2nd October

I spent two periods of my morning…making flapjacks. It is a worthwhile existence I lead, merely mixing some oats and syrup rather than learning anything. Well, that bites me in the bottom for saying school does not equip you with life skills, I can now whip up a mean baked good. This, however, is through trial and error, not due to any teaching or instruction.

Spilt some lemonade on me. It was splicingly sharp and cold on my skin, and some fell down on my daddy's cashmere jumper I was wearing. The liquid collected into mercurial drops, goading me for my stupidity. I was thinking about the lemonade on my skin more. Apparently, something like 60% of the stuff you put on your skin gets absorbed into your bloodstream. Therefore, I am now part human, part lemon. This would explain a lot.

My school 'Career's office' is a particular joke. There they are, many girls trying desperatly to submit their Oxbridge forms, and the 'Head of Career's' is absent. As usual. She turns up 3/5 days a week, minus every Jewish festival going, will make appointments with you then promptly not show up. She used to be a tube driver, now holds an only-slightly-ridiculed post within school. Whichever way I cut it, she is head of a department. Now she has hired a deputy, as she is simply inundated with work she doesn't do. She hired her from...the PE department. You couldn't make this stuff up if you tried. A tube driver and PE assistant (not even the head of PE for Christ sakes) in charge of the careers of 100 teenagers. Worry, that's all I can say. Also, write your child's personal statement.

Sex and the single teenager

Sadly, this does happen...
...though not to the extent you imagine.

If we take my group of friends to be standard, that is me, S, D, H, N, I, E, J. Out of those, I, S, D, E and N have had sex. 4 of them were in a long term relationship. D is the odd one out - started having a thing with a guy she met in Reading Festival, where she spoke to him for 20 minutes, then afterwards skipped school to go visit him and had sex with him...seven times...and she was a virgin. But there you go...a crazy anomalie.

However, the rest were in steady relationships, and after about 6 months with these guys. Very recently, there was a giggly outburst on the Islington green, where we did a bit of female bonding over a bottle of vodka stolen from E's house, and in between laughing admitted we'd never had an orgasm with the Lotharios' who'd stolen our virginity. Hardly Sex and the City, but there you go.

The truth is, a couple of my other friends (F and BM) were actually what one would unkindly term 'sluts', as in they both sleep around. However, because BM is a guy, he was actually treated much nicer by most people than F was. This quickly changed when he had sex with PH. She used to go to my primary school, and was very...outgoing...but never slutty. Now she is much more referred to as a bicycle, or the one with big tits who puts out. As naturally as if it was written in the cosmos, F and BM actually ended up having sex with each other, and phoned me up at 3am to tell me about it, of which I was very grateful I'm sure.

As I must again stress, these are anomalies. The majority of teenagers who've had a relationship for 5 months or so will be having sex, but not like 'proper' adults, and will never be having one night stands, unless you're F, BM or PH. Actually, I said my group was standard, but that would mean 60% of 17 year olds had had sex, and I think that's too high. We don't all 'daisy-chain' you know. We're waiting for university for that sort of thing.

Speaking of which, while in my english enrichment class, a girl with a hoarse throat from the year above, recently left, came into our room to give some books to the teacher. He was very sympathetic, and said 'Oh, you're ill?' and she managed to gasp 'No, freshers' week' which, to me, is exactly how it should be.

Back to my topic: you're child is not a slut, they're not having sex left right and centre. Unless your child is F, BM or PH. In which case, maybe get them to take a chlamydia test.

Remember, remember, the first of October

My life to date... I realise I've flooded my account with posts from today, but only because I was trying to catch up and simply, because I have nothing better to do with my time. If I was to go on a preachy rant, I would say the homework I have to do is merely a senseless piece of rubbish to generate a sense of purpose in my meaningless, consumer-driven life, designed to indoctrinate me and form a conditioned citizen rather than actually give me any life skills necessary for real living, but I won't as I rather like Politics. Just not at the moment.

Watched Star Wars III with C, discussing such important matters as his addiction to a stupid website Rune Scape. He is telling me he is going cold turkey, as he has lost his passion for it. He's 12, and yet so cynical.

J was wearing a stupid hat as seen by the geek in the video for the classic song of the Noughties, Teenage Dirtbag, a defining song for my generation. Anyway, he was wearing that while non-too-serruptiously trying to read my blog, while crunching really loudly. The following dialogue ensued:

Me: Oi, do you mind?
J crunches loudly
J: Do you want to see something really cool?
M: No
J continues crunching, then finally extricates a long elastic string. We both stare at it in silence.
J: It's one of those candy bracelets, you know, that you wear-
M: I know.
J: Isn't that cool?
I sigh

He genuinly appears quite braindead at times. It's worrying.

I'm attempting to gather together my ingredients for cooking tomorrow. Yes, cooking. As part of my General Studies. Anyway, as I needed 250g porridge oats for my baking, I decided to weigh what I had left of Quaker Oats, and take those in their box, to save me having to decant them into a little plastic bag, and pretend I was smuggling oats. However, I weighed them and, having discovered they came to around what I needed, was immediatly flawed by my own stupidity, as I had weighed them in a massive bowl, and the opening on a Quaker Oats box is merely a small rectangle on top. Cue me attempting to pour oats through this opening and them scattering all over the kitchen surface. I am not phased by these things, and swept the ones-that-got-away into the box, collecting with them all the residues of curry that we'd had for dinner. Hey, my brownies can be chocolate tikka demera flavoured. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out, you're always attempting to make us try something new...

I'm going to have to talcuum-powder my hair as I'm getting up on stage tomorrow to collect some certificate for my involvement in Young Enterprise, but it's in front of the whole school. Urgh, it's so ridiculous. AND I only just scraped a pass, while the dossers of the entire thing who were unceremoniously dumped a few weeks from the end, passed with flying bloody colours. Ah well, c'est la vie, non?

Posh Partying

Inevitably a central part of my lifestyle, as a teenager in North London...do you wish to expose yourself to it?

The kind of party I go to is full of pretentious people (even more so then myself) of the schools, named, but not limited to, the following list: Westminster, St. Paul's, City Boys, North London, City Girls, South Hampstead, Latymer etc. We all gather, drink absurd amounts of alcohol and comment on how fat/thin the girls are, what the boys/girls are wearing, and who is pulling (i.e. kissing) whom. It will be set in a house, which will change location 3 times before we get there, and be shut down at 2am by the harrassed owner of the house who's parents went away for the weekend (but seriously, did they not know what to expect?)

I will invariably end up talking to a girl in the queue for the toilet, have a two minute conversation with them, probably quite frank and revealing since we have got to that stage in terms of drinking, then the day after they will add you on Myspace and/or Bebo. Photos of the night before will already be published, and the infamous Westminster tree will be full of new 'links' (which are commonly accepted to mean new conquests in kissing only, but not always). The Tree is the ultimate in bitchy teenage websites, where one can 'rate' other members' photos etc.

Sometimes, a whisper will go around the party that Anna Popplewell, Peaches Geldof or Lily Cole is there, but it will be in a very dignified way, as no one wants to admit being too uncool to take the fact that they're there. People will unfailingly bitch about Peaches and her tv programs, or what crazy outfit Lily has turned up in. We then all stagger home at 2-3am, trying to get a cab by Addison Lee, the choice of every teenage girl with any sense, then spend the next day on MSN commenting on the night before.

I have even, to my immense disgrace, been to a toga party, which I am assured is the ultimate in middle-class teenage life. This is the most complete picture of posh teenage life I can give you, reports in the newspapers are either grossly exaggerated or dealing with others than ourselves. Yes, we have fake ids. Yes, we drink much too much. Yes, we take drugs, but only marijiuana is widespread, alongside magic mushrooms, poppers and occasionally cocaine. Many of my friends starve themselves during the day to look as good as they can for the party. There are invariably certain boys passed around my group of friends (one boy managed to 'collect' 3/5 of us) but that's as far as it really goes.

The Family

Before I go further, I thought it may be wise to do a bit of commenting on ma famille.

Mainus Charactaris

Me - The main character in this diary, obviously. I'm a mini english girl, as I'm not yet a proper adult, and never accuse me of such things. I love many things, far too many to enumerate, but the name mainly came from a love of all things english (the subject, literature etc.) and from actually being english also, which helps, first generation in my family.

In my family, firstly, there's D, obviously my father, pappy, papa, pops, daddy. Due to mid-life crisis he promptly bought an Audi TT convertable, before deciding he didn't want to drive, but CYCLE everywhere. This prompted cycling shorts and new shoes, which sound like the sort tap dancers would wear. Everyday I'm woken and think my house is being invaded by Michael Flatley. This also means when he gets home from work, he puts his be-socked feet into...Jesus sandals made of rubber, the ultimate stab in the heart for any teenage daughter.

Then M, mammy, mama, mother, mummy. Stuggling with the hand life has dealt her, she has decided to become an unfulfilled housewife, despite having a cleaner for eight hours on a friday. Of Irish origin, her funniest moments is when she gets *slightly* drunk. Also, violently anti-PC, much to my eternal embarassment.Having neither parent as an Englishman, I particularly laughed when they tried to inform me one of their friends had a blue from Cambridge in 'wine tasting'.

B1 - oldest brother. At 15 he believes he is a man, and promptly got himself a girlfriend, whom he fills me in on (charming). 'Bops around his ends' with his other loutish mates, all attempting to get into fights etc.

B2 - youngest brother. At merely 12 he already feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, as he attempts to live up to his two older siblings, which is hard when he is purly arian to our brown hair/blue eyes combination, as well as being more similar in height and attitude. Much more sensitive than J, may secretly turn out to be gay...watch this space.

Drink - my doggie. A simple fellow, who's greatest pleasure in life is looking at me with such big, doleful brown eyes one can't help but stroke him/feed him/play with him. A tiny little westie, adorably cute when not shaven-haired, as he is all too often.

Supporticus Personas

S - best friend, attends the same school as me. Mostly have a tempestuous relationship with, but what can one do?

P - love of my life, one who got away etc. But can the notion of teenage love truly exist?

H, D, E, N, I, J - various friends in my life, all at the same school

F, BM, PH - friends of mine who have flown the coop, F used to go to my senior school, PH to my primary school, and BM to the male section of my senior school.

August 11, 2006

As brave soldiers they fought against the enemy of the day, the french and italian, watched their friends and co-soldiers die heroically in the battlefields. Where are these latter-day heros? Not so much latter-day as latte, as these old men are walking into cafes and ordering a cafe au lait. Now, I'm not sure how much the drinking habits of these men affect you, but while working in my particular bakery (which shall remain nameless for the sake of its publicity and my job) I get a vague unsettling feeling when the men of a certain generation ask for a macchiato, latte, cafe au lait etc. They are truly trying to accept the culture of the new generation, but I can see something die in their eyes when they are forced, once again, to accept defeat after saying 'white coffee' three times and getting merely blank looks. Old men, stand up and fight! Get a white or black coffee, not a macchiato or cappuccino.

Another particular area of irritation today was a woman with only the most primitive grasp of the english language ask for a ciabatta roll, of which I happily dispensed. Then came the often awkward moment of asking for the money. It was 32 pence if memory served. Then came the very long and descriptive account of how when her son had got a black olive ciabatta roll, it had cost 23 pence. Then she had bought a sun-dried tomato ciabatta roll for 23 pence, how could this, again black olive ciabatta roll, cost 32 pence? I told her (after she made me check with my supervisor) that 32p was indeed correct, and she had been undercharged the other two occasions. Cue much debating back and forth, with culminated with a 'I'll leave it then'. This is for an influx of 10 pence in price. I'm glad I spent 10 minutes of my life discussing the really important issues in life, as the price of ciabatta rolls is up there with the middle eastern crisis, the terrorist threat hey, even the water drought. Another couple of comments were made throughout the day about the price, was I sure I had totalled it correctly, wasn't it expensive etc. I know the bakery is kind of expensive, you, the consumer, can see the price on the labels positioned next to the food, and also, I have no say in the pricing of hitherto alluded to food. This is not a communist country, no one is saying where you have to eat, what you have to eat and such forth. If you don't like paying inflated prices for food, for goodness sake GO SOMEWHERE ELSE. Write a letter to my manager, or the food industry, or go and patronise Greggs or Budgens. Just don't bother me with it.

August 2nd, 2006

So there I was, in my work experience, friends had flown the nest and I was looking for some entertainment. Myspace, the centre of my universe during study leave, and generally the only way us bloody teenagers with nothing better to do with our time can communicate about how fucked up our life is, was broken. I began pondering the meaning of life, the major 'big questions' and such...where did the word 'blog' come from anyway? It is a bizarre word that doesn't actually mean anything...like spam. Spam used to be some meaty combo of ham and ... some other meat. Now it means crappy emails. As you can see, me and Aquinas were on to something...

Also, as I was strolling thorough Farringdon to get to work, I was noticing coffee cups. Fascinating, I know. And I thought 'there's a system going on here', which I will reveal to you thus. Starbucks denotes mainstream, slightly poseur, someone who isn't too extreme, as revealed by the coffee's weaker flavour. Patronised by most celebrities, and tweeny boppers and 'popular' teenage girls alike, trying to emulate them. Costa is still quite mainstream, but a bit more edgy - you follow the crowd to an extent, but you retain a bit of an individual flair, as shown by the coffee's slightly stronger taste. Then there's Nero - this is a person who truely appreciates coffee, wouldn't mind drinking espresso as it at least is 'real' coffee, in other words, a coffee snob. They look down upon Starbucks and Costa as inferior, and boast that, although they don't have as much money, as least their clientele are proper coffee connoisseurs. Then there are the .... non-chain coffee shops, patronised by 'earthy' people because they sell fair-trade coffee, or at least aren't huge, corporate companies and by students, who don't have two pennies to rub together, or by arty-farty people, who think that with their messed up hair, wire rimmed glasses, no logo t-shirt and slightly baggy jeans they look like a young jonny depp. This is also where the amusing emo teenage boys will go to sit on the dirty velvet couches and sketch, while listening to Funeral for a Friend on their iPod.

The Beginnings

Hello, and welcome to my brand new blog.

I have had the tiniest bit of experience with blogging, on a different site. Hopefully this will be a beautiful love affair between blogspot and me, culminating with...well not quite decided yet. But huge, massive things nonetheless.

Hopefully, you came here designedly and not through clicking the wrong link. However, this may be too much to hope for, and all I can ask is stay, read a few lines, then get back to the constructive things you were doing earlier.