What is the world coming to?
Today I attended a French lesson at the school-with-attached-sixth-form-centre (a.k.a. The Torture Centre Which Requires Two Whole Extra Weeks Of Study).
I hadn't been for a while. I didn't take paper, or even a pen, as I rightly assumed that our very pregnant teacher would prefer to sit and a) talk to us about how many times a day she pees as a pregnant woman compared to how many times she peed before she became a pregnant woman or b) sleep whilst the rest of us watch a film. The rest of us being four. Numbers have dwindled drastically since last September. She has chased away half the lads we had in the class with all her talk of peeing. Half being exactly one.
So we watched Ma Vie En Rose. For a long time I was very very confused. I thought to myself no no no, this is not Édith Piaf, where is the Parisienne wailing, or maybe it is her, at seven, being a boy but wanting to be a girl... After half an hour, someone put me out of my misery and nudged me, whispered C'est LA Vie En Rose, pas MA Vie...
Only not in French, because it's not that sort of French class.
I loitered suspiciously around the Sixth Form Common Room for a while afterwards, to postpone returning to the drudgery of having nothing to do at home. I pilfered maltesers from poor, unsuspecting randoms, and gloomily thought to myself that there is something very wrong with the world.
The Torture Centre Which Requires Two Whole Extra Weeks Of Study today charged every student who had bothered to turn up £1 for wearing their own clothes. And a green item of clothing, to please the geography buffs, who called it Save The World By Wearing Something Green Day. Or something.
Around me shimmered the most horrendous spectacle. Two Orange Tangerine Things (I assume they were girls) minced around. Wearing horrible green things. The Orange Tangerine Things had no natural hair left on their bodies. Everything was either frizzled to a bleach-blonde, stringy crisp, lasered into non-existence, or plucked into nothingness. There was nothing natural there. They looked around forty-five, both of them, which cannot be, as The Torture Centre Which Requires Two Whole Extra Weeks Of Study does not educate those over 18. And they minced. In an orange, breathy way.
Fuuuuuckeen ellll, one pronounced into the air in a voice resembling closely that of a 90 year old chain smoking man from Stoke. The lid of her lipgloss stuck fast. I am not joking.
The horrendous thing was that they were SURROUNDED by Orange Tangerine Thing worshippers. Who simpered around them and unscrewed the lipgloss lid. Who clung onto their every monosyllabic word, and traipsed around after them, tripping over green shawl things.
What is the world coming to, when Orange Tangerine Things are more popular than a real person, with a real personality, who is capable of a real conversation? Someone who has real skin and real hair? Someone with real feet, and not pointy plastic ones moulded into pointy Barbie heels?
At this point I became so depressed with the state of things that I escaped and went home to face the drudgery of having nothing to do.
I hadn't been for a while. I didn't take paper, or even a pen, as I rightly assumed that our very pregnant teacher would prefer to sit and a) talk to us about how many times a day she pees as a pregnant woman compared to how many times she peed before she became a pregnant woman or b) sleep whilst the rest of us watch a film. The rest of us being four. Numbers have dwindled drastically since last September. She has chased away half the lads we had in the class with all her talk of peeing. Half being exactly one.
So we watched Ma Vie En Rose. For a long time I was very very confused. I thought to myself no no no, this is not Édith Piaf, where is the Parisienne wailing, or maybe it is her, at seven, being a boy but wanting to be a girl... After half an hour, someone put me out of my misery and nudged me, whispered C'est LA Vie En Rose, pas MA Vie...
Only not in French, because it's not that sort of French class.
I loitered suspiciously around the Sixth Form Common Room for a while afterwards, to postpone returning to the drudgery of having nothing to do at home. I pilfered maltesers from poor, unsuspecting randoms, and gloomily thought to myself that there is something very wrong with the world.
The Torture Centre Which Requires Two Whole Extra Weeks Of Study today charged every student who had bothered to turn up £1 for wearing their own clothes. And a green item of clothing, to please the geography buffs, who called it Save The World By Wearing Something Green Day. Or something.
Around me shimmered the most horrendous spectacle. Two Orange Tangerine Things (I assume they were girls) minced around. Wearing horrible green things. The Orange Tangerine Things had no natural hair left on their bodies. Everything was either frizzled to a bleach-blonde, stringy crisp, lasered into non-existence, or plucked into nothingness. There was nothing natural there. They looked around forty-five, both of them, which cannot be, as The Torture Centre Which Requires Two Whole Extra Weeks Of Study does not educate those over 18. And they minced. In an orange, breathy way.
Fuuuuuckeen ellll, one pronounced into the air in a voice resembling closely that of a 90 year old chain smoking man from Stoke. The lid of her lipgloss stuck fast. I am not joking.
The horrendous thing was that they were SURROUNDED by Orange Tangerine Thing worshippers. Who simpered around them and unscrewed the lipgloss lid. Who clung onto their every monosyllabic word, and traipsed around after them, tripping over green shawl things.
What is the world coming to, when Orange Tangerine Things are more popular than a real person, with a real personality, who is capable of a real conversation? Someone who has real skin and real hair? Someone with real feet, and not pointy plastic ones moulded into pointy Barbie heels?
At this point I became so depressed with the state of things that I escaped and went home to face the drudgery of having nothing to do.
kiwiqueen - 13. Jul, 12:44
