The Budding Roses

Economics

Thursday 1st October

Okay, so please don't tell anyone, but there is perhaps one good thing about being in Sixth Form.

Now I want to make it very clear that this is still only one thing, because I don't want anyone thinking that I might actually like Sixth Form, as that is certainly not, nor will it ever be the case.

So the one semi, maybe, might almost be positive aspect, is that Harry and I get to finish class at lunch time every Thursday, meaning that we get to go wherever we want and do whatever we desire for the rest of the afternoon. And okay, so this does unfortunately mean spending even more time with stupid old Harry, but this is a sacrifice that I've just got to make considering I've been granted the luxury of actual free time in the middle of a school day. It's like being a real life adult, and the next thing you know they'll be letting me drive a car, and vote, and do all the other insanely wild things that grown-ups get to do as a matter of routine.

Yet what I don't understand is how the simple act of moving from one school year to another means that we're no longer treated like wild slobbering animals, but instead are trusted to roam freely within society?

Did my ability to self control develop over the passing of one night? It must have, for the elder generation are now confident that when my peers and I leave the house in the morning, they no longer need worry that we'll end up pulling our pants down and urinating in the kitchen wear section at Debenhams.

Still, whatever the logic for granting this pass, Harry and I aren't complaining about it, and to my secret delight Natasha is livid with frustration since she has to endure Drama at this time. Well boo hoo for her.

'Get a move on,' Harry was eager to get to Boots cafe, so that he could quiz me on the bewilderment of Mendelian inheritance.

'I don't need testing, thank you very much; I've got my own study plan.' He's quickly becoming as much of a dish washed dweeb as Liam. I mean does he really think that such detailed knowledge of the microstructure of the mitochondrion will impress upon me any more than his pathetic chat-up lines do? And doesn't he realise that Liam has spent the last three years trying to charm me with stories about the behaviour of the atom, yet where has it got him?

'Wait for me!' I trailed behind like an annoying young sibling as Harry strode forth. 'You're going to have to give me a piggy back if you don't slow down.'

Unrelenting he grabbed at my arm, rubbishing my requests to be carried.

'Stop!' The screech of my voice instructed that our squabbles should be halted, 'is there a red van driving next to us?'

'It would appear so, and there's some sort of weirdo in it trying to get your attention. Do you know him?'

The thrill of the pursuit, the forbidden excitement of being desired, so long forgotten, now flushed through me once more like a fully pumped geyser. He hasn't forgotten me.

'Shit, it's Weirdo Woodcutter.'

'Weirdo what?'

'Weirdo Woodcutter. My stalker!'

'Your stalker?'

'Yes, do something, hold my hand and pretend to be my boyfriend.'

'Your boyfriend?' Harry was confused by my sudden change of opinion towards him, 'what are you talking about?'

'Just do it!' I seized at Harry's hand. Now I was the one dragging him up the hill like a belligerent ox tied to a rope. 'Quick, get on to the High Street, cars aren't allowed there.'

The van, forced in to submission upon reaching the bollards, reversed with resentment back on to the stony road.

'Ha ha, you can't get me here,' I waved.

'So do you want to tell me what is going on?' Harry demanded.

'I'd love to, but I'm not sure that I know for myself.'