coming apart at the seams; eager to please, ready to fight - why do I go to extremes?

School Is Not Cool.

Well.
It’s almost been a week at the scary Public School.
And I’m not entirely sure I don’t hate it with every fibre of my being.

I did something really odd today. I put on my old uniform. The nice, safe uniform from the nice, safe Private School. I miss it so much. Acutally, I miss the idea of it. And the vague possibility of ever being there with all my friends ever again. They love The Public School. They are never going to leave it; they cope well with change… you’d think I would too, having moved across the world twice.
But I can’t even handle moving school down the road. I can literally WALK to The Private School during lunch and I still miss it terribly. And I’m scared of being forgotten there.

I’m trying to concentrate on the good things about my new school (there are few) but I keep thinking of everything that will never happen again – we will never be in our uniforms together again. We will never sit in the sun at recess and laugh again. We will never have incoherent debates in Maths again. We will never sing in the choir again. We will never catch the Private School schoolbuses again. We will never be in a place where we are known by all and cared about, ever again. This is something that is never going to happen.

It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to cry.

And I know it’s no use living in the past, but the sad, sad state of the present is not exactly helping. I mean, what at all is good about The Public School? Um, not an awful lot. The campus is disgusting. The classes are huge and suck. The students are weird, unfriendly and rude; the teachers crazy. I hardly know anyone. I’m getting really sick of my friends. The only redeeming feature is that it’s going to come top in the city for year twelve results.
Man, I’ve got to stop doing stupid things like putting on my old uniform.

Yesterday I was feeling quite positive about the whole thing. Yesterday… all my troubles seemed so far away, you know? But now it seems as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday.

So basically I’m sitting in my room mourning the passing of an era that was always going to pass. Which is completely futile. And stupid, considering I have Maths homework to do.

And it sucks, because pretty much everyone from The Private School loves it; not just my friends. So nobody understands my woes. They all look blank when they ask me how I’m finding it and I say I prefer our old school. But I am really trying to make an effort to like it. But everyone I try to be friendly to is either really strange and has their whole life story out in six minutes or doesn’t want a bar of me. And for a reasonably shy person like myself, that is a complete slap in the face.

And to top it off, I have discovered that Ackers and Jex, my two main friends, (the ones who are abosultely a-lovin it) are COMPLETELY anti-social in new situations. Ackers doesn’t even seem to want to keep up with the Private School kids, let alone make new friends. In fact, she is slightly clingy (it’s a very unhealthy relationship with a very long story to go with it.) In short, being good friends with her means that you don’t get to be good friends with too many other people. Jex is a bit better, but tends to scare people off with her intensity.

Which might explain why I’m hanging onto Lules Bobo for dear life. She, on the other hand, is extremely sociable and made about six friends before recess on the first day. I have no idea how she does it, but she does. So she’s like my one lifeline to, I don’t know, the REST OF THE SCHOOL? Ackers and Jex are still convinced she’s going to ditch us for some weird drama kids or something. In fact, I reckon they’re hoping she will. Just so they don’t have to interact with other people. They’ve mentally constructed a select little group (them and myself) that they don’t have to venture out of for the next two years.
And that scares me to death.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be stuck exclusively with them for all of college. I could barely handle ONE CLASS with the two of them in year nine, and that was when I had five other friends in our group to count on.

I’m trying to be all “strong” and stick it out, learn to depend on myself and have an independent ego and all that Rand jazz, but I just can’t find it anywhere. I feel like I’m suffocating in the remnants of the past, the dismal present and the two long years I have ahead of me. I’m all depressed and possibly having a breakdown.

Quite simply, I think I want to go on posting.

The Real End Is Nigh

You remember the last time I said “the end is nigh”? When I was complaining about being in a different Maths class to Ackers and Jex?

I was wrong.

This morning, two and a bit days out from starting at the scary Public School, my darling mother tells me it is quite possible that we will be moving TO A CITY OR A VERY NORTHERN PERSUASION  HALF WAY ACROSS THE WORLD. IN APRIL. But only if I don’t have a problem with it, of course, considering it will be right over my senior years.

Yeah, I’ve done it before, but I was seven. I wasn’t particularly tied down to the City we live in as I am now. Oh, and I also wasn’t about to start the two most important years of my school career. The plan, if we do go, is that I do the first term here (but we don’t find out if we’re going or not until halfway through, so I can’t just blow the term. Which is a shame) and then we move there in late April, like I said. And then school starts in early SEPTEMBER. So technically, I could have three and a bit months in the cold and the snow in a random city with no friends or family to talk to. Oh, except Sparkles and Gumpdrop. OH. THE. HORROR.

The prospective city has snow pretty much all year round and moving there would involve me taking the International Baccalaureate (a course which I decided not to do here because of subject limitations and the sheer workload) and therefore having quite a sophisticated knowledge of French. FRENCH?!? I didn’t even want to take CONTINUING French, let alone take the IB.

It’s funny (really; it’s hilarious) to think that this morning I was scared about moving to a school down the road. Now it looks positively wimpy in comparison to the NORTHEN HEMISPHERE. And staying safely where I am (was) seems comparable to childcare.

But one of the things I’m most worried about is having to take the IB. In my experience, the academic standards are much higher in the Northern Hemisphere. Which was awesome coming back to the South (going from slightly above average to the top of every class is great. Except when you have no friends. Then it’s just nerdy) but would SUCK LIKE HELL in senior years. Unless I simply became smarter when I moved back here and it had nothing to do with the hemisphere at all (quite possible.) In which case it would not suck. But still, I wouldn’t do the IB here. So I would rather not do it there either.

Something that’s kind of sad is that I’ve only become really settled and made good friends in the past year and a half. So it would be a shame to lose them, although it is probable that we will be parting ways at the end of college anyway. But I’ve just realised that I’ve really attached myself to the whole idea of The Public School now, more than I thought I had. I’m really looking forward to it. So I would be sad if we go.

But THEN AGAIN, I don’t want to miss out and us not go. Because I’ve always regretted saying ‘no’ in the past. And this would be the last chance for us all to go as a family. And it would be nice to be able to speak french. So I would be sad if we didn’t go.

FUCKING LOSE/LOSE SITUATIONS.

So, I’m hoping that we don’t get chosen to go. Because then I don’t have to decide (then again, that’s what I thought about The Public School. But unfortunately, I got accepted. And deciding to go was, I think, the better decision.)

So I’m really at a loss. Help.

How To Be BAD (!!!) 101

Are you BAD?

Because I am. I am. I’m a bad girl. I’m SO ba-
Okay, you caught me. I’m not that bad. In fact, I’m rather good. I have never had a detention. I have never failed anything. I have never gone out and gotten smashed like your typical teenager. Sparkles is always complaining about how I never get in trouble from mum and dad. I have been described as a goody-two-shoes on more than a few occaisions.

And frankly, I think this is all bullshit.

It’s not like I lead a shady lady double life or anything, I just don’t exactly take pleasure in being bad for the sake of being bad (…very often.) You see, I am not like Sparks, who seems to enjoy screaming at our entire family for ages on a daily basis - what I suspect is her rationale: “yeah, it sucks to be constantly in trouble and hated by all our neighbours, but at least I can wear the label of ‘BAD’”. I’m not into that.

The things I get up to could get me into far more trouble than she gets in.
The singular difference: I don’t scream about my activity for all the world to hear.
I don’t, as she has, sit down to the dinner table and announce that I’ve used up my mobile credit for the next three months calling my friend in the next state. INSTEAD, I would use my superior intelligence (did I tell you about how I’m the smartest person in the universe?) to do something ingenious, like, I don’t know, not use my phone for the next three months and not tell mum and dad? Hard to cook up, I know. But my list of bad girl credentials extend way beyond phone bills. Which is why I have decided to list them here (because there is NO CHANCE that I will ever forget to log out of WordPress or that anyone else will ever use the family laptop. I am completely safe.)

A List Of Things That Would Get Me In Trouble Should My Parentals Find Out

• I constantly walk (in broad daylight and full sight, of course) between here and the closest shopping centre when mum insists I take the bus. I am convinced walking is safer. We have a very sus omnibus network.
• I pretty much always stay up way past my bedtime. But everyone’s asleep anyway and I don’t basketcase-out when I’m overtired, like Sparky, so I’m good.
• I watch MA15+ movies without the knowledge of my parentals. Shock. Horror. Gasp.
• I have this blog. This is not actually forbidden (but this is mainly, I suspect, because I have never actually asked.)
• On occaision, I enjoy drinking white wine when I’m home alone. Can’t stand the red stuff, though.
• I read books that are worse than any movie mum and dad have ever seen. But they’re books, so they’re harmless…
• I watch Queer As Folk. Anyone who has ever seen this show (the American version) would understand that it should be a major concern for any parent. Especially formerly hardcore catholic parents.
• I never do my homework, as a general rule. But I can get by pretty well without it, so I’m good.
• I never revise for tests. But ditto.
• One of my favourite songs is Craig by Stephen Lynch. If you don’t know it and are not highly catholic, go check it out.
• My favourite book series, if mum and dad actually bother to read it, is actually rather blasphemous.

So yeah. I figure if it’s not dangerous, why not do it? I’m very safety-conscious (mum is kind of paranoid, so it’s drummed into me.) I’m the only one who’s ever going to suffer the consequences, should there be any. So I don’t really see the problem. I always find it easier not to ask permission and just be a bit quiet.

You can always ask for forgiveness later.

Private-Turned-Public School Woes

You know how at the start of the summer holidays, it seems like you will never go back to school? Because even though you know it will happen, it doesn’t seem like it’s actually going to… well, happen.When I made the decision to move to a public college instead of staying in the nice, safe, infuriating confines of The Private School, I don’t think it quite occurred to me that I would actually have to go to school there.

Somehow, four days out, it seems far more likely. And it’s scaring the shit out of me.

Let me be the first to say that, yes, I am quite decidedly a private school girl. A string of mad, new-approach philosophical preschools, hardcore catholic primary schools, snobby prep schools and then more hardcore catholic high schools tends to do that to a person. And the public college in question, despite it’s pretty much flawless academic record (it beats out all but one of the private colleges every year), it is decidedly public-y. I’m not going to pretend that this didn’t factor highly in my decision-making. But now that the decision is made, I will not let it bother me. I don’t care that it’s a public school.

Or that the gym reeks.
Or that the lockers are tiny.
Or that the library is shittily stocked.
Or that the floors move.
Or that the walls are wonky.
Or that half the lights don’t work.
Or that it is not air-conditioned.
Or that basically, you’re a statistic, and, my favourite,
…they don’t really give a shit about you.

Seriously. They don’t care if you turn up a basket case. They don’t care if you turn up drunk. They don’t even care if you turn up HIGH. It is down the road from The Private School, and I have seen the things that go on there. But worse than all this are the timetables. And let me tell you,

THE END IS NIGH.

In addition to them being weekly timetables (what is with this public-school stupidity? What happens if you get double Physics last every Friday for a whole semester? Maybe that’s why they’re all on drugs [don't play that private-school-snob thing back at me. You know they are.]) and the lines pretty much chosen at random (“Monday, let’s see… line three, seven, five, four, six and then maybe one. Tuesday? Two, six, six, five, one, three. Make that three one. Much more feng shui.”), I am in a different Maths class to Ackers and Jex. And if you knew me (which you don’t) you would see that this is an EPIC PROBLEM.

You see, at The Private School, Maths from year eight onwards is streamed. So Jex, Ackers and I have been in the same Maths class for THREE YEARS. Our Maths class – I don’t like to brag, but… okay, okay! If you really want to know, level 1A – kind of became a surrogate PC Class (that’s like homeroom, I guess) because not many people moved in or out of the class… because we always got the worst teachers (because we were the least infuriating) and learned how to work together to strategically torture them… and, of course, because the smartest people are always the funniest, nicest and prettiest, so we all got along really well.

Ahem.

While this might not seem like such a tragedy to them, they know in their hearts that this is the END of an ERA. How are we going to ignore the teacher together any more? How are we going to race each other to the end of the exercise any more? How are we going to argue as to the edge of the universe instead of dividing polynomial expressions or learning the quadtratic formula any more? And, most importantly, how am I going to smack Ackers upside the head for just beating me out to topping the year again and being a general twerp any more?
These are the things that keep me awake at night.

So, if I fail Specialist Maths dismally, I’m blaming the timetable people (and not the fact that I should have taken Methods instead, because that is clearly not the case.) On the other hand, if I suddenly rocket to the top of the state for finally doing that thing where you read the textbook before the test (what’s that called again? Oh yeah, revising. Not that that ever stopped me before. Ha ha ha.) I will blame Ackers and Jex for distracting me for three years and not letting me realise my full potential. Hold the phone…

SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS BRIEF TANGENT

Wait! I see now! It’s all become so clear! I am the smartest person in the universe!
Somewhere, deep down, I always knew it. Ackersley Fox and Jexella Quark are actually GOVERNMENT SPIES (dun dun DUN) deployed to distract me from my genius in Maths, English, French, Science, Law and Politics – the subjects in which I clearly excel – so that I do not develop my intelligence to a point that it is a THREAT to INTERNATIONAL SECURITY! And furthermore, to do their very best, with outside help of course, to beat me as often as possible to discourage my interest in these, my gifts… and furthermore, drive me INSANE!

That explains SO MUCH!

I WILL NOW CONTINUE THE POST, EMPLOYING MY SUPERIOR INTELLECT

Well, I’m feeling far more positive about this Public School now. Being a presumptuous Private School girl, I was going to convince them to bend to my Private School will with my Private School charm and Private School connections (and, if necessary, my mad Private School debating skills) but now I don’t think I need to. Nothing like realising you’re intellectually gifted to boost your confidence. I’ma woop their asses over there (and yes, I meant “I’ma.” Now that I’m a certified genius, such colloquialisms become ironic and witty.)

I think this post is a bit redundant.

In Hell…

There’s a big hotel where the bar just closed and the windows never open. No phone, so you can’t call home, and the TV works but the clicker is broken.

Coastal Adventures

This weekend our family went to the coast. Yay.

We at the same time as mum’s parents and our cousins, who stayed at our grandparent’s house. We stayed in a “beachfront unit” a few minute’s walk away. We do not stay with our grandparents any more.

Why?

Because of granddad. I’ll bet you anything granddad has ADHD. Either that or he’s a shithouse grandfather and arsehole of epic proportions.

And for the sake of Gumdrop Polka. We all love her, but he seems to think she is a demon in disguise, and does his best – whenever we’re over there – to turn her into a good little housewife-to-be because he is a sexist bastard. But don’t get me wrong; we did have a good time. Allow me to furnish you with an example.

The Arrival and Lunch
Coast, we have arrived! After two hours of portable DVD players, cramped cosy quarters and sore backsides, we stumble blindly out of our 2000 Honda Odyssey and into the sun. Our effervescent nan, cousins, aunts, and uncles welcome us with open arms and greetings of an unnecessary decibel and we trudge up the stairs to the front porch. IMMEDIATELY, we are faced with a choice:

• enter the house through the open door half a metre away at our end of the veranda, OR
• walk an extra five metres with our various bags and eskis and enter through the OTHER DOOR, and which our contrary grandfather is waiting, in an effort to not piss him off.

 We enter through the closer door. This is CLEARLY and act of betrayal, disloyalty and snubbing. We must be punished with snarky comments and evils stares and general grumpiness. Let the world know that GRANDDAD IS GRUMPY! IT SHALL NOT GO UNNOTICED!

Lunch begins with the separation of adults and children. Nothing like a bit of segregation with your salad roll (by the way, I am the – eldest – child.) While the children pick silently at the wholemeal bread and salad, including previously-dropped-on-the-ground eggs, the adults shamelessly discuss them and how naughty they have all been while eating completely uncontaminated food. But there is not ENOUGH food for the adults, so they come and help themselves from our table. Without so much as a hello.

The children, fed up with the adults’ immaturity, stage an escape and head downstairs to the music room, which houses a television, DVD player and hideously out-of-tune piano. We take turns playing the piano and devise and elaborate sketch which we will perform should an adult come down to check on us (not likely) that includes pretending to be asleep (it had to be suitable for four-year-olds) and spontaneously waking up and making a show of pointing at the sky in cannon before pretending nothing has happened. Ingenious.

One of us points out that we are making quite a bit of noise and that maybe we should close the door. There is some discussion as to whether or not the adults DESERVE a closed door and undisturbed peace before the door is closed.

IMMEDIATELY, thundering footsteps descend the staircase. The door BURSTS open and there is granddad in a FIT of RAGE!!!

“WHO SLAMMED THIS DOOR?!?!” He yells.
We stay silent, not recalling a slammed door. The door had merely been closed. What an ugly accusation it was.
“You slammed it!” He insists, shaking his finger generically at us, despite the fact that he is half deaf and probably couldn’t hear anyway. “You do NOT slam the door! You CLOSE it, QUIETLY!”
He goes on to deliver an insultingly condescending six-minute-and-thirty-two-second performance which I now entitle How To Be A Dickhead 101 (And think it is okay because we’re children and you’re over six foot!)  in which he demonstrated how to turn a doorhandle and pull the door closed before going back upstairs to yell at the adults about us.

Honestly, it’s not our fault the fucking door is noisy. We all agreed.

A little while later, Gumdrop Polka and another young cousin had to go to the toilet. They go without fuss. They come back in. They close the door without fuss. That was the end of the Toilet-Using Caper.

IMMEDIATELY, thundering footsteps descend the staircase. The door BURSTS open and there is granddad in a FIT of RAGE!!!

“WHO SLAMMED THIS DOOR?!?!” He yells.
“No one,” we all agree. The door had merely been closed, not slammed. What an ugly accusation it was.
“YOU DID, GUMDROP!” He points at her, she being the closest to the door and, incidentally, the one who closed it.
“No I didn’t!” she says, looking worried. She is very little. He is very big.
“Yes you did!” he yells, pointing accusingly. “I TOLD you NOT TO, and you DID! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TUR-”
“To be fair,” I interrupt calmly.
There is a collective gasp around the room as they observe the spectacle – one does not argue with granddad, as a general rule. “To be fair, she didn’t slam the door.” He himself looks shocked at my audacity.
“Yes she did!” he says angrily.
“No, she didn’t. She is small and can’t quite turn the handle, but she didn’t slam the door.”
“She DID!” He explodes. “SHE MEANT TO!!!”
“No she didn’t. It’s not her fault you have a noisy door.”
There is another intake of breath. Granddad looks furious. I doubt if he had been confronted like this in a long time, gauging by his reaction to a closed door.
“Don’t talk like that to me,” he hisses.
“It’s true.” I say.
“Don’t talk like that to me.”
“It’s true.” He glowers at me for a moment before taking his leave – storming off and slamming the door behind him. Fitting.

A shocked silence fills the room following his departure.
“Hey,” says Sparks nervously, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?”
“Because… he’s angry.”

Back at our unit, I am asked to recount the story for my nuclear family. I do and am hailed as a hero. This is strange, because when I have shut down some of his snarky comments in the past, I have been reproved for disturbing the peace. I suppose it takes a genuine bust-up to affect change. My mother reveals how she is sick of everyone pussyfooting around him. This is strange, because everyone, from nan to my uncles to my young cousins to mum, does. I cannot understand it.

And such was my first major conflict with my granddad.

The rest of the trip was reasonably uneventful. Apart from The Movie Viewing, where nan and my auntie came to the unit to watch 27 Dresses (but secretly, I suspect, to get away from granddad and his fury.) Despite it being practically the tamest movie in existence – well, not really – nan was completely shocked by it. She also has no capacity to follow a plotline and had to have every second on-screen exchange explained to her.

Afterwards, they insisted on walking home. Despite the fact that mum practically insisted on driving them home. They wanted to walk. In the dark. Across a beach and over rocks and up steep steps. Two women. Alone. One over seventy and already yawning with a history of accidents and broken bones that she refuses to acknowledge. Armed with a torch. Selfish bitches.

Anyway, I didn’t go to the beach. Because I despise beaches. I spent the whole holiday reading The Fountainhead in my room, and I’m STILL not done. Everyone went to mass on Sunday. I didn’t. But I can explain that later.

Funnily enough, I thoroughly enjoyed the holiday.