Diary of a London Teen

October 3 - Seize The Day

This is the first actual entry into my diary, and to be honest, I am not quite sure how to start it. I'm definitely not going to go for the classic "dear diary" approach, nor will I adhere to a particular structure, as I know some diaries do. The day Itself started in the average way that days around here do. 

I was rudely awoken by the cheerful, blundering form of my father, bursting into my room at the crack of 07:08 am. He came in, flicked the light on and, at the very top of his not so sonorous voice proclaimed that I was burning daylight. He then, in a wildly melodramatic way, held his nose and told me how much my room smelt of "socks and shit". Jauntily he breezed over to the window and threw it open, exposing me to gale force winds and the sounds of construction work in the house next door. 

Almost always, I am - or at least I try to be - a very level headed person, meaning that I try my hardest not to completely explode with anger all of the time, which is sometimes rather tricky. Mornings are an acception, and this morning was no acception. (While that sentence may seem like sloppy writing, it makes sense, so drop it.) Anyway, at this point in my very brief and rather unpleasant morning, I had been shouted at, had had my retinas almost burnt out of my head, had been exposed to the arctic winds that seem to funnel right into my window, and had been deafened by the sounds of heavy machinery operating less than ten meters from my dainty ears. 

To make a long, and frankly rather vicious story short, my father and I had a shouting match of  a ferocious intensity and magnitude that has not, and may not ever be rivaled in the whole history of anything. Ever. 

Post apoplectic father incident and disappointing breakfast of Bovril on charred toast followed by watery orange juice, I set out into the world, determined to get to school and get on with my day. Happily for me, my journey to school is a brief one, and only takes 20 minutes, so I arrived in time to finish a Psychology essay that had been due in the previous week.

 I am really bad with deadlines. So bad in fact, that my teachers often don't even ask for my essays, because they know I won't have them. I like to take my time with things, and work is no acception. When a piece of work is finished to a standard that I feel happy with, I shall then put the piece of work in my bag, which I will then forget for a few days, before finding it in a crumpled ball sandwiched between two rather hefty textbooks as I clear my bag out for the weekend. But not today, no! Today, after finishing the already late essay, I was determined to turn over a new leaf and so plucked up the courage to go and visit my Psychology teacher, down in the Crypt. 

For those of you that don't attend private schools, I think now would be the time to explain to you just how pretentious they can be. My school takes the basic concepts of learning and schoolness and assigns their own unique and extremely pretentious names to them. While most schools may have Houses, such as Blue house, Orange house, red house and so fourth, our school has "Demes". Now, demes are the same in every way as a house. We have deme competitions such as "Deme Song" and "Deme Sports" once a year, and form tutors for each deme. In every single aspect, bar the name a deme is the same as a house, but because it's a private school, everything must be called something stupid. Instead of house captains, we have Deme Wardens, instead of a 6th form we have "transitus". Instead of the lower years being called year seven and eight, they are called "Entry and Shell", and instead of a basement, we have a Crypt. 

It was now to this crypt that I descended. The crypt is a strange space, with very narrow windy corridors that snake down the belly of the school, and are almost impossible to navigate come breaktime, as only two people can fit down one at a time, and there are about 800 people in the school. Despite this, I do think that it is one of the nicest spaces we have, and I spend quite a lot of time sitting in some of the adjoining classrooms with my friends talking over stuff. Anyway, I digress. I knocked on an ancient looking door that bore the name of my psychology teacher "MRS DAWES" in all capitals on a metal plaque. Thankfully, there was no one in the office, so I could avoid confrontation, which I hate. I left the essay on her desk with a note explaining who had left it, and slunk out, feeling rather pleased with myself. 

This was the only thing of real note that happened during my academic day. The lessons passed by uneventfully, and I made it all the way to lunch without getting shouted at, which for me is a real result. In the afternoon, I had my sport option of the week, which is golf, as I am really hideously unsporty. I played a few holes with my friends and decided to call it a day, getting back on the coach and heading back to school. From their, I collected my homework and my younger brother, who also attends the same school as me, and headed home. About an hour ago, I was informed that I was the one that would be cooking tonight, and seeing as I still haven't done that, and it is currently 10:38 PM, I would say that I am going to be in quite a lot of trouble when my parents get home, at about 10:45 PM. 

Better get cooking.