Haybridge, we hardly knew ye...

Today was a fairly fitting penultimate day. I woke up far too late, then found that we had no hot water (our bathroom is being refitted) so I had to have the kind of shower that's so cold, your head throbs in pain, so that was fun (it did wake me up, though). I then carved my feet up walking through town in my brand new gladiator sandals (I had to put some plasters on in T.K. Maxx.) Next, I went and drank tea at Christina's house and ended up crying in the car on the way to school when a particularly emotional song came on the radio. Then we dossed around a bit and ate biscuits before going to History and not discussing a single war. Excellent.

In the car on the way back, we accidentally listened to the Glee version of 'My Life Would Suck Without You'. You would think this song incapable of causing a grown girl to well up, but it well and truly succeeded. Man, I'm a mess...

The thing is, I'm not sure I'll ever feel quite as at home as I have done at this sixth form. It's a pretty special place, yes, but it's nothing compared to my INCREDIBLE friends. I don't have one best friend, I have about ten and I will miss them all so much. I think this is the reason I am so apprehensive about university; I know for a fact that I will never find friends who understand me and who I enjoy being around quite as much as our little group of rejects. It's love...

So thank you Haybridge High school. You made me, the laziest person on the planet work! You got me good grades, and, most importantly, I've had a bloody great time!

and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

A lot of people say that studying poetry at GCSE takes all the joy out of it, and I suppose I agree. But for me, the problem lies in studying a poem I really can't stand and over analysing it until it becomes even more unlikeable. I think that's what people are getting at and I completely understand. Last year for example, we were forced to reckon with the melancholy of Thomas Hardy's seemingly endless verse. His work was all basically an embodiment of his grief. He mourned the death of his wife, the simplicity of mankind, the (rubbish) century. This guy never stopped complaining and I was put off poetry for life. At least this is what I told myself. Then we moved on to Auden. And I fell in love.

The thing with Auden is that you can not just love his poems, but also be fascinated with his life. He married a lesbian to prevent her from being deported, was a massive lefty and had a somewhat exciting love life. He once wrote "If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me". So yes, I am a bit in love. Too bad he is both gay and dead. I sure know how to pick 'em...

This poem got me full marks in my English exam last year (shameless, I know). It's kind of sad. On second thoughts, don't read it.

I'm not very good with poetry. With the exception of 'The Love Song Of J. Alfred. Prufrock', they have to rhyme to keep me entertained. They have to mean at least something without months of study, and they have to have a story behind them.

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W. H. Auden (1907 - 73)

When watching 'My life in Verse' with Robert Webb, I also discovered T.S. Eliot. I have written about him before and will no doubt mention him again, so I won't bore you right now.

Poetry doesn't have to be fancy. It doesn't have to have critical acclaim. It doesn't even have to be all that good to mean something to someone. I love this poem a little bit, especially when he reads it.

do not for the fame, but for the glory. learn the difference.

My mother is currently in the corner of the room with a carpet fitter, looking at samples which all look exactly the same and deliberating loudly, while denying me the joys of my iTunes. We're finally getting our (avocado eighties nightmare) bathroom ripped out and starting again. Trust me when I say that anything would be an improvement.

I finally bought Fyfe (Fyfe, love of my life)'s album and in no way is it disappointing. Every song is magnificent. When you are a shambolic aspiring writer as I half-heartedly pretend to be, occasionally you read a book and think 'wow. I wish I had written this.) I imagine lots of music-types feel similarly about this album.

I'm currently reading 'One Day' by David Nicholls and storming through it (this is one of the aforementioned novels). It's sort of a nice compromise between a critically acclaimed but difficult to trawl through novel and a trashy beach read. I'm only half way through, but already it's established a firm footing amongst my favourites. I'm sure most people think this, but I feel that I am strangely similar to the protagonist, Emma. She's pretty clever but a bit of a skank who waitresses instead of getting a job while her less intelligent but copiously charismatic best friend shoots to fame. She has idealistic newspaper cuttings lining her walls and becomes too cynical and too critical. This is pretty much the life I have mapped out for myself. So anyway, I would definitely recommend it, even if you are not really the reading type.

I used to read all the time, but have somewhat lapsed lately. I really love books, but I have picked up the bad habit of spending loads of money on books, beginning them, then giving up half way through, or even worse, just letting them sit on my shelf (floor) gathering dust. So from now on, I vow to read more. I imagine that books will help Sarah and me immeasurably on our trek across Europe in the summer, and I reckon that as I'm doing a French degree (bleugh, don't get me started), a bit of literature in my native language will become a treat once more.

Inspiring isn't really the word, but I found myself clinging on to this awesome woman's every word. It really doesn't seem twenty minutes long, I promise. I think you'll enjoy it. Lesbianism aside, I pretty much want to be this woman. I fear that I can only be disappointed...

and so the tears begin to fall...

I am filled with the sort of divine happiness only achievable when the sun shines this brightly. In two days, my skin has gone from hopelessly pasty and a little bit corpse-like to having a nice sunkissed glow (or something like that). I'm such a summer person, I really am. The only things that get me through the winter are scarves and duffel coats, but otherwise I really do dislike it quite a lot. This is mostly because I am perpetually cold and I hate living in the almost constant darkness winter invariably brings. Today, however it is difficult to imagine even the existence of winter. Today it burns your feet to walk on the same patio we had to shovel snow from in the winter. Mind boggling...

This week is bound to be eventful and emotional as we leave Haybridge forever. It's strange. I've been there a third of my life, which makes me feel both terrified and really rather young. I'm not quite sure how to feel about it all. Even though I'm certain I could not stand being there for another year, this week has arrived pretty quickly and I will be so sad to leave. While at that school, I have gone from an awkward, nerdy twelve year old with no confidence to a slightly less awkward, possibly even nerdier adult. I'm still working on the confidence thing...

On Saturday, I have to battle with my unavoidable hangover to get on a train in Birmingham by nine in the morning. I am now cursing myself for booking such an early train, but I'm sure the destination will make it worthwhile. I'm off to the lovely Croyde in north Devon. We go every year with half of Stourbridge and even if the weather is shoddy, a good time is always had. Unfortunately, I must put up with the presence of my overbearing, manipulative, inconsistent mother and her cretinous boyfriend who I suspect does not possess enough brain cells to even pronounce the word manipulative. I am determined to enjoy myself nevertheless because I love long, solitary train journeys and though I have been to several places much more exotic, there is something about Croyde that makes it a strong contender for my favourite place in the world. So even though I am sure this beautiful weather will exhaust itself long before this weekend, I am excited. And I vow that I will make it into the sea (but wetsuits are such a faff aren't they? I have been known to go in wearing just a bikini at this time of year, but I fear that I may have lost some of the stupidity of my youth, so we'll have to see.)

I will put up photos of all the lovely goings on this week for those of you bored enough to care about the things that happen in my life. To do this, however, I may have to buy a camera. It'll have to be identical to the old one too, as my mother bought it for me and I don't quite have the heart to tell her that I lost it months ago. Goodbye money, it was nice while it lasted.

The prophets and their bombs have had another success and I wonder why we bother at all...

Marion Cotillard epitomises pretty much everything I want to be. She is French, she's successful, and , most importantly, she rocks Converse Allstars with ease. She completely nails every role she plays, whether in a bizarre Indie film, or something much more OSCARiffic like 'La Vie En Rose'.

What's more, Ms Cotillard is currently cosying up with the one and only Guillaume Canet: intellectual, visionary and overall French Hottie. The two starred together in 'Jeux D'enfants', one of my all time favourite films. It's funny and cute without being at all naff, as English and American films seem to slip into. If you haven't seen it, it really is wonderful and I recommend it. Those two would have cute babies...

The reason she's so great in 'La Vie En Rose' is the way she's unafraid to make herself look well and truly minging. It's possibly the most unattractive role she could have taken but it turned out to be a very wise move. Now she walks among Hollywood's elite, gracing the covers of magazines and seeming very classy and gracious with it. I think the fact that she failed to get her Oscar acceptance speech out over the flood of tears shows that she genuinely did not expect to win. Or she is a very good actress. Which sort of goes without saying really.

So this week has panned out much better than was expected. I did have a rubbish driving lesson on Monday, but everything else has been pretty good. Usually the double dose of double French on Tuesday and Wednesday pretty much finishes me off, but something odd has happened in the Modern Languages department; the teachers have gone soft. So instead of sheet after sheet of grammar, we got to watch TWO films. So yesterday, we watched 'He loves me, he loves me not' starring Audrey Tatou and a guy with really good hair. I'd never seen it before, so didn't know what to expect, but it was brilliant! It was exactly like Enduring Love, but Frencher and even creepier. The plot was almost identical, but because of the style of the film, the viewer is hooked much longer. Today, we watched 'A very long engagement' which was sad, but good. This had Tatou AND Cotillard in, therefore was automatically going to be ace. It did not disappoint. To say I enjoyed it would be a bit sick really - there was an awful lot of graphic mutilation, but it was pretty awesome. Cotillard plays an amazing, gutsy prostitute who seeks to avenge her bloke who dies on the Somme. If I didn't love her before, this certainly did it. Watch it. Please?

Fyfe Dangerfield (Fyfe, Fyfe, love of my life) may be my crush of the week. I just love his voice, love the Guillemots, love the John Lewis advert (about which I have already gushed). He's probably a bit of an arse, but he has lovely eyes and the voice of an angel. I think this is enough to absolve him. Trains to Brazil is an amazing song!

Love will tear us apart.

Bus talk...

The day Charlotte Ireland passed her driving test may have been the greatest day of my life. Instead of having to get up far too early and being crammed onto a train full of loud, obnoxious eleven year olds in uniform, I now get up ever so slightly later and Charlotte picks me up. Unfortunately for her, I don't really do mornings. She invariably arrives bang on time and is left gritting her teeth while I search for shoes or scarves or long lost textbooks. We then cruise to school, blasting out the tunes (highlights include Bruce Springsteen, Lenny Kravitz and even a bit of Jay-Z...). Overall, it is brilliant.

However, sometimes Charlotte will be ill or we don't have to be in at the same time and I am forced to once make my own way to and from the little haven of Hagley village. This involves not only catching the train, but also dragging myself on to a bus. Full of old people. Who smell. It isn't all bad. They talk a lot and sometimes it's fun to eavesdrop. In fact, I tend to use these brief snippets of conversation to judge the vague ebb and flow of public opinion. I realise that my sample of the general public is a little bit selective, but it's sufficient in order to get a general idea.

So with the excitement of the election and the upheaval of the Government, the 'bus talk' has been decidedly political. Interestingly, while a few months ago, the old folk of Kidderminster were intensely critical of the Labour Government, they definitely DO NOT want a coalition either. None of them seem to like Cameron much, and now Gordon has been booted out, they seem rather fond of him. People of Kidderminster, make up your mind! Or join the Labour Party. Or just take a shower...