Welcome to March, faithful and sporadic bloglovelies alike! This morning I managed to “pinch and punch for the first of the month” three of my four family members… This is not at all up to standard, but I forgot that it was March. Oops. At school, everyone looks down at me (often literally, although I’m not that short. I just tend to be standing downhill from people, okay?!) when I mention this age-old tradition. So what, I have the maturity of a five-year-old. I still think it’s fun, annoying and fun, so I’ll do it. Also, my competitive side won’t let me stop.
Why shouldn’t I act like a five-year-old, though? I mean, I’m the second youngest person in my grade, on account of my being accelerated, and, quite frankly, it sucks. On Friday this week there’s a special event taking place at my school that only people over the age of fifteen can attend. So basically, all of my friends are going, and I’ll go to class, I suppose. By myself. Even though I’m something ridiculous like fourteen and eight months. Furthermore, as people begin to turn sixteen, everyone is talking about learning to drive! I can’t even get my learner plates until July of 2012, by which time many of my friends will be driving to school.
I would make this post a rant, but I actually have something funny to share from today, so I’ll get right to that.
After school every day, I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time mucking around with my friends. This is in the fifteen minutes between 3.15pm, when period six ends (to much excitement), and 3.30pm, when we all have to bolt to catch our trains and buses home.
Today, period six was a gruelling English class in which we had to do the most difficult of all things: sit still for 50 minutes and listen to our classmates’ speechs (which ranged from bad to worse, with a few awe-inspiring, earth-shattering reminders of how doomed we are from the more brilliant in the class). I am not very good at sitting still for fifty minutes. Especially when I sit next to one of my best friends, who sits next to another of them, and we all sit behind another two of our friends. Besides, my attention span for listening to people absolutely murder the pronunciation of words is very short. So when the bell went, we were out of there and being generally loud and annoying at the locker area directly outside. Notable events that occurred during this time include someone trying to turn on the fire hose (they failed), someone being crash-tackled into a locker by the first someone, and that first someone being very, very loud.
That someone, if you haven’t gathered, was me. And I do lament that the fire hose didn’t work. It would have been a lot of fun.
This set the scene for a very long and entertaining trip past both of our lockers, after which we loitered in a hallway waiting for the 3.30pm bell that would send us all on our inevitable journeys home. At the time, we were not aware that the bell was late. Which is why the following chaos ensued.
After the bell rang, I trudged down to the bus stop to see a bus leaving. The bus had a dent in the back that was covered in masking tape. My bus has a dent in the back that is covered in masking tape. After a split second search of the quad, I could see no-one from my suburb, which lead me to the conclusion that it was, indeed, my bus.
Time slowed down. I executed a tremendous backpack wielding leap over a group of midgets year sevens, and I ran out past the supervising teacher to the driveway. The bus was down the hill, at the gate, about to go out onto the street. I ran out onto the driveway. The supervising teacher, a former mathematics teacher and devotee of my fan club raised a white handkerchief in a tearful salute to my daring and bravery.
And then I pelted awkwardly down the tarmac, clutching my backpack, yelling for the bus to wait. It went onto the street, and I ended up running down the street after it, to the mingled cheers and laughter of my peers. Mainly laughter, actually. I think I looked kind of ridiculous.
You’ll be pleased to know that I did make it to the bus, and upon getting on and having the full amused attention of those on board, I gave a bow and stumbled to my seat, exhausted. My wimpy legs can’t deal with this kind of exercise, I believe. I’d like to think that they’re truly sleek and muscular, albeit in disguise, but alas. Wimpy.
It makes for a good story, though. You may now all refer to me as Brave and Daring Sam of the Sexy-But-Wimpy legs, and my tale will be handed down through mistrels’ song for decades.
On the topic of stories, I recently discovered in my brothers room a series of books that, along with Deltora Quest by Emily Rodda, are pretty much the stories of my childhood. Have any of you heard of/read the Animorphs series, by Katherine Applegate? They were pretty much my first taste of Science Fiction (which, as a fun fact, is my absolute favourite genre, closely followed by fantasy!), and while somewhat short and lacking in depth, there is a lot to love about these little books.