Let's just get something out the way. There's a poo of mine at Keble (College, Oxford)- at least there was. In fact it's really actually inside the Main Quad - opposite the chapel... You know, it may not be there any longer: I imagine it's aided some seed on its journey to become something bigger and better by now. Perhaps a geranium or a potato. Perhaps not a potato on reflection. Nevertheless, let's not forget we're talking about a poo - just the one. At least, as well as my memory serves me, I think it was just the one. I'm ever so tempted to leave the story at that. Perhaps I will until tomorrow...
SO TUNE IN TOMORROW FOR MORE OF THE KEBLE POO SAGA...
I am about to embark on a day of writing essays, but don't feel sorry for me just yet, as its only English Language A Level, and about language in social contexts (basically about Facebook, as Alix pointed out). Of course, if you've seen me recently, you'll know I've been complaining for the past couple of months that I know nothing about English Language, for so long in fact, that I could well have learnt lots and lots and lots about it in that time. Instead, I have had eight jobs; been on ten trips, used up two mascaras, read the Twilight series - twice; been to hospital; taken more trains than I can count; been through two driving instructors; watched two whole seasons straight of One Tree Hill; had two blood tests; photographed (and edited) an eighteenth; had two new piercings (neither of which I still have); completed a Powerplate challenge; pretended to be lots of different people; shed bucket loads of tears; invested in a pair of jeans; left four jobs; lost one; misplaced another; maintained two and worked my way through as many boys as I have tissues - and I had flu (not swine, obviously).
I'm going to discuss this, not because I haven't mentioned it before (because I have), but because, and while I may actually be turning into a bit of a broken record, I'm going to get it out of my system now and then try to not mention it again. SATAN THOUGHT UP GAP YEARS (I'm not joking, and I have proof! Maybe not the physically, biologically, visible sort of proof, but proof nonetheless).
Try and stick with me for a minute. We're in Thailand, sun, sea, sand - its gorgeous. Of course, unfortunately, your camera was stolen at the airport, so you won't be able to show anyone on Facebook but don't fret just yet, because the rest of London is out there with you. And even if you were all stupid enough to have lost your cameras by this point in the year, you're bound to run into Lottie (you know, from Stowe), who knows Randers(the one from Sassy's 18th), who once met Sophie (who's been in Tatler - twice!), who knew Teddy (don't go there...), who went to prep school with lots of other people who all know each other. Only, they don't. I'm still (please, make fun all you like), completely and utterly perplexed by the bizzarity of the public school rule that means, abroad, one is automatically an acquaintance of anyone else who went to a public school (however minor). And by acquaintance, I mean BEST FRIENDS.
This really is, a totally odd, upper middle class ritual that does not extend further than Heathrow airport, because if I hear someone else speaking in marked RP somewhere at the back of Reading, I will not rush up, pretend to be their best friend and then put all the photos on the internet. And this definitely doesn't extend to the state system, by any stretch of the imagination, as sticking a hoard of like-minded chavs in a bar in Corfu will certainly more likely cause a brawl than a ball... (Did I say that?)
Ok, I'm sorry, maybe I'm just jealous I'm not sitting on a beach right now. But frankly, bumping into everyone I've ever met while I'm hot, sweaty and no thinner than I was the last time we met, is not my idea of a holiday: it's my idea of Hell, which I'm hoping to have a few more years to psych myself up for. If I'd known this was the purpose of a gap year, I'd have camped at Sloane Square tube station from September onwards. I'd have achieved the same thing and spent a lot less. I could also go home if I got bored or it rained or someone was pissing me off or I was made to drink out of a bucket. This is another thing! WHY do people drink out of buckets in South East Asia?! And if it's such a great idea, then why don't we do it here? Perhaps we will when our future politicians all return from shacking up in villages (now) overflowing with wells. But why leave London at all? Dare I suggest current school leavers consider bricklaying courses at the Thames Valley University: you'll still be able to build a wall by the end of the year; you'll get all the crime and corruption and your ipods, blackberries and cameras will still get stolen.
And then they'll all come home. They'll look dirty, overgrown in every sense of the word and wear authentic Peruvian knits. They'll take over entire corridors in halls, take up all the en-suites and chat non-stop about the full moon (which, everyone forgets, exists worldwide). The thing is, spending six months travelling can't be good for the soul: I went for six weeks and forgot how to spell, making essay-writing, these days, virtually impossible - and this is the sort of thing that scares me. And what, can we - those who stayed home -, rival you travellers with? I can't see it. And so! I'm going to hop into a sunbed, order myself some Thai fishing trousers, backcomb my hair and settle into my en suite in September. Thailand? Yar babes, it was a RAAAAVE.
Listening to: Tegan and Sara
Alix Harmer, I've got a bone to pick with you...
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