St. Mallory's Forever!

4 - HELEN: Stranger In A Strange Land.

Hey out there, non-existent readers. I'm hoping there's someone somewhere who'll be able to tell me I'm not the only one who's had to go through this. I mean, there are other teachers' kids out there, aren't there? But I guess they're not usually moving to *cue menacing music and clap of thunder* a boarding school.

BTW, I'm new to this whole blogging thing, so don't yell at me if I do anything wrong. It's just, I have no-one to talk things through with here, because I don't know anybody yet, Mum aside. And I'm pretty sure if I try and keep my emotions pent up any longer, I'll explode, and then there'll be bits of me splattered all over this fancy-arsed building.

To make matters worse (if that were possible) I'm having to write this on a proper computer. You know, sat at a desk with a separate monitor and keyboard, like in the olden days, which means anyone can sneak a look over my shoulder.

Not that I need worry. The only other person who's used the computer room so far is a Chinese girl, who's also new here. I thought about trying to make friends with her, but she's in the English as a Second Language class, so I'd probably be wasting my time.

She's obviously on a scholarship if she can't afford her own laptop. Everyone has them here, except me and China Girl. Mum says she'll get me one once she gets her first pay-cheque, but that could take forever, so I've asked Dad, secretly. Mum will go spare when she finds out (in case you hadn't worked it out, they hate each other) but what's she gonna do? Ground me? I'm already grounded just being here.

I mean, seriously. Living in a school? It's just soooo not normal.

Oh yeah, intros. Sorry, Got carried away. My name's Helen Stroud, and I'm fourteen years old. At a normal school, I'd be going into Year 10, but like I say, this is so not normal. Apparently here it's called the Middle Fifth.

Until now, I've been attending a scuzzy comprehensive school in London that I won't name for legal reasons (ha, like they could afford lawyers!), because that's where my mum taught.

All my life I've moved schools whenever Mum got a new job, promotion, or whatever. It wasn't so bad at primary school because I just went to the local one, wherever we moved, but since I got to secondary school age I've generally gone to wherever she was teaching. I don't know if you've ever done that (probably not, unless you're a teacher's kid too), but the only advantage is the lift in to school in the morning. Seriously.

And now I actually have to sleep at school too - it's just like being in prison. And I didn't do anything wrong!

Okay, the background just so you're up to speed. About two weeks before term started, Mum announced that she'd got this job at this place called St Mallory's. I looked it up, only to find it was some posh private boarding school in Brighton.

Brighton? What was she thinking of? All my friends are in Wandsworth!

As for boarding school... I thought that only happened in Harry Potter! At least at a normal school we escaped in the afternoon, and had fun at weekends. Now I'm a real-life prisoner of Azkaban.

Of course I kicked up a fuss and said I'd rather go and stay with Dad in Birmingham than go to a boarding school in Brighton full of stuck-up snobs with posh accents walking about with books on their heads.

Oops! Not a good move. Even mentioning dad is a hanging offence in our house. Mum went ballistic. I got the full kabonga about how difficult things were for her since Dad walked out on us.

As I remember events she chucked him out, but that's another story.

And then she started telling me about how wonderful this St. Mallory's place was. Incredible facilities, she said. I'd even be able to learn Latin! Yeah, like that will come in handy buying a ticket on the London underground. Come to that, they don't even have an underground system in Brighton. I mean, be serious! How can anyone live without the Tube?

Of course, Mum said I was overreacting.

Moi? Overreact? It's Brighton, for God's sake! It hasn't even got a sandy beach. There was no way I was going to any snotty boarding school, least of all in Brighton.

I was all but ready to run away from home when Mum told me about the music facilities.

Now that got my attention. Mum being a music teacher an' all, I'm kind of a natural at music. So maybe this St. Mallory's place wouldn't be quite so bad after all.

So, I said goodbye to everyone (that's the part I hate) and to my old school (no tears there). Now I've swapped my old black skirt, white shirt, black blazer uniform for a kilt, blouse and jumper.

Did I say kilt? I did.

Seriously, why do all private schools have a kilt? Is it because they're expensive and can only be bought from one particular shop? Answers on a postcard please...

And today we finally came to the school.

Well, I say finally but of course Mum had been before, for the interview and all that jazz. Muggins here missed out on the Open Day tour and everything, so apart from the glossy brochure and the even glossier website – which of course are all special effects photography, not real – I had no idea what to expect.

So I just arrived today. And it was madness.

Utter flaming madness! And yes, I do know stronger expletives than that. I'm just being polite, seeing as this is my first blog.

Anyway, the place is massive. Like, bigger than the pictures in the brochure made it look, and all the kids arriving were proper posh with their cars and expensive clothes, as you'd expect. It made me, in my Primark outfit, carrying a suitcase that we got on special offer from Argos, look like a complete tramp.

I could almost feel their eyes on me as I walked up to the steps and tried to work out where to go. A snooty-looking girl at the top of the stairs glanced at me once with a face like she was chewing a lemon with added vinegar, but I just ignored her.

When we got inside, some teachery person explained to me where my dorm was. Ugh, great. Sharing a room with some posh girl. Okay, so it's not actually a dorm, not like in the films, anyway. And it's not really sharing. We have these door-partition things which mean we've got our own cubicle, kind of, but I can still hear whatever's going on and it means I won't be able to play loud music.

Then this teachery person took me on some grand tour. Well, she's not actually a teacher, as you probably guessed from the adjective. She's a matron, in fact. Can you believe that? A real-life matron, just like in the films! Talk about The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie! Still, could be worse. Could be like Tom Brown's Schooldays. I say, Fag! My shoes need polishing!

But never mind all that tosh. Let me tell you about the Music Department.

O. M. G. I wish I could show you photos of the music room, coz it is to die for. Seriously. The range of instruments here alone is worth all the suffering. They've got more instruments in their woodwind section alone than my last school had of everything! In fact I'm almost–

Oh, sorry. That was Matron at the door, telling me to come and join the others. I'll have to chase after her because I haven't a clue how to get anywhere here yet. The school map is about as useful as a chocolate teapot on a hot day.

I'll explain more later. Unless you're a posh kid like the girls here, you don't know what these places are like on the inside. But don't worry, I'm going to expose the truth about this place. They may have a great music room, but they're still all snotty-nosed posh brats who think they're better than us normal folk. Except maybe China Girl, but as she can't communicate I guess I'm on my own. Helen Stroud vs. St. Mallory's Posh School For Snooty Girls. Bring it on!

And yeah, you should subscribe, so you don't miss anything. I may not be very interesting on my own, but my revelations will be, I promise.

And if you could comment occasionally just to let me know you're around I'd appreciate it. I'd hate to think I'm going to all this effort and no-one is reading.