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.

A-levels. A-levels. A-levels. Ack. I promise I'm still around. Doctor Who good but not brilliant. Michelle Ryan's character relentlessly irritating. Missing Torchwood. One month till Barrowman, two weeks till end of school.

Still around, still around!

Tomorrow, I will be an adult. To put it mildly; frigging HELL.

For a long time now, ever since last year, I've been saying that I'm freaking out about turning eighteen. And it was true, to a certain extent.

But, just now, I actually said it to myself. Tomorrow, I will be able to say, 'I am eighteen years old.'

And, for the first time, my stomach gave a huge lurch and I felt absolutely astounded by something that I've known for months, and years before this point. Now that it's imminent, it's...well, is it scaring me? I can't really tell.

I know that, tomorrow, I won't wake up feeling any different. The only things that will change will be official facts, records, rights and so on; things that I can't see. Yet, the roundness of the number, the status of it, the weird finality of it, despite the fact I'll be beginning a whole new life relatively soon; it shakes me up. In a good way, I think.

This will be my last birthday at home, and at school; this time next year (ack, I'll be nineteen! Jesus Christ), I'll be living in a whole new place, with entirely new people, celebrating, probably, in an entirely new way. I'll have different habits and friends and living space (and, I expect, hobbies). It's that thought, I think, which is weighing on my mind so much, and the thought which must weigh on a million minds that are the same age as me.

A new life. Not entirely seperate from the one I have now, but pretty damn different. I can't wait, of course I can't wait. But I have an urge to embrace my eighteenth birthday while I can, because by next year, everything that I'm used to will have been uprooted. No, actually, not uprooted, because that implies that it's being forced away from me against my will. Altered, maybe. Shifted away from the norm. Whatever it is, or will be, it'll be different.

I don't feel like an adult; not yet. I shouldn't, really; I'm still dependent on my parents for a huge amount, and even when I start uni I won't be fully capable of forging my own way financially. Wish I could, but practically, it's not possible. Unless we win the lottery.

Yet, tomorrow, while I'm (hopefully) having fun and larking around, I'll be aware of the odd knowledge that, in every official capacity, I'm an adult. I can drink, vote, have a child, get married (bloody hell), buy what I want, etc, etc. Obviously, I'm unlikely to leap on these opportunities just because they're suddenly available (you won't catch me getting married, for instance; nor binge drinking or buying cigarettes), but it strikes me as ridiculous that I'll be an adult. A grown-up.

Yep, there was that stomach leap again. Sleeping tonight is going to be a prolonged experience; I can tell.

ANYWAY. I shouldn't waste time feeling scared by the natural progression of time. Tomorrow should be fun; providing the nice weather holds out, we'll all be venturing out onto the field at lunchtime for a birthday picnic. My friend Ben's promised to make a cake (with no prompting or expectations from me at all - he's lovely!), and later on, I'll join most of Year thirteen for an impromptu dance-off at our local shopping centre. Long story; don't ask. I'll tell tomorrow, if it works out!

Right, have to go. Will definitely post about birthday-times.

Back when I'm an adult!

Amazing what a painted wooden cat can do to your psyche.

I had a bit of a moment, earlier.

Mum and dad are redecorating the kitchen at the moment, and are sort of in the preliminary stages; I walked in earlier to find everything adorning the walls, windowsills or shelves taken away and put somewhere else (including pictures, fridge magnets, the multitude of notices on our noticeboard...), which completely unnerved me; it's been the same for...years!

Anyway, my parents were out so I'd made myself dinner, and while I was doing the washing up (with Billie Holiday's Blue Moon playing from the other room, which kind of amplified the nostalgic atmosphere, for some reason), I looked out of the window and saw a kitchen ornament sitting on top of this little wood burner my dad keeps in the garden; the ornament itself is an odd little wooden cat that sits with its legs dangling, but instead of arms it has a hollowed out red tray, with Free Bird Seed written on it in yellow letters. I think it's meant to stay in the garden, but we've always had it sitting on the top cupboard in the kitchen.

I saw it through the window, and without warning, there was instantly a lump in my throat and my eyes were welling up. Suddenly, despite UCAS notifications and exams and open days and trains and, really, the knowledge that this would happen eventually, it suddenly hit me like some kind of fatal blow; I will leave here.

Not necessarily for a lengthly period of time; not yet, and not permanently. Essentially, a few months at a time. But, the reality smacked me in the face without me expecting it. Some day, relatively soon, I'll walk out of the door and travel to a new home, of sorts, and stay there. I won't wake up in the same bed I've woken up in for seventeen years, I won't have the same homely kitchen, I won't see the same ornaments and the same pictures and the same family mementos that mean nothing to anyone besides us, that I see every day.

And despite the familiarity of this house, despite the fact that I've lived here for so long that nothing is dazzling about it, to any of us; and despite the other fact that I've got months to go before I leave, I suddenly had an impression of how much I'll miss it when I leave.

And it hurt. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it's true nonetheless; it suddenly ached, knowing how much of my life, how much of my home, I'll be leaving behind. All the things I barely notice, and already take for granted. The cold front porch that smells like newsprint, the faded red carpet upstairs, the odd kitchen table that's attached to the wall and only has one leg. Everything.

Even thinking about it now makes that lump come back, and my eyes sting.

Of course I'm looking forward to university. I can't wait to go; it's going to be the most exciting and liberating experience, I can already tell. To start a whole new life nearly from scratch, surrounded by like-minded people in such huge institutions; how is that not exciting? And I don't want to cling to home, and I hope I won't too much. Transitions have to happen; I have to break away eventually. And I will, of course I will.

But it's only hitting me now how hard that could be, at the very start.

School's probably going to be worse, because there's a definite cut-off point. I'll still be able to visit home in university breaks; my bedroom will stay for as long as it needs to (hopefully!), and I'll be welcomed in. But if I ever visited school again and knew that there was no place for me there anymore, that I was officially a "visitor"...it would mess with my head a bit, I think. The baton will have completely passed; we'll all be outsiders.

God.

Argh, I have to stop this before I get incredibly depressed. It's going to happen, my girl! Big changes will happen in the oncoming months and they'll be refreshing, exciting, definitely stressful, and wonderfully new. And once I get to where I end up, I'm sure it'll be incredible. I'll make sure I have the time of my life.

But for now...it aches. Just a little.

Right, must go and seek out cake ingredients. Sorry for melancholy!

I am me.

So, there is an hour and a half left in 2008.

Firstly, I have to say that I'm deeply freaked out that it's the end of the year. It's a complete cliché, but it's gone ridiculously fast. At the end of 2007, 2008 was suddenly gearing up towards the end of the decade; 2007 had been the year; so much had happened, so much had changed, that it seemed impossible that it could be 2008. I was looking forward to Torchwood, was settling into the Sixth Form, and now, BANG! Here I am on December 31st 2008, thinking about the year that's just gone past, and rather than being philosophical and deep about all my experiences, all I can do is scratch my head and think, wow. That was a whole YEAR?

It's been an immensely packed year. I've been more excited than I've ever been before, I've forged friendships that'll remain for years; I can already tell. I've learnt more in school than I ever thought I could before the Sixth Form; things that have helped me find my own way through my education rather than relying on teachers every step of the way. And not only that; what I'm learning and assimilating within my subjects (particularly Politics) is helping me form and shape my own views, my own viewpoint and opinions of issues. I care, more than I ever have.

I've done things that would seem trivial to others, but to me were incredibly important, and have never given me such a rush. Seeing John Barrowman in April with Tara; stupid as it may sound, I've never felt such an adrenaline rush; just being part of that experience, being lost in the crowd, was unbelievably fun.

Pride. Oh, Pride. After last year; the first time I went (when I heard it was a London march, Freema Agyeman and John Barrowman would be there, and Doctor Who would be shown on a big screen), I had such an amazing day, that I never thought anything could top it. How wrong I was! July 4th is going to stick in my mind for years to come; marching through the streets of London, through cheering crowds, blowing a whistle and walking alongside Ian McKellen, feeling part of a movement that truly means something, shouting loud for the whole world to hear, is an experience I'll never, ever forget. It's my heaven; I'd happily do it every day. I'm quite a singular person; I like my own company, and I've never felt compelled to surround myself with people when an evening in on my own would be enough. But, despite that, I seem to do well in crowds; being part of such as large movement of people, all of whom are striving for what you're striving for; everyone celebrating what you're celebrating, is the biggest rush I've ever received.

And of course, China. China had its ups and downs, but I couldn't be more glad that I took the opportunity to go. I'll never experience anything like it again; to be thrown into such a new environment was absolutely bloody terrifying, but it's something everyone should try. Simply by walking down a Chinese street I was incredibly awed that I was so far away from home, and felt so lucky that I had the chance to see the country. The sheer size of it messed with my head; one evening, a few of us congregated in the flat of a friend's Chinese partner, on the twenty-ninth floor looking out over the entire city. I was left breathless by the view, and even more so by the fact that this was one city, in one province, in one country. My perspective was shaken up, and by being in such a new place and doing so many new things (and, making so many new friends), I was able to understand and clarify my own view on my British identity, as well as experiencing a new kind of culture.

We were placed in hotel rooms on the fifth floor, with no lift. Everything was appallingly organised. The food was suspect. I had no end of problems with the language. Often, enough was enough. And you know what? I would do it all again in an instant, without hesitation. It'll be some time before I travel to somewhere truly beyond my life in England, and I'm so glad I managed it now.

There's been highs and lows this year. Plans have been shaken up; my exam results weren't what I'd hoped for, and my work ethic is still in need of a revamp. Still, I have to make sure I don't forget how lucky I am to exist within such a brilliant educational system, and to have the opportunities that so many people don't have. I volunteered for this, after all, and I don't regret it in the least.

So, 2009. Big, BIG year. Massive year. From the small (off to see John Barrowman again!) to the big (interrailing!), to the absolutely fucking huge (leaving home!), it's going to be tough, and it's going to be nerve-wracking.

But it's going to be the most exciting year. I'm taking steps towards my own future, I'm branching off from what I'm used to. It's terrifying, yes, but I'm far from dreading it. I feel like I've forged a more concrete identity for myself, my views and my likes and dislikes and opinions, over this last year; and it's that identity and perspective which will help me through all the tricky transitions in 2009, and make my experiences memorable, singular to me.

My name is Ros. I'm seventeen years old, I snack on cucumber, I can be ruthlessly sceptical and cynical, when I get nervous I chew on my nails and swear like a trooper, and I refuse to let arguments be.

2009, I'm ready for you.

Bring it on.

SORRY.

AM AWFUL. AM TERRIBLE. AM AWFUL, TERRIBLE BLOG ABANDONER.

I am such a hypocrite; how can it have been over a month? It's gone by incredibly quickly.

...actually, having said that, I've been waiting so impatiently for more offers that that Lancaster one seems like a lifetime ago. I've had no more since then and I'm really starting to get antsy, despite the fact I can't do anything to speed the process along; the Universities I've applied to for the course I want to do seem to all be very crowded, or slow at replying. It's also doubly difficult when you're surrounded by friends who applied to Oxford or Cambridge and seem to be steaming through; it's not their fault in the slightest, but Oxbridge is placed on such a high pedestal that you feel left out when others benefit from it. I haven't applied to either; it wouldn't suit me and I had no particular desire to go; it would be nice to know a little more about my academic future, regardless.


Anyway, little has happened since then. Jesus Christ Superstar was done at school for nearly a week; I was on the tech crew and had a huge amount of fun, although Jesus' crucifixion made me cry at least three times. I was at a vantage point where I could see the entire stage, head-on, and the impact of the scene and the lighting was incredible. Plus, Dave, the guy who played Jesus, was spectacular. I was in awe of him for most of the week. Everybody is completely in love with him; he's the nicest guy in the world and incredibly modest. Lovely singing voice, too.


It seems like an age since I was tapping away about Mary Poppins. And it IS; I looked over some old entries just before I started typing this one, and startling immaturity and lack of perspective and consideration for others aside, it seems complete incomprehensible now that I ever did what I did back then; I was annoyed about Ben in History lessons, I gushed insanely over Brokeback Mountain, I actually studied Maths, for God's sake. And that was three or so years ago, just three years. Even now I'm still suffering from a lack of perspective. Three years is nothing; one day in twenty or so years I'll look back on now and wonder how the hell "all that" was a chore. God only knows whether I'll look back with fondness or regret, or both. Where will I be? Married, children? A career, or just a job to make ends meet?

It's all a huge mystery. Only seventeen (nearly eighteen) years, and it feels like an age. Perhaps that's because of the changing qualities of it; I've grown up, and done so many different things, and matured so much through those years, that time holds this special, mysterious quality because I'm viewing it through what's changed in my life, year-to-year. Seventeen years will be nothing, when I'm older. My Mum and Dad remember seventeen years ago as if it was yesterday.

I'm at the stage I always wondered about when I was a kid, or just at the start of secondary school; I am "grown-up", on the verge of leaving school, not wholly independent but have a significant amount of freedom. I've forged an identity for myself as a young adult through what I believe (politically and...socially?), what I read, what I listen to, who I am, rather than being a little girl who follows the crowd more often than not. I listen to jazz, I've marched with Ian McKellen through the streets of London, I'm ruthlessly sceptical and I snack on cucumber. I am my own unique self, now, yet I feel I haven't changed a bit. I feel like a fraud, sometimes; tapping through Politics essays, or having running jokes with well-loved teachers, or talking about social gradualism and paradoxes between authoritarianism and libertarianism; I feel as if I'm about to get found out. It's an odd feeling, and I keep wondering whether it'll last.

Next year is the big one. I say that every time, but this one really is! Here's a lowdown:

- Re-taking German AS oral.
- Modules for A2 exams.
- Receive module results sometime in March.
- My eighteenth birthday.
- My brother's twentieth birthday.
- The school leaver's Ball.
- Official "last" day of school before exams.
- German AS retakes in June, the rest of my A2s, and a Chinese GCSE.
- Off inter-railing for three weeks across Europe.
- Exam results.
- Off I go to university.
- The adventure begins....

Exams aren't important in the grand scheme of things, but they're so imminent and so numerous they're all I can think about at the moment. I'm seeing John Barrowman again, as well, at the end of May. Hurrah!

It's going to be a tough, fascinating year. I'm drinking in everything I can when I'm at school; despite so much to do in the next few months, there's an acute sensation of "lastness"; everything we do is "last"; this is the last Christmas we'll have at school, and there'll be plenty of lasts next year. It's all hotting up, and I'm incredibly nervous, but excited as well. This is what it's all about!

I'd better go; it's nearly eleven and I've got a book to finish. I'm also re-reading The Audacity of Hope, by Barack Obama, on the sly. Whilst idealistic, I do love it; it's very accesible, and despite being written by a man who had so much power even then, it's written in a casual and friendly way that can't help but charm. Barack Obama all over, eh?

Rosby out. I'll try not to leave for so long next time.

SORRY SORRY SORRY!

Marie managed to post from Uganda. I have no excuse, none at all.

ARGH. Lots has happened since I last posted!

- I've gone back to school and am already immersed in Year 13, which is stressful, tiring, busy, and invigorating at the same time.

- After an eternity of dithering and guilt I skipped a lesson to go and get a Stephen Fry book signed, details of which are here at my livejournal. (Yeah, I know.)

- I went to see John Barrowman and Russell T Davies at the Cheltenham Literature Festival, reports of which can be found here and here (complete with audio evidence of me making a tit out of myself in front of both them!). Needless to say, I have rarely squeed so hard in my life. Not in front of John, though. (It was a close one. Dear Lord, his teeth!)

- I went to a Halloween party dressed as Amy Winehouse, complete with, if I may say it myself, an amazing wig and incredibly fiddly eyeliner. It was so fun!

- I finally got my UCAS form sent off, complete with a brilliant reference, to Warwick, York, Durham, Lancaster and Cardiff. No word from any of them as of yet; I've been checking the UCAS website compulsively. It can't be healthy!

- Can I exist as part of the group that wasn't hugely surprised that David Tennant is leaving after the 2009 specials? Granted I was surprised that he announced it now, but the ambiguity of it all convinced me that he'd leave by the time 2010 arrived. I will miss him, hugely, but if I'm honest, the end of 2009 is so far off for me that I'm not really thinking about it that much. By then I will have left school, I will have started Uni, I'll be in a new city. That's so far beyond, for me, that anything included within that time frame remains far off in the distance.

I'm still incredibly disappointed that he and Steven Moffat never got to work together on a regular basis, though. And...gah. When the time comes I will miss him so much as the Doctor. Call it a strange concept, but his leaving will mark, in a way, the end of my childhood.

...yeah, that was a little strange. Ignore that.

- I'm off to see Dylan Moran next Thursday! EEEEE! I'm so excited!


I know it's terrible to condense nearly two months into bullet points, and lots else has happened that pertains to just me, but...oh, I have no excuse. I'm awful. But I am still here, if sporadically. I've had this blog ever since I was fourteen (for shame - I've read those entries and winced many a time), and it shouldn't just dry up.

Have to go now, but I'll be back! In the nice way, rather than Terminator-style!

*shuffles guiltily off*

The play's the thing!

Post 300!

*fanfare*

I can't help but think that there's been some vanished into the vacuum of cyberspace somewhere along the line, but this is it on the blogroll; 300!

And what better way, on this 300th occasion, to review the theatre event of the year, in a slightly stilted and biased way?

So. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The Dane. Mr Tennant. How was it?

In a word, glorious.

In several more words:

I only read Hamlet all the way through very recently, and absolutely loved it, but mere reading obviously never compares to seeing it performed. Seeing it on stage brings the speeches to life; provides meaning for the phrases you don't fully understand, and just gives the play depth and life. This was no exception at all. There wasn't a dull moment from start to finish; it was very slick and fast-moving, and every performance was wonderful.

The set was interesting; the Courtyard Theatre has been extended whilst the main theatre in Stratford is being refurbished, and it still has that studio theatre vibe about it; the stage is very central and almost integral to the audience, and the whole play hits them on a very intimate level. I was on the second-to-back row on the stalls and still felt incredibly involved in the action. The stage was bare for the most part, but the background was made up of tinted mirrors, which opened inwards to allow characters (mainly Cluadius and Polonius as they spied on Hamlet) and sets to move on and off stage.

David Tennant was magnificent. His progression through Hamlet's various emotions was so well played; his first speech, when he was left on stage lamenting his father's death, was heartbreaking; he cries and curls in on himself, and even surrounded by an entire audience, looked so completely alone. Gah. But he soldiered through; the misery leading to terror when his father's ghost confronted him, and "antic disposition" and fear from there on in.

Oh, the antic disposition. I'd read that David brought out the darker points of humour in the play, but I wasn't sure what to expect; he was hilarious! Hilarious with just the right edge of anger to inspire apprehension in the other characters, enough madness to tip him over the edge. As shown by Doctor Who, but proved within a smaller space, he is a brilliant mover; leaping and dancing around the stage and always keeping the audience in suspense as to what he would do next. Having said that, when the madness did tip over the edge, it was terrifying; we've seen angry Doctor millions of times, but Tennant's angry Hamlet is utterly different; chilling, goading, furious, and oh. Scary. The scene between him and his mother is one of the most intense I've ever seen on stage, moving from fear to anger to regret and beyond.

Anyone worrying about David's acting ability needn't; Hamlet is as far from the Doctor as you could reach. Both very flawed characters, excellently acted, but it's easy to differentiate between the two. Having said that, it was lovely (and exciting) to see little mannerisms, David-isms, I suppose, that are occasionally seen in Doctor Who; there was at least one "Well!", rubbing of the neck, and the Converse! Oh yes, and, SO MUCH HAIR-RUFFLING. ALL THE WAY THROUGH. It was glorious to behold.

And, on a completely shallow note, dear Lord he's good-looking. The screen doesn't lie - in fact, I don't think it does him justice; he's lean and angular and agile and lovely and has fantastic hair. I had to supress wriggling in excitement whenever he was on stage because he...oh dear. I'm gushing, aren't I? My Dad was calling it "hero-worship" and although he's wrong...well, he's not entirely wrong.

The other performances were fantastic as well; Patrick Stewart doubled up and played King Hamlet and Claudius (although I was more compelled by King Hamlet, to be honest), Oliver Ford Davies was hilairous as a bumbling, well-meaning, rambling Polonius, and Mariah Gale broke my heart; her progression of feelings was as good as David's; from sweetness to fear to utter dispair. Poor thing.

Oh, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were brilliant, too; they were exactly as I imagined when I read the play, and played the fools with aplomb, it was great. I'm itching to read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, now; I've heard great things, and would love to see their backstory!

Whew. Terrible review, I know, too much Tennant and not enough of everything else. But it was all wonderful; scrapping, realistic-fights, typically teenage behaviour, atmospheric lights and sounds; the techie in me was infatuated with the whole thing. My parents were incredibly impressed; my dad went to see the full Kenneth Branagh Hamlet when he was younger, and was blown away by that; nothing has beaten it so far, but he loved this one.

Ow, my fingers.

School tomorrow! I have to go in this afternoon, as there's a rehearsal of Jesus Christ Superstar that, as stage manager, I should really see, as I haven't been to any so far.

Have borrowed a shiny new copy of Brideshead Revisited from the library; I'm the first one to have it! Yay!

Right, had better go. Talk soon!

AS results

English Lit - A
Politics - A
Theatre Studies - C
German - C

I wasn't in the least bit happy when I first saw the results, and I'm still not, really, but I've had time to think things over and calm down, and it could have been a lot worse.

I'm very pleased with my As for English and Politics; they're my two best subjects and the ones I'm keen on continuing to University level. I knew I'd messed up German, but didn't think I'd done that badly, and I'm just pissed off about Drama; I knew that my performance mark wasn't the greatest, but I REALLY thought I'd make up for it in the written papers.

Still, I've been planning on giving Drama for ages now, so that's out of the window and gone. I'll have to retake German, I think. Urgh.

Right, had better go; I'm typing this on a computer at the theatre because my internet is still broken, and the "n" key keeps sticking. Farewell!

In which I do not fulfill promises.

Well, I never wrote about Pride London. Nor Doctor Who. I know it's stupid, but I feel very ashamed that I haven't; Pride was a sensational experience and so much better than I'd anticipated. It's not complete apathy that I haven't posted about them; I've been incredibly busy doing school work, even up until the end of term, and preparing for my school trip to China. I should've found the time, though. I was determined not to write about Pride without photos; they tell half the story and Lucy took some brilliant ones.

I WILL tell all, I promise. Just not now; I'm leaving to go across the world tomorrow for two weeks, and I've been packing and fussing and buying too much to think about much else.

(Also, that accident I had on Wednesday has had me distracted; I've never hurt myself that badly before and was seriously scared; even now my shoulder is really hurting and I'm on painkillers. I'm fine, really, but it was a scary few hours that were all new experiences, and it was a very inconvenient time to happen. Again, I'll go into detail soon enough. Probably once I've stopped yelling "Ow!" every time I try and open a door/reach for something/pick up anything, with my right arm.)

God, I sound depressing and moany. Sorry. I feel like my creative juices have run a bit dry. Still, am SO excited; term ended today, for good, and I'm off to China tomorrow, for fifteen days! Eeeeee! We're going to Kunming, in the west, which is fairly near Burma and Vietnam. We were originally slated to go to Beijing, but the Olympics ensured that no one else was let into the city after a certain date. Grr. Still, it doesn't matter, we're seeing the real China. We're staying in a hotel and studying at Kunming University. I've spent all evening packing my suitcase, my room a complete tip. Mum has been flitting frantically in and out, offering further medical supplies. She's been twice as paranoid as usual since I hurt myself, which is sweet, but deeply annoying at the same time. I suppose it's better than her not caring at all.

RIGHT. Sleep. Not leaving until the afternoon, but I should get some rest.

Stories coming soon. All I'll say is this; we marched alongside Ian McKellen. And I mean alongside; inches away from him for about an hour, following his lead, being watched by thousands of people. It was inspirational beyond all belief and had us reeling with the brilliance of it. Nudge me mercilessly when I get back and don't talk about it.

Right, I won't be around until August 2nd. Off to widen my horizons!

Rosby out. I'll take pictures. Farewell!

As I may have mentioned, this year in English we're studying The Wife of Bath from The Canterbury Tales. We haven't really started yet; we're doing some background work on the events of the time, like the Black Death, and John Wyclif and his contribution to the Reformation, etc. Today, though, Ms Reid gave us copies of the prologue to the tales. I've flicked through, and...what?

No, seriously. WHAT?

I knew how it was written, but dear Lord, I thought that I'd have SOME clue of the meaning, just by looking at it. It looks like a bizarre mixture of English, French, and Swedish, and I can't fathom it out at all. And I thought Pride and Prejudice was difficult; this is going to stretch my brain somewhat. Can't wait until we start studying it properly.

Joe's off to Glastonbury tomorrow. He will be where Amy Winehouse is, whilst I won't be. I've never been more jealous of him in my life.

Still soldiering on through War and Peace; I'm on page 403 now, but I'm saving it for the eleven hour plane journey to China next month. I figured it will eat up a large chunk of time. I love it; seeing the play was fantastic, so it's incredibly interesting to see the proper backstory to all the characters I fell in love with, as well as others who weren't included on the stage. Still, certain parts feel a little off; possibly the translation. Nevertheless, I like it.

Also, I have fallen head over heels in love with Billie Holiday, and have been listening to Blue Moon and God Bless the Child for several days. GAGH. How did I not listen to her before now? She is sensational, and I can understand the influence she had on Amy Winehouse; both on the music, and the reckless pattern of her life.

Mama may have, Papa may have, but God bless the child who's got his own...

Pride London soon! Still not fully arranged, but significant movements have been made and it should be finalised within the next few days. Mr Barrowman is in Canada at the moment, so he will be absent, but I really don't care. Just to be part of it, to be members of that crowd; it'll be sensational. Better dig out my Pride whistle!

Right.

Is it time for Doctor Who yet?

It's only Tuesday? Really? Damn it.

*retreats back into cave and waits*

As I'm going back to school tomorrow, for the first time in what feels like ages, I decided to have a massive clearout of the school-y section of my storage space in my bedroom, as it was getting to the point where there was such a huge pile-up of both junk and important things, that I couldn't locate the latter when I needed it. I've finally found that copy of Antigone that I thought I'd lost. Anyway, there's currently a massive black bag filled with out-of-date forms, practise exam papers, and books from GCSE year, of all things.

I realised several things amidst my massive tidy:

• Like my Dad, my nostalgia gets in the way too much. I retain schoolbooks that are fairly useless to me now (such as History exercise books on Russia and Nazi Germany, from last year), because I did so much work that I can't bear to get rid of them. Plus, I keep convincing myself that they'll be useful. All the junk in this bedroom that is completely useless fits that description, and those reasons. Our attic is the same. We've lived in this house for sixteen years, and our entire life history is stored up in the roof; old LPs, books from when Joe and I were kids, ancient computers, boxes of Christmas decorations, etc, etc. Mum has been nagging Dad to clear it out for years, but he never has. I think me and my Dad are one of the same when it comes to clearouts. We're useless at them.

• I have done so much work over the past three years at school and, without meaning to boast, I am SO proud of myself. Especially this year; I started studying Politics without any real knowledge of what it would entail, and now I have a year's worth of work stuffed into an overflowing folder; work that I never would have understood a year ago, and work that I'm so proud that I did. Similarly with English; I had to delve into the strata of poems and books and notes that have accumalated over the past couple of years, and I love what I've done. From Keats to Donne, from Death of a Salesman to Paradise Lost, it's all been brilliant. Chaucer and Measure for Measure now. I can't wait!

• Oh my God, Oh my God, OH MY GOD, this room is an appalling mess. To the naked eye, it looks fine; could do with a hoover and some heavy-duty dusting, but it seems fine. Delve underneath the service and everything turns to crap. I'm going to need a bulldozer to rid myself of some of this. I started tidying my school stuff, and it brought to light how desperately the rest of it needs a clean. I need a long-haul tidying session. I may have to dedicate next weekend to cleaning. (Having said that, you should have seen Tara's room when I was last round there. And my brother's room. I'm almost tempted to take a picture of it; ever since he came back from University, it's been like Dresden in there. Urgh. It's smaller than mine, and has a little less storage space, but still.)

I need to hoover, and dust, and spray, and clear everything OUT. Preferably when everyone else is out of the house.

I'll stick to the school-refuse for now. But I'll kick some bedroom arse next week. Or possibly over various nights this week, if I don't have too much homework.

Rosby out, with a massive black bag of bad Science lesson memories, and terrible handwriting, dancing to the Glenn Miller CD that's playing in the background.

P.S. Also, an entire shelf is dedicated to University prospectuses. There are dozens of them. HELP ME. PANIC.

I'm torn between the trivial and the important.

Hmm.

Oh, hell. DOCTOR WHO!

Criticisms first:

• Was I the only one who missed half of the dialogue? Music and rapid-talking and under-enunciation seemed rife this episode.
• Donna seemed a lot less consequential this time round, and a lot less strong which, although it was because she was near her family, became rather grating after a while.
• Her mother annoys the living hell out of me - Jackie was motherly badgering, but she pulled it off as natural and endearing; Donna's mum seems to contain virtually no redeeming features so far.
• Slightly dodgy acting from Rattigan, although he managed to keep the accent in place.
• Heavy on the melodrama; the waxing and waning fumes, the news alerts, the countdown-unexpectedly-reversed-at-the-last-mintue; it tended to get very samey after a while.
• Sontarans = unimpressive. In my view, anyway; the kiddies probably loved them.

This was very much a reference episode; we already had the Sontarans, and it was lovely to hear word of the Brig, and a brief mention of Captain Jack, and The Empty Child!

Oh. And, when Rose appeared, I may or may not have leapt about a foot in the air. Metaphorically, at least. I'm seriously looking forward to seeing how this arc is going to play out; the subtle smatterings of Rose so far seem less obvious that the arcs we've had in the last two series, and I'm twitching to see how it all fits together. Soon!

Overall, I liked it; it was nice to see an explanation for why the Sontarans didn't just nuke Earth and run away cackling, the moments between Martha and her clone managed to mix bizarre and touching and somehow make it work, and the Doctor was his usual, technobabbling, hair-ruffly self. I loved his attitudes to both Donna and Martha; both very different, but respectful towards both of them when it came to their actions within the episode. And, in turn, their reactions to him; when Donna thwacked him on the arm before sitting by him and Martha, it just worked, without needing words.

Next week's looks...deeply, deeply strange. Russell T Davies has said that this one is likely to cause fan revolt, which just makes me want to see it more; there is nothing funnier than watching Who fans rant, frankly. I mean, I love the show as much as the first person, but I don't take it seriously enough to get enraged when events don't turn my way. It's a children's show, for God's sake; if the target audience is just enjoying it for what it is, why can't the fans? I feel the same about obsessive Harry Potter fans. There again, I tend to avoid them more often than not; they can get scary sometimes.

So, to sum up, roll on next week. And the week after, and the weeks after, until we reach the epic multi-character fest, which must be deeply risky for everyone involved. I cannot wait. If Ianto and Gwen get a look in, my neighbours have to acquire some earplugs. Bweeee!

Anyway, I mentioned the trivial and the important; the important being, of course, the recent election. I'm hesistant to get too politically passionate in here, really. I wrote last night's post in a slightly angry state of mind, which I still am when I think of Boris Johnson; but I really can't politically rant when I, in no way, am astute in recent matters as I make myself out to be. I have been following the election, and my politics classes have helped me take a further grasp on my political stance within the options we have, but I'd never confess to knowing everything, and assuming my view is the most prominent.

I'll be honest, I'm still not entirely sure where I stand. All I know is, I am not Conservative. Yet, for all my scepticism of the media and efforts not to be influenced, I still seem to take notice of the individual rather than the party in question; yesterday I had an extensive debate with a guy called John in my yeargroup, in the Common Room just before last period; when it was happening, I thought we were arguing Liberalism vs. Conservatism. It was only afterwards that I realised we'd only covered David Cameron, who is only a tiny part of the whole establishment.

My honest opinion; I don't like him. I think that he is intelligent, but that he lacks substance and embodies the archetypical traits of the leading politician to the extreme; point-scoring, Punch and Judy politics, and advocating his party as not a good party, but always better than Labour. Everything he says seems to have an underlying thread of bitterness, and when he makes speeches, he doesn't say anything. He makes bold statements that aren't fully explored. I know that's a common trait, I do that, but I am not running a major political party and attempting to get the chance to run the country. Long story short; he irks me more than Gordon Brown does, and I can't help but feel that the Conservative majority this time around is indicative of events still to come. Even if it is due to disillusionment with Labour, and Gordon Brown, support appears to be growing. Which, in my book, isn't good, but my book isn't the Bible.

I know a lot. I know a lot more about politics than I used to. But I don't know enough, yet. I'm not entirely sure what point I'm trying to make here. Basically that I'm going to full-on rant and rave until I know the full ins and outs.

(I say that, but I did just get het up about Cameron, didn't I?)

RIGHT. Sorry for those random trains of thought. I was going to talk about Martin Horwood's visit to my school, but my coherency levels are lacking tonight, I'm not sure why. Exhaustion, possibly. I'm off on study leave on Friday; it won't be a moment too soon. Still, at least I have Monday off.

Talk more soon.

And, before I forget to ask...what do you think?

Well, bollocks. Apparently Mr Tennant isn't appearing at the Literature Festival anymore. I should've known it was too good to be true. I'm a little miffed, but I really don't mind all that much; Hamlet! I cannot wait until September. It'll be the perfect end to the summer holidays. My Dad says that he's envious of me, because when I read (and see) Hamlet, it'll be an incredible literary experience that I won't forget. I'm inclined to believe him; so much of the play is already iconic and the depth of language, and imagery, that I've come across so far, is wonderful.

I always hoped to study Hamlet at school; we did Othello this year, whilst the other two classes did King Lear and Hamlet. Shame, but Othello is fantastic to study as well (although it was hard for me to regard Desdemona in anything other than a 21st century regard - which, as a result, made me very frustrated with her. I suppose that's a sign of effective writing!), and I'm sure David will play Hamlet brilliantly.

So, yes. Pity about the festival, but I'll go and see the others that wing their way over. To his own schedule be true.

ANYWAY. One day I'll write a post which culminates in a promise I intend to keep. Eep! I left the Barrowman Show hanging a bit last time.

Interval arrived, largely uneventful; Tara and I stuffed ourselves with overly-expensive theatre ice cream and conversed with the ladies next to us ("You enjoying it so far?" "OH GOD, YES! He is *amazing*, isn't he?" You may be surprised at which of the two pairs of us said that latter sentence. It was so sweet!)

At this point, despite the fact that the previous, stomach-churning excitement had abated now that we'd seen the man, I started to get seriously jittery, as I'd heard from lots of other fans that John tended to begin the second act with Feelin' Good, sung backstage at first. Feelin' Good; my favourite song sung by him, EVER, and the one that always makes me melt and renders me pretty much useless for a while. So, for the last five minutes, I had to control my impatient twitching for the second half to start. The word sad has been mentioned previously, right?

The lights dimmed, the band appeared again to enourmous cheers (John Barrowman's boys - they really were fantastic; funky and talented and very funny. John had a running joke throughout the show that his drummer was a closeted gay and spent half the time flirting with him, telling him that by the end of the show he'd be "out and proud" - along, according to him, with the rest of the audience. But I digress.), the chords I recognised from my mp3 player, from youtube, from everywhere, rang out, and...

"Birds flying high, you know how I feel..."

Christ. I went insane. Silently, of course. I think my excitement was conveyed through my shaking Tara's arm repeatedly. And let me tell you, the sight of John Barrowman striding through the smoke, singing one of my favourite songs in the world, is one I won't forget easily. I'm planning on recalling it during the imminent exam season, when I get completely demoralised. I've already had to, actually. But more on that later.

I'm not sure of the exact order of the songs from then on, to be honest. At one point during the second half he introduced another "friend" on stage; another dummy with a spangly Elvis costume over it; cue John bursting into hysterics, because the dummy had its back to audience, and, "I can't turn it round. The guys backstage, they've done something to it - there are children in the audience!" Turns out the crew had put a massive black tube in the pants area to, er, flesh out the dummy. John retrieved it, still giggling, and threw it to a member of the band, saying, "I think this belongs to you!"

I didn't recognise the suit, myself, but it turns out it was a costume John wore on his Dancing on Ice days. He waxed lyrical about how he practised, wore the costumes, had so much fun..."and then I got voted off." He's still bitter about that (and somebody called Robin Cousins who was responsible, apparently), but he hammed it up for the audience and made a few pointed (and bitchy) comments about toupees. Hee! He then sang, I couldn't believe this, The Road to Amarillo, claiming that he'd had so much fun dancing it he wanted to sing it himself. At this point, my admiration of him quadrupled because somehow, inexplicably, John Barrowman can sing that dirge of a song and make it good! Seriously! I actually found myself enjoying it, instead of wanting to beat myself over the head with something heavy, when I usually hear it.

There was audience participation, as well, as we all sang along and joined in the "Sha-la-la"s in the middle (amping it up when John told us, "That was shit!" in the instrumental). There was also a brilliant moment when John sang completely the wrong words at the wrong point and almost lost it, but recovered quickly. It's gratifying to know that professionals make mistakes. Plus, he is so cute when he laughs. He told us, at the end, that he'd been on tour for two weeks and that was the best he'd heard it done - hurrah!

About halfway through the second half, having hinted at it earlier, he brought on Daniel Boys, one of the Joseph finalists from Any Dream Will Do. I'll admit, I wasn't particularly keen on the idea (I hate those programmes and wanted to see more of John, to be honest), but Daniel was fantastic; he sang three songs (I am a terrible person and can't remember what they were, but one was a Josh Groban song and one was from Hercules, to my recollection) and was adorable with the crowd; "Woo!"ing back whenever he got cheers, and being lovely and modest. Plus, he's a brilliant singer; he's in Avenue Q in the West End, and I can see why he's doing so well. John was incredibly complimentary of him; bringing him back on stage for a massive hug and more audience appreciation.

(And before you ask, yes, there were jokes about how nice it must be to have Daniel's hand up...there. Mind in the gutter, that bloke. Mind you, nothing less than what we were expecting. There was a little stand-off with the band over some misplaced Preparation H as well; "Who's got piles?!" He was adorably filthy-minded all evening, and we loved it!)

Following Daniel Boys, there was a groovy little session with the band, who he introduced one at a time whilst they all did their little riffs on their instruments (the man who played percussion was brilliant - I wish I could remember his name. *shame*), and he danced along. The band were lovely all evening; so talented and on the ball, and shamelessly flirty and teasing with John. John called them his family, and you could really see why; they all seemed really close, and it must've been a shame for the tour to end.

John then performed Moonriver, which was absolutely beautiful, and then the song Please Remember Me, which was dedicated to Sandie Gill, his partner's sister, who died of brain cancer a few years ago. The whole theatre went absolutely silent to hear his story; her husband had already died of cancer a few years previously, and her and Scott's brother, in a horrible irony, couldn't help her, despite being one of the top brain surgeons in the country. Sandie exceeded the life expectancy given to her by her doctor, but sensed that she didn't have long; the night before she died, she rang up everyone she knew, and when she spoke to John, she said, "Please take care of my brother." She died the next mornings, and the song was for her; what John imagined she wanted to say to her kids. The story, and the way he told it and sang it, makes me choke up just writing about it, and had both him and the audience in tears by the time he'd finished. It's so rare to see John so vulnerable like that, and it really affected everyone watching. To the girl who shouted, "We're with you, John!", that was so lovely, and he definitely appreciated it.

There was a lovely little bit of business with a hanky that was thrown on stage; John gave a massive comedy nose blow then handed it back to her, saying, "Thank you very much. Here, six hundred quid on e-bay." Which led to possibly my favourite exchange of the night.

"It's close to my heart now."
"Close to your heart? My bogies?"

My memory of the evening gets a bit muddled around this point, because at some point there was a flurry of presents being put onto the stage, but I'm sure it was before Please Remember Me, or maybe in the first half. Anyway, one lady put some roses on the stage, which led to another, and another, until the front of the stage was heaped with gifts, leaving John pretty bemused. I now understand why his ego gets a little out of hand sometimes; when you've got women throwing roses and cards and knickers at you (and yes, knickers; there was a whole bunch chucked on stage, to his delight), then your self-esteem is bound to give a big leap.

The woman sat next to Tara deposited a bottle of alcohol of some kind, and John leaned down and said "Give us a kiss!", and she, to our great amusement, lay several smackers on him that left him reeling backwards. I had to admire her; I'd never have the nerve to do that! She sounded a little embarassed afterwards, saying, "I know you've got Scott..." to which he replied, with a grin, "Well...never say never!" She practically bounced to her seat, and we spent a considerable amount of time later, in the scrum at the exit, telling her quite how envious we were of her.

Whew. Fingers hurting again, but I'm damned if I'm letting this span over three entries. Anyway, the following exchange preluded his next song.

John: Now, Portsmouth, I'm gonna tell you a little secret.
Audience: Oooooo!
Random Audience Member: *yells something*
John: What was that?
RAM: YOU'RE STRAIGHT!

Whereupon John cracked the hell up for about a minute and a half. It was glorious! Then he came back, with:

"I remember when I was first getting into the business; I'd meet with all these executives who'd be whispering, he can't be gay, he just can't be! I thought, back then, when I'm forty-five, I'm definitely gonna come out as straight and freak everyone out!"

Following that, he sang the song I won't send roses - which, according to Scott, is him down to a tee, which surprised us all, really. He seemed quite embarassed singing it, but it was a beautiful performance and you could tell that he meant it, despite having performed it dozens of times before. I have to admit, even though the song was about him and Scott, halfway through I turned to whisper at Tara, "Jack and Ianto!" because to my ears, the song seemed to scarily fit them. This is what comes of being involved in fandom for a while...

After that (and raucous applause), John donned a sparkly jacket, and I instantly knew what was coming; yep, I am what I am, and oh, it was so good. That song has gone down in folklore as John's signature song, and it was sensational. He put his all into it, and the audience were on their feet by the time he was done. He went off, then came back with an encore about thirty seconds later. He thanked everyone; the stage crew, the band, the organisers, and us (which...well, you can imagine the "you're welcome!" we supplied him with).

He ended by getting on his soapbox a little and talking about advancing music programmes in schools (the speech's effect was slightly marred by him saying "I know you care about sport, here in Portsmouth...", and that comment being greeted by a massive laugh), then sang the song Heaven, which he said represented what he had with Scott, and what his parents have after thirty-odd years of marriage (we, promptly, melted into puddles for the fiftieth time that evening), and finally ended with That's Life - the absolute perfect, cheeky, brilliant song to end with which, again, had the audience on their feet and giving him their all. He stayed on stage for a few minutes, thanking everyone through their applause and shaking hands with the front row (lucky bastards) before he finally, finally, left the stage.

So. There it was. The best evening I've possibly ever spent; I don't know about Tara, but I'm convinced the whole thing gave me some kind of drug-effect. I was on a massive high from it until halfway through the next day, whereupon I arrived back in Cheltenham after yet another long and rainy journey, and just went...sort of flat. Later that evening I went to see Dara O'Briain with some friends, something I'd been looking forward to for ages, and I just couldn't get into it. Is that a normal feeling? I felt I was still recovering; I wasn't in the right mindset. Plus, he wasn't as funny as I'd been expecting, and we were being bugged by several drunk, Welsh hecklers just down the row. But, another digression.

The journey back to Pokesdown from the Guildhall was a bit fraught; we ended up in a completely empty, freezing station, bashing a vending machine to make it dispense some goods before hopping onto a train set for Bournemouth that turned out to take forever to get back - still, it gave us a chance to have several long conversations about writing, slash, and relationships. And sluts we know and love. And also hate.

(Also, to the man who stared at me as I swore repeatedly at the vending machine when it refused to accept my money; I was hyper! I needed food! Give me some credit! The damn thing hated me, although it suited Tara fine.)

I left Pokesdown at eleven thirty, in the pouring rain, but frankly not in a tearing rush this time. It was horrible saying goodbye to Tara again, but we've promised to meet for Pride London on July 5th, so we've got that to look forward. Going to the Barrowman concert could never have been half as fun as it was without her; her excitement was infectious, and she also helped calm me down when I got a little too into it. I'll miss her, but we speak on the phone a lot, and hopefully she'll wing her way over here to read this.

*waves*

So...that's it. I went straight back to school, and straight away, the shit has hit the exam-fan. Remember last year's exam woes? Well, they're making an unwelcome return, and have returned in bulk rather than gradually. Ack, it's not good. I have a German oral AS next Thursday, off on study leave the following Friday, and my first exam is on May 16th.

However evil GCSEs are, AS-levels are doubly evil. I have three-hour exams with tiny breaks in between them; exam boards clearly think we are either robots, ambidextrous, or just incapable of being exhausted. Perhaps they've been watching Skins and think we're running on Ecstasy. Bastards. Have they ever tried writing about the intricacies of electoral reform and constitutional sources for three hours? It's fascinating stuff, sure, but three hours in the Gym doing that? Yuck. Still, it has to be done.

RIGHT. MUST GO. My fingers hurt now, but I'm glad I wrote all that up. Hopefully it wasn't too boring. It was...so good. I can't begin to describe how much I love that man, and how good he is onstage. He is, as I always suspected, spectacular. Here's hoping for a Pride London reappearance.

Better go.

Rosby out, feelin' good. I'll keep you posted on the exams of doom.

P.S. How on earth did I live seventeen years without discovering this song until now? It's insane, wild, bewildering..and utterly brilliant.

And many more...

Today, I am seventeen years old.

I started writing this blog when I was about fourteen years and three months old.

*blinks a little*

I wish I could have looked forward and marvelled about the years afterwards. So much seems to have changed, yet if you look back, most has remained the same. I'm still at school. Still good at the same things, bad at the same things. I'm just that bit more mature and have a more realistic and practical view on the world.

My provisional driving license has arrived, and soon I'll be getting lessons, so if you hear about a car pile-up on the M5 caused by someone with an L plate, that may be me. The whole thing is freaking me out slightly, but it's another step on the road to adulthood. Dad's been looking forward to this for years; I'll finally be able to give him and his best friend a lift home from their annual piss-up at the Postlip Beer Festival. I told him he shouldn't get his hopes up for this year. July 2009, perhaps. God, by that time I will have left school! This is all piling on, people.

(And I am exceedingly thankful that my birthday will never be on Easter Sunday again; nowhere is open, all my friends are with their families, and none of the banks are open until Tuesday. It's probably just as well I'm not part of a religious family; it must be very odd sharing a birthday with the supposed rebirth of Jesus.)

(And is it wrong, blasphemous, and disrespectful that I keep referring to him as "Jeebus" in ordinary conversation? Hmm.)

Anyway, there is chocolate that needs to be eaten, driving documents to be stored and films that need to be watched. God speed, people!

Seventeen-year-old Rosby out. In a car, soon. Watch this space.

Ahem.

I may have just yelled, "CONTACT ME, YOU BLOODY WASTE OF AIR!" at my laptop screen.

Oh dear. This woman is making me lose it. But, come on! My work experience is in question, here; I've e-mailed her and phoned her multiple times and SHE WILL NOT REPLY! Even school's had trouble contacting her.

GAGH.

Sorry.

If I don't post for a while, it means I'm a) Dying from stress, b) Already dead from stress, c) Watching Torchwood, or d) All three. Torchwood negates the other two, see. It's an odd but effective antidote.

(I'm doing Drama for AS. We perform in nine days. Did I mention dying of stress?)

Re: My previous post.

I may or may not have used a stream of swearwords, pounded the laptop in frustration, then started crying.

Fuck it; what the hell is University going to be like if I can't cope with this?

Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. I have a large Pride and Prejudice essay to finish, a house to comb for Drama props, countless other things to prepare for, and that pesky internet is luring me in with its countless gems of wonder.

As is John Barrowman's autobiography, which I bought earlier today.

God. I should have a stronger will than this. Why on earth did Torchwood have to start in the midst of a schoolwork pile-up? I feel like my head's about to explode.

I keep saying to myself that if I manage to meet him in April, I'll chide him for exacerbating my procrastination. But that's shite, really, because I'll just end up stammering and may accidentally hug him without saying anything.

MUST GET BACK TO IT.

(Also, the "z" key on my keyboard isn't working particularly well. I AM DOING A PRIDE AND PREJUDICE ESSAY. This does not bode well.)

To quote Marie, this blog is also dying. It's obvious. The thing is...I can't really permanently stop writing in it. It serves as an archive to what I now call my formative years (even though they were about three years ago), and I think if I keep writing, I'll be able to look back and observe a maturity progression. I'm already doing that, anyway; I keep looking back at various entries and wondering how the hell people could stand reading them.

Well, it's Christmas Eve; the festive season has completely passed me by due to long hours at work and mountains of homework from school. I've noticed it, of course, (how could you not?), but it hasn't affected me, at all. Not the slightest, smallest twinge of excitement at all. Not anymore.

This time was bound to come, of course. I'm still feeling pangs of loss, though. Christmas was such a exciting time of my life for about fourteen years, and the last two have seen me mature to the point where I can see through it. But, I'll never feel those twinges again. Dad's told me that Christmas is fun when you have young kids, but who's to say I'll have children? I haven't exactly warmed to the idea so far.

This is maturity. This is approaching adulthood. When I was young, I thought being an adult would feel grand and fine and important; from what I'm experiencing, the beginning of adulthoodm seems to be comprised of contemplation; "...so that's how it is."

And so it goes.

Joe's back. He came home a few days ago. I never did tell him how much I missed him, and I doubt I will. We're the typical siblings; we'll probably remain stoic to the very end. I've barely seen him, but it's lovely to have him home. We suspect he'll spend New Year up in Liverpool, with his new friends. Either that, or stay home and get blind drunk with some of his old ones still in Cheltenham. Either way, there'll be booze involved.

I'm tempted to a full year round-up, even though I still have a week left. Anything could happen. But...this has been the year. It's had everything. GCSEs, writer's course, gay pride, new and old televisual obsessions, sixth form, new friends, old friends, politics, love sickness, love confessions (well, it wasn't love, but I confessed its equivalent nonetheless. Also had it confessed to me.), Stewart, Colbert, Barrowman, Aygeman, Norton...

I grew up this year. Not completely, absolutely not completely. I still have a large streak of childishness left in me; anyone who was at Diana's party last night can tell you that. Doesn't everyone? No one ever completely grows up. But last year, I was on the cusp; I've moved forward off the cusp about a hundred miles. At least, that's how I feel. It's terrifying, and a little sad when I think about what I've left behind, but at the same time it's exhilarating and unknown and liberating.

The adventure's beginning. Next year I turn seventeen. I'll drive, I'll do AS exams, I'll (hopefully) go to China, I'll visit universities, I'll choose universities. I will, at some point, say the hardest goodbye to someone I think I've ever had to say. But again, that's good, in a way; we need to be unhappy sometimes, to grow up. Isn't it all part of the process?

Plus, I'll do all the less important things as well; I'll keep beating people up and being beaten up at Tae Kwon Do, I'll be glued to the telly, I'll eat my weight in cucumber and biscuits, I'll keep teching and attempting to understand why the tech crew eat chocolate pudding from Farmfoods. I'll have fun. It all balances out.

I'm sorry if I'm rambling, but I've been thinking about this all day. It's been brought on by the Christmas fandango surrounding everyone, I think.

Better go. The radiator is becoming cold, and I ought to be sociable and finish watching Pirates with my parents. Plus, I need to put Joe's present under the tree.

Have a good Christmas, everyone. Enjoy yourselves, and enjoy the new year! (Watch Mr Jools Holland, if you can.)

Rosby, almost-an-adult-but-not-quite, signing off for now. Talk to you soon.