I didn't cry at all during the last week; not when we got given our Yearbooks, not when we signed them, not when we had a our last ever lessons. Didn't cry at the Sixth Form breakfast, in the awards assembly, and probably wouldn't have cried at the rest of the festivities if I'd been bloody there rather than stuck in non-A Level exams. I didn't even cry at the Sixth Form Ball. I just got rather hideously drunk, but more on that later.

But, just now, I was looking at the multitude of pictures that Michael, our school's IT technician took of everyone I know, of all my friends and people I've known for seven years, and in some cases longer, and Coldplay's Sparks was playing in the background, and...

...oh, God. I sobbed.

It's over. I've known for a long while; known there would be no more lessons and lunchtimes in the form room playing cards, and sunny afternoons on the field eating strawberries, and chatting to Ben about everything and nothing, and no more snark from Mr Morgan and revolutionary promises from Mr McShane and admiring the amazing hair of Miss Bakharia, but now, it's only just hit me. It's done. It's never coming back, and it's the most bittersweet thing I've ever experienced.

I've never analysed how I've felt about school, because it's been part of my life for so long that I've just become used to it; it's a norm. Now, I'm realising how much a privilege it was to go, to make the friends I made. I love them all so much; the closer I've got to the end, the more any animosity I might have had has faded, and now it's completely gone. We went through it all together, and now that we're going our separate ways, there's no need for ill feeling anymore. It's over now.

I can't write that phrase without my throat burning. It still seems unreal, but it's here. The time's here. Just the exams left, and then we're on our way. It physically aches, as clichéd as it sounds.

Having said that, the Ball was bloody amazing. I really didn't think it would end up the way it did, but it was so; I got absolutely wasted. I'm not by nature a drinking girl (this was only the fourth time in eighteen years I've been drunk), but the wine went to my head and I ended up behaving like a bit of an arse. I'm, apparently, a rather friendly drunk; I was hugging everyone and having conversations with people I haven't spoken to in years. I didn't kiss anyone (thank God), but I was a little closer to people than I would have been.

The downside to that, of course, was engaging in a frankly quite embarassing exchange with our Headmaster. Well, embarassing to me, that is; he seemed to find it quite funny. He's probably used to it.

I went clubbing for the first time, afterwards; had two complete strangers hug me, did shots for the first time ever, had my first taste of constant dancing, caught a fleeting glimpse of Annie Mac at the turntables, searched in vain for Scott Mills but heard his voice through the speakers, and had so much fun. Went to bed still drunk but woke up feeling absolutely fine, despite having drunk a variety of different things of various strengths. I seem to be impervious to hangovers.

Anyway, a photo or two:



Considering the normal state of my hair, this was a huge and beautiful achievement!





You can't see the shoes, but they were lovely too.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have virtually no self-belief; I have low self-esteem, worry all the time, all that jazz. I've never thought much of myself. But...I think I look nice, here. I never think I do, but I did here. And that made me so happy.

Got to go. Mum prowling around. Basically, never listen to Sparks. You'll cry.