I'm Feeling Sexy and Grown

Liberty. After weeks of chewing biros to pieces and being subjected to my sociopathic classmate Brett's crazed soliloquies on fascism, the air of freedom is sweet. Half-term has officially landed. It's not as satisfyingly long as a proper school holiday like Christmas, but it's still better than the occasional long weekend caused by “teacher training day” (the teachers fumbling around in the gymnasium playing grown-up stuck-in-the-mud, before getting hideously drunk in the staff room, if my sources are correct).

Sadly, the school’s harem of all-powerful killjoys (otherwise known as teachers) has conspired against me ONCE AGAIN. Who dishes out this much sodding homework to do over a WEEK? Sometimes I think that this is a conspiracy; in fact, I know it is, and what’s more, I blame it all on lanky Pete. Since our high and exalted head of sixth form, Mrs Bennett, overheard him regaling a group of, uhm, "young and impressionable" Year 12 girls with grossly-exaggerated stories about DMT, our homework rate has risen exponentially. As in, it's quadrupled, presumably as part of some poxy school initiative to stop us running around rubbing rat poison into our gums and impregnating each other this half term. What else is there to do in the suburbs? Lanky Pete is such a twat. If you're reading this, lanky Pete: go fuck yourself.

Sadly, any plans I may have had involving university student drug dealers and unreliable contraceptives have vanished in a cloud of engine smoke. My dad is hiding from his soon-to-be-ex-wife, which means I have to hide with him. On his canal boat. In the middle of nowhere. My aquatic exile means I’ve missed all the slut-themed Halloween parties, and while I can live without tasting my friend Pen’s secret Halloween punch, (a bottle of Teachers, some Archers, and a Sprite), it also means I’ll have to save my "evil and sexy Margaret Thatcher" costume for next year. Life sucks. So far into this trip I’ve comfort-eaten two pots of marmite, done no homework and made several attempts to fill my DMs with lead, and drown myself in the canal. It’s a riot.

The saving grace in this quagmire of dish-water is that my dad has promised me we’ll be back in civilisation in time for my 18th birthday, like he somehow thinks the alternative was ever even an option. Dads are cute. Whatever, I’m gonna be a grown-up. Although I’m super-excited that, from now on: “I DON’T HAVE TO TIDY MY ROOM MUM, I’M AN ADULT”, I’m still a little heart-broken that I’ll never be able to receive an inappropriate email from the hot teaching assistant with a beard now. Well I guess I still have five days left to try and snare an unsuspecting teacher with my dubious charms. Can I manage it? Is this what craigslist is for? Oh well, I’m just eager to get off this boat and celebrate being grown and sexy with my coven of besties. Gonna shrug off my cynical evil-ice-queen demeanour, and repeatedly fall over to “Rack City” in some awful club. Can’t wait!

I wonder what everyone else from school is doing with their half term? More to the point, what are the teachers doing? Don’t pretend you didn’t answer my urgent emails because you were marking papers, Miss; you have the face of a swinger. Maybe under that A-line wrap dress you’re a fetish queen. Maybe you've been screwing your way through all the mucky boys who hang out in my common room's Dads, and you spend the witching hours riding cabs from bed to treacherous bed. Miss. You harlot.

Or maybe not, I guess this is what back-to-back episodes of Jeremy Kyle can do to a malleable little brain. I need to get back to pondering life’s really big questions, like what I should do for my big one-eight. If my class-mates’ hyperbolic boasts are to be believed, anything less than a front-room orgy is a failure. I guess that’s the culture shock when you leave a Catholic school for one with a crèche; you go from being largely regarded as the school slut, to a frigid frump because the idea of catching cystitis off your best mate makes you feel weird. (Can you catch cystitis from others? You can, right? God I wish there had been sex education at old Blessed George High).

Previously: Schoolgirl Diaries - Fascism Is Rife in the School Canteen