Sloe Gin

Mother’s gone missing. Well, I say she’s gone missing. Basically Dad hasn’t seen her since she went to visit Grannie H yesterday afternoon. That’s where she said she was going at any rate. Grannie H swears blind that Mother never turned up but she quite often also swears blind that it’s 1969 and Des O’Connor is about to propose marriage so no one knows what to think. All this info has come from Sal by the way. She phoned again this morning when I got back from morning lessons. She’s decided that Mother’s having an affair with Derek Barnscroft from the next road. Christ knows where she’s got that from but she’s insisting she witnessed “obvious chemistry” between them at last year’s parish Christmas sherry and mince pie morning. When I suggested she go round to Derek’s house and ask if Mother was there she said I was being confrontational.

To be honest I think it’s all probably a lot more mundane than Sally’s painting it. Mother isn’t nearly colourful enough to have an affair. Unfortunately it’s rather more likely that she’s had a few too many gins, decided to go for a drive, got lost and had to pull over in Chislehurst woods to sleep off an early hangover on the back seat. The exact same thing happened at Easter but Dad said we should keep it from Sal cos she’d only worry. I knew full well that he meant that Sal would totally overreact and start announcing to all and sundry that she was from a damaged family. I’ll give the old man a ring later and see if there’s an update but I’m not going to make a bloody song and dance about it.

Drinks last night were excellent. Wendell got smashed on Hargreaves’ sloe gin and passed out in the bathroom. We all got sent to our studies but we congregated in Henry’s room and watched our poor housemaster drag Wendell, half unconscious, across the yard outside to his lodgings. Don’t think he’ll be invited back in a hurry. Bloody teachers. They’re a liability..

Double Country

Just back from first cross-country run. Bloody horrendous. My hands are so cold I can’t actually do up the buttons on my shirt so not sure how I’m going to be able to attend classes this afternoon. Might just have to give them a miss. Not particularly in the mood for double Othello anyway. For some reason Mrs Simms has decided that when we read it out the girls should read the boys parts and the boys should read the girls. Some sick mind game of her invention no doubt. She’s such an oddball. I think she self-harms. The other day she put her leg up on the desk and scratched her kneecap so violently that she drew blood through her tights. Annabelle Grimes was almost sick. Simms barely noticed. That’s not natural surely..?

Ralph assures me that normally the whole cross country experience is a lot more enjoyable. Unfortunately Slab Jennings (the demon sportsmaster) decided to lead the run this time so there was no shirking off and disappearing into the pub for a few ales. We were going for over an hour. I think I understand what shin splints feel like now. I’ll give it another go next week without staff intervention and see how it goes.

House drinks in Hargreaves flat for the upper sixths tonight. Bring on the beer! I think he’s inviting Mr Wendell to join us tonight. Slightly bricking it that they’ll start discussing my embellished tales of dysfunctional families. If they do I’ll just have to see if I can cry again. Should be easier with a few drinks inside me. Failing that I’ll have to hope that Dominic Lafferty gets so drunk he goes into one of his rages and starts slamming doors and raging against the elitist nature of public school hierarchy. Bloody ginger tosser.

Ham Fag

What an extremely dull day. Mr Wendell held me back at the end of Spanish. He said I wasn’t taking classes seriously enough. Bastard. Just cos I only got 53% in the test last week he’s already decided I want to fail my A-levels. What a bloody farce. I tried to explain that I was worried about the situation at home during half term. Think mother might be an alcoholic, blah blah.. I did my best to turn on the waterworks but couldn’t squeeze out any tears. Still, I think he bought it, though now I’m worried he’s going to tell Hargreaves and Hargreaves is going to speak to Dad. That would be a major shitter.

Apparently Sal called last night. I was in the TV room so didn’t get the message. Arsing lazy juniors only checked my study rather than looking for me throughout the whole boarding house. Standards are slipping. If I’d been that remiss when I was a junior I’d have been on milk fag for a week. I need to call her back anyway. Hopefully she can throw some light on what is actually going on at home. Something’s up, that’s for sure. Parentals haven’t even been in touch to find out about the driving test, though I’m in no rush to tell them..

Alex Dudley slipped on some parma ham at lunch. Now THAT was funny. Ed Humphreys had sent him to the kitchens (Alex Dudley will do whatever Ed tells him – it’s quite weird) to re-fill the orange squash. Dudley failed to notice that Annabelle Grimes had overloaded her plate (again) and half of it had fallen on the floor so he went arse over tit in front of the masters’ table, covering himself in squash to boot. The whole room erupted and Dudley went puce with shame. What a knob! CLASSIC!

Vintage Logs

Zoe came round to the boarding house last night. She wanted to talk about what happened on Saturday night. She said she hadn’t been thinking straight and she hoped I didn’t think she was leading me on. What the FUCK?? She was the one that practically forced my hand onto her boob. I was holding out for Lindsay Joyner for God’s sake. Now Zoe’s screwed that up. I know what girls are like – always talking about boys and what they’ve been up to. Now Lindsay’s going to think I’m in love with Zoe and Zoe’s going to make out that she’s never been interested and I’m just some desperate tit grabbing loser. What a bloody mess. She basically raped me. Of course I was massively cool about it and told her there was no problem.

When she left Henry came into my study desperate to know what had gone on, being all pally. What a sham. He’s just after more dirt for his house notes. If he wasn’t such a power crazed freak maybe he’d have the confidence of more people and wouldn’t be finding the whole task such a struggle. I changed the subject to the massive log someone left in the guest toilet under the stairs. It’s about the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s forearm and has been there so long it’s now started to go white around the edges like a dog poo from the 1970s. I don’t know how we’re ever going to find out who did it unless there is some sort of medical inspection in the house for someone with a stretchy enough bumhole. Dr Cleaver would doubtless be only too willing to carry out such an inspection, the dirty perv. He’s the sort of doctor who likes to diagnose all manner of illnesses by cupping one’s nuts.

Ralph’s here. Signing off.

How Not To Pass A Driving Test

So my life is officially over. Yesterday did not go well. It started brilliantly of course. I sat quite happily in the waiting room at the driving test centre. I had fully evacuated my bowels half an hour earlier and felt at one with myself. A curious little man called Leonard called my name and we went out to the car park where I read a distant number plate with amazing accuracy. Even Leonard looked impressed. It was going to go well.

We proceeded to the Nissan Micra that was to be my test vehicle. On entering the car I made sure he watched as I adjusted the mirrors and buckled up securely. “When you are ready, please start the engine” he said, in a thin, working class Maidstone accent. The engine fired up as I turned the key and looked at Leonard, awaiting further instruction. “Please proceed to the car park exit and turn left onto the main road”.

Now here’s the thing. I’m not a risk taker. Never have been. The most adventurous thing I’ve ever done is slide down the stairs in a sleeping bag and that took five nightmare ridden sleeps to get over, so I’m not one to gamble with my safety. It was with a great deal of fore-thought, then, that I decided to pull into the road from the car park. Yes, there was a post office van heading in my direction but it was AT LEAST one hundred yards away. Leonard didn’t agree. He emitted a surprising roar of angst as I turned onto the high street, quickly followed by the words “What the HELL are you doing??!”

The jig was up. I indicated left and pulled over at the kerb before switching off the engine. I could feel my pulse racing. A vein I’d never been aware of before seemed fit to burst out of my forehead. “Get the fuck out of the car”. I heard the words. I just didn’t realise it was me who had said them. Poor Leonard looked rather shocked for a few seconds. Then he quietly placed an “X” in the FAIL box on my test sheet and said quietly, “I have to inform you that you have not passed the test on this occasion”. He peeled off the sheet of paper and handed it to me, before getting out of the car.

One day I might find this whole incident amusing, but right now I am trying to find a way of convincing everyone that it was all Leonard’s fault..

D-Day

Two hours til my driving test!!! I take back everything I said about OD-ing if I don’t pass first time. The fact that I am STILL massively hung over from Saturday night is probably the biggest hurdle I will have to overcome and certainly isn’t something I planned. I’ll be lucky if I stay on the left side of the road at this rate..

Matron’s roses have noticeably wilted today. Typical that we haven’t had any rain since I vommed all over them. There is a definite odour of mild curry and apple cider outside my window. Not impressed with myself although everyone else seems to think I’m a bit of a ledge. Abby MacKenzie’s in hospital with appendicitis (probably just trying to out-do me) so there’s a big Get Well Soon card doing the rounds. Polly Wilkes is in charge of it. Christ, could she suck up to Abby any more? Doesn’t she realise we’re in the upper sixth already? It’s too late to try and earn prefect points now. Bloody do-gooders..

Hargreaves tried to take the piss as I was leaving the house for assembly this morning. He suggested I might want to take a bucket with me. Ha-bloody-ha.. On a more serious note I’m worried that I have inadvertently got the bloke at the corner shop arrested for selling alcohol to minors after I blabbed where we’d bought the cider. I was under duress, not to mention that I seriously thought I was at death’s door when I saw the colour of what was coming out of my mouth, so I really shouldn’t get the blame. I might say it was Colin Weston who told. He knew about it AND he’s much more likely to be a snitch than I am. He needs reminding of the fact that he's a complete scrote, potential orphan or otherwise..

Boob Touching

I’m a wreck. Last night started well enough. Zoe Hall looked bloody gorgeous when she turned up at the Indian and she sat next to me, which was a complete result. I didn’t even find the food that ghastly although to be honest I didn’t eat that much of it. Brings me out in sweats. I did, however, fail to hold back on the wine intake and polished off the best part of two bottles. You know what girls a like – bloody lightweights when it comes to booze consumption. Hopeless.

After dinner Zoe convinced us that we should buy some gyppo cider from the offie on the corner of West Street. The guy in there will do anything if you bung him an extra fiver so we clubbed together and invested in four litres of White Lightning. Bloody lethal. We took ourselves down to the park by the A-Road and polished the lot off between the six of us within 45 minutes. Managed to get a bit of time alone with Zoe on the way back. She let me touch her left breast through her sports vest. It was heavenly. But she wouldn’t even snog me, the frigid cow. I’m so dissing her for the rest of term.

By the time we got back to the boarding house I thought I was going to die. My head was spinning but I thought I could save myself from mortal embarrassment by just getting to my study and turning out the lights. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be and I threw my guts up out the window just as Mr Jameson was walking past with his dog Trixie. Poor old Matron’s roses ended up covered in diced carrot and I’ve got to write her a letter of apology. Hargreaves has also banned me from further supper leaves til the new year. Bastard. Still touched tit though so not all bad..