St. Mallory's Forever!

41 XUAN: Of sports, symphonies and sore digits.

My fingers. My poor, poor fingers. I hope there's a special place in hell for the sadist who thought it would be a good idea to make violin strings out of metal instead of catgut. Not that they probably ever used cats' guts or any other part of the feline species, but the metal they use now is like a cheese wire that could cut diamonds — I can still feel the indents in my fingers as I type this.

Alas, poor pinkie. I knew him, Horatio.

Aching 'pinkies' aside, the concert itself went well enough. The orchestra kicked up a bit of a fuss when one of the cellists dropped her instrument and the bridge snapped. And I don't even want to think about the trauma inflicted on that poor French horn after an unfortunate encounter with the rolling wheels of the grand piano. But, overall, no major dramas. Given she's new here, I think Helen's mother did a pretty good job.

Speaking of Mrs. Stroud, turns out she's a pretty good musician herself: she certainly put some bounce into the school's doddery old piano which, I suspect, probably spends most of its time in a back room hooked up to an iron lung and copious amounts of steroids.

Helen did some very impressive solos, but inevitably, was mortified by having her mum bashing the piano like that — I bet she was muttering some sort of witchy curse into her knuckles the whole time — but seriously, I don't see why Helen makes such a fuss. Better to have a mother who plays in your concerts than one who whips out the Time Warp at school discos, isn't it?

Of course, Helen's discomfort could have just been the fact that Tim Morrigan was watching, from the front row. Next to the Bursar.

I do not know what is going on in that boy's head, honestly. And I don't mean him sitting next to the Bursar. It was probably the only front row seat left. I mean about Tim and girls.

According to Don Pedro, who is the font of all local knowledge, he's an ex of Abby's (very short-lived as I understand it, some time last year, so ancient history now) and apparently was always making excuses not to visit. In the Don's words, "gng out 2nite" or "soz gt d10ion ttyl'.

Yeah, Teresa can even speak text message. There is no end to her talents.

But, missing vowels (and consonants, and punctuation) aside, that doesn't sound much like the Tim we have come to know and love. Well, know. Cannot imagine love rearing its head between Tim and any girl, let alone a Mallorian.

Abby, Don Pedro, Christie and the others are forever "liking" and commenting on his little Facebook posts to Helen (I can only think he doesn't realise FB comments can be read by other friends too). And seriously, you could set your clock by the time he posts them.

Pip thinks he's infatuated with Helen, Don Pedro concurs, and Abby spends so much time plotting embarrassing moments to shut them in a cupboard together you'd think Helen was already writing wedding invitations. Personally I think Helen just wants some contact with the outside world, and Tim has been her only option so far.

As for me, I smell a rat (another bizarre English expression — I'm sure rats smell, but what has that got to do with being suspicious?). I think there's more to Tim Morrigan than meets the eye. Just saying.

I'd like to discuss my concerns with Abby and Teresa but Abby has gone out for the weekend on some family do, and Don Pedro's not around either.

Oh, didn't I mention that?

Long story short, I think I now know the reason why the Don hates lacrosse so much (she was one of the late and very reluctant draftees, like me). It happened about halfway through our second match, although all I remember of it was that I was jigging up and down by the goalposts dreaming of thermal underwear (I'm sure the PE outfits here are designed by one of those pervy manga artists — we'd cover more wearing the school tie around out waist!) when I heard a crunch, a yowl, and a long stream of Spanish profanities. In that order.

At least, I assume they were Spanish profanities. I can't imagine she was reciting excerpts from Cervante's Don Quixote at that moment in time.

It's funny how, no matter how fluent we are in another language, we always revert to our native tongue to swear. And yes, I have been known to mutter a few expletives in Mandarin since I've been here. Mostly in my ESL lessons, for obvious reasons, and in maths, because Mr. Breeze hasn't a clue. He could make one plus one seem like it needed three pages of calculations.

Anyway, as I was saying, Teresa, aka Don Pedro (not to be confused with Don Quixote) is now shut up in the sanatorium (the rest of the world would call it a sick bay or medical room, but this is an English boarding school), dosed up on painkillers and nursing a broken nose.

Abby went to see her after we finished playing (there were only three matches, thank goodness) and, apparently, she's grumpy but fine. The Don, that is. I don't know about Abby.

But the Don hasn't been allowed to look in a mirror yet. When she finally does I suspect she may also be plotting a painful end for Abby in revenge for being put on the team in the first place.

So, that makes two of us.