It's sufficiently close to exams for me to start updating again.
Remember when our lives were interesting enough to write paragraphs about every day?
And by "life", I mean those hours spent on public transport, because school was generally too boring to discuss. After all, what was so interesting about the relationships between us in English classes? Or the way the date was always written on the board (in French/German if you had Maths in Room 12)? The reassuring weight of your bag, the feel of your locker key, the change you carried in your pocket and counted hurriedly while sneaking glances out the window to see if the bus was coming?
The way one shop was better for Millions, the other better for crisps? The shadow your skirt cast on the concrete on sunny days? The tree outside the school gates, the weeping willow we walked through to get to the Sixth Form block, the way you had to pretend to be doing work in the Computer Room, the way you felt when they announced we could only print forty pages per term, the day Child Development coursework was due in, the posters on the wall in Earth Science, Miss Ali who got married and wanted us all to be Physicists?
Food & Tech. Graphics. History. Art. Miss Ali telling us we are stardust, we are stardust, and the way our heads would jerk up from resting on our elbows when the bell rang. Exams. God. I'm gonna fail. What did you get? My parents will kill me.
There was so much to learn. Who needs Wikipedia. Dr Bradshaw and something about a night of long knives that we would have paid attention to if we weren't discussing weekend plans.
We ran when we were late for class. The echoes in the empty hallway. The teachers, mouths half-open in admonishment. Catching glances as we passed other doors. Bursting in, apologising, bag hitting the desk, the horrible scrape of the seats in the labs. Out of breath but electric.
Were we ever tired, back then?
And by "life", I mean those hours spent on public transport, because school was generally too boring to discuss. After all, what was so interesting about the relationships between us in English classes? Or the way the date was always written on the board (in French/German if you had Maths in Room 12)? The reassuring weight of your bag, the feel of your locker key, the change you carried in your pocket and counted hurriedly while sneaking glances out the window to see if the bus was coming?
The way one shop was better for Millions, the other better for crisps? The shadow your skirt cast on the concrete on sunny days? The tree outside the school gates, the weeping willow we walked through to get to the Sixth Form block, the way you had to pretend to be doing work in the Computer Room, the way you felt when they announced we could only print forty pages per term, the day Child Development coursework was due in, the posters on the wall in Earth Science, Miss Ali who got married and wanted us all to be Physicists?
Food & Tech. Graphics. History. Art. Miss Ali telling us we are stardust, we are stardust, and the way our heads would jerk up from resting on our elbows when the bell rang. Exams. God. I'm gonna fail. What did you get? My parents will kill me.
There was so much to learn. Who needs Wikipedia. Dr Bradshaw and something about a night of long knives that we would have paid attention to if we weren't discussing weekend plans.
We ran when we were late for class. The echoes in the empty hallway. The teachers, mouths half-open in admonishment. Catching glances as we passed other doors. Bursting in, apologising, bag hitting the desk, the horrible scrape of the seats in the labs. Out of breath but electric.
Were we ever tired, back then?