I Think I Might Have Actually Learned Something at School This Week

This week has been incredibly fruitful and productive. Crazily so, in fact. The best thing about state education is that you get so blasé about feeble supply teachers being locked in cupboards by gum-snapping alpha-bitches that, on the rare occasion your teacheractuallymakes it to class unscathed, it’s like a cerebral orgy. I mean, we read a whole poem in English the other day. Don't get too excited: it was absolutely exhausting, so – obviously – I immediately went and pocketed a new pack of highlighters from the staff stockroom in self-congratulation.

Sadly, Penel doesn’t understand my laziness. She spent her formative years learning how to speak Latin and slay plebs with a hockey stick in an all-girls castle in the countryside somewhere – the poor thing. Never knowing the illicit thrill of a clandestine kiss and a damp roll-up with a sixth former behind the bike sheds on a dark November afternoon. Oh, memories. Anyway, she doesn’t quite get that we have all this free time on our grubby hands and still gets a little grouchy when we have free periods on Mondays because our wise and learned teachers are busy puking off their weekend chardonnay binges.

Normally we’d scamper off to Minnie or Char’s house (expert, full-time skivers, the both of them) to gorge on out-of-date bourbons from the corner shop, but today we thought it might be preferable to stick pictures of our faces onto Victoria's Secret models and then research breast-enhancing exercises, because that's a totally constructive way to spend time you'd otherwise be wasting learning about stuff.

I really hope no one else finds out you can use Photoshop on the library computers, because if they do, suddenly you won’t be able to move for the khaki-clad masses editing their selfies. Listen up, you lower-sixth worms, we lofty upper-sixth-formers have had enough of your loathsome, preening ways and are pretty much definitely going to dob you in to Mrs Bennett for colonising our smoking wall, our favourite computers and the best sofas. It's about time to quit this confidence thing and start carrying my books.

Mind you, I'd be impressed if anyone made it to the library alive given what's going on in the canteen at the moment. The school governors were not chuffed about our substantial pot noodle intake, citing some horribly boring national statistics about heart disease and obesity that I didn't pay one bit of attention to. Unfortunately, since that little tantrum, the spited dinner ladies have been brewing revolting, lentil-based gruel every single fucking day. Walking through the dinner hall is like walking through a smelly hippie’s wet fart. Vile. This potent witches' brew is evidently having some ghastly effect on me because I’ve come to school bra-less and in slippers three times in the past week.

I know how it goes; it happened to Stefani in the year above (it was not spelt with an 'i' on her passport, btw). Bra-less today, hemp shirt tomorrow and living in Bristol working in a vegan food van by the end of month. May the gods of clandestine Pot Noodle save my soul and keep me safe from vegetable stew and CND t-shirts. Actually, I’d like to extend that little prayer to the rest of the sixth form; if everyone takes to wearing wooly ponchos because of the cauldron of gruel, I'm dreading to imagine what will happen when it rains. All that wet wool and matted hair in one small common room – the stench! I would literally have to be home-educated. Dad would have to hire a handsome tutor to talk dead American poets with me in my room. Actually, his divorce just finalised and he's feeling pretty content, so maybe now's not a bad time to ask.

More than anything, though, I wish it was half term again. Teachers are starting to get really quite tiresome about the whole doing work and meeting deadlines thing, and it’s just such a bother. Yes sir, I may have copied Megan’s homework during assembly, but what do you expect? I don’t loll around in my pants smoking out the window in the classroom, so why the hell would I do school work in my house?

Anyway, must dash. Dutch Harold keeps batting at my top-knot with big, mawkish swipes and it’s fucking with my hair. God, Dutch Harold, you think that just 'cause you’re like seven-foot tall and beautiful you can interfere with a girl’s barnet? Have fun fishing all your physics text-books out the skip, you king-sized-he-bitch.

Previously: My Cat Got Stolen By a Policewoman