Teenage Kicks!

Before you guys read this, it is only a draft and we are planning on doing anothother week, we just want to know if its funny! Please be nice :)

Monday]
The alarm blasts pop music in your face at a ridiculous hour and colossal volume. This is cheesy music you didn't even know you had on your iPod, by the way. You roll over to whack the snooze bar, but the music keeps playing. You press random buttons to get it to shut up but you only end up increasing the volume. Eventually you throw it across the room, get up and step on it, iPod smashes into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor. You sigh, bend down and sweep up a few bits of glass. Mum's going to love you this morning. You look at the other clock because the house is suspiciously quiet. Turns out you set the alarm EARLY, it is only 6.00!
You tumble back into bed, just to close your eyes, not sleep, for the hour before you have to get up. However, you drift off to sleep again and, without an alarm, you are woken by Mum coming into your room.

MUM: Darling, are you coming down for breakfast, I - What on earth? ARE YOU NOT UP YET? IT IS TEN TO EIGHT, AND WE HAVE TO LEAVE IN TEN MINUTES! And what has happened to your iPod? How the HECK have you SMASHED IT? Well I'M not buying you a new one, now just GET UP!

You are left open mouthed as she stomps off down the stairs. You can't protest, she's on the Monday Morning Warpath, and there's no stopping her. For the second time today you get out of bed, stabbing your foot on a small piece of glass, and hop across to the bathroom, where you speed wash and brush your teeth. We will come to the bathroom issues later. You rush back into your room, fish out your uniform which you, er, forgot to hang up, yeah, that's it, and is now lying crumpled and creased at the back of your wardrobe, pull it on, take three attempts at doing up your shirt buttons, stuff some pencils and a notepad in your rucksack for the geography trip, and hurry out of your room, in the process of which another piece of iPod becomes embedded in your heel, which you ignore. By the time you hobble downstairs it is three minutes to eight, and Mum's running round like a headless chicken because Charlotte's lost her book bag, and Matthew is attempting to rugby tackle Alex, who is casually reading his book.

You go to put some bread in the toaster but Mum sweeps past and grabs it out of your hands saying that there's no time for toast today, and that you can have a banana in the car. Joy.

When you get to the form room, ten minutes late and soaking wet because it tipped down just as you got out of the car, Mr Brown stares at you over his glasses (The Level Three Mr B Glare, over the glasses with all three chins), and you flop down in your seat to decant your bags. Your name is ticked off the register, and you all troop off to assembly. Everyone files in, Miss West and Ms Morley making angry signals at you to be quiet because you are having a good old moan to Amy about Mum and her annoyingness. You close your mouth but immediately start whispering again the minute you're through the door.

Just as everyone's got comfy, you are commanded to stand as the headmistress arrives, you stand, you sit, you stand for a hymn, you sit for a speech, you stand for another hymn, you sit for a prayer, you stand as the headmistress and her entourage leaves, you sit and wait 'in silence to allow for reflection', as if, a huge babble of noise breaks out and the teachers have to bellow at you to get you to shut up, and then, finally, you leave. Private school, what jolly good fun.

*****

When you get out of assembly, you go to your form room, grab your rucksack and head out to the sports hall to get on the coach. Ms Teighann is there, ticking everyone's names off a large register and handing out school packed lunches. The worst thing about the lunch is the sandwich, why does school always assume that we just LOVE egg and tuna? I mean, separately, fine, but together? There is a line, teenage sufferers, there is a boundary. Second on the list is the paper bag. It always contains a LONG baguette, so it cannot easily be rolled up and stored in a rucksack, so you have to carry it, which uses up effort, and as teenagers we are naturally lazy so this is not something we are particularly keen on. Then there's the handles, spindly, paper things that are expected to carry around the weight of your lunch, your emergency sandwich and crisps from home, your water bottle, the entire day's rubbish and Spider Man, who was found lurking in the depths of your bag, indicating that Matthew used it last. The handles will invariably snap at some point during the day, causing the entire contents of the bag to spew out over the floor, and prompting confused questions as to why you have a Spider Man action figure in your lunch bag.

Today, you are being shipped off to the South Coast, which means a five hour round trip, traffic included, and only three hours actually spent at your destination. During these three hours, you will get cold, wet and windswept, and that's just in the morning.

First of all, there is a dismal hour spent sitting on rocks attempting to hold down your sheets in the coastal wind, perhaps a clipboard would have been a pgood idea, doing exercises that no one but the teacher understands. Eventually, Ms Teighann realises that you are getting no work done, so she gathers you around her for a 'fun lesson'. Unfortunately, Ms Teighann's voice cannot be heard above the gale, so you give up and take shelter behind some big boulders. Then it starts to rain. And rain. And rain. Eventually, Ms Teighann gives in and let's you go back to the centre for lunch. But since the bus driver's obviously got bored and gone off for a cigarette, you have to walk. By the time you get back, you are soaked through, shivering, and the cut in your foot from the iPod incident is really starting to hurt. You tell Ms Teighann but all she does is give you a plaster. As if that's going to help.

Typically, after a few minutes the sun comes out, so you are all ushered outside to eat, despite the fact that it's December, damp and freezing cold. Overall, lunch is the best part of your day so far, you think, as you perch on a damp wall watching Bella slowly being surrounded by a circle of pigeons and seagulls. Soon, a full grown crow joins the party, and that's when you run, leaving Bella to handle the bird-fest on her own. The birds begin to squawk threateningly, and Bea starts to panic, flapping around as if she is one of them. A crowd gathers to watch, giggling as she is engulfed. What happens next involves several bird watchers, the Fire Brigade and a cat.

After lunch, when Bella has been calmed down and attended to by the the Paramedic, you all wander down to the beach to do an 'exciting experiment', which turns out to be chucking a dog biscuit in the sea, and seeing how far down the beach it gets carried. What actually happens, is you lose the biscuit (or eat it, in Lizzie's case, she's always been a bit wierd), all play chase the waves, and when an unexpected large one arrives (say nothing, teens), it crashes over you and everyone gets drenched.









While she is in the loo, you take your chance and offload all the stones from your bag into hers, and sprint off to the coach.

It takes you THREE HOURS to get back. Well, half and hour of that is spent at school, the bus driver pretty much parked, but looking sullen and refusing to let anyone off until he is parked in his favourite spot, currently occupied by another bus. Ms Teighann spends the journey shouting at everyone to be quiet (so she can go to sleep), and everyone gets just a little noisier each time. The driver gives you all a lecture through the microphone about not eating on the bus and did you know how long it takes to clean this thing every night, to which Tamara replies "Well don't be a bus driver then, thicko!" and chucks a packet of Quavers at him. He looks down to open the crisps, yeah I know, hypocrites, the lot of them, and fails to notice the traffic jam ahead. He looks up and brakes sharply but this does not prevent him from crunching slowly into the car in front. This leads to a very long hour on the side of the motorway, the two drivers arguing about whose fault it was and who's vehicle was more important, while you all shiver on the coach because the heating's gone off. Eventually, the bus driver offers the man a fiv pound note and half a Yorkie Bar, but the driver says an insurance claim would be much more satisfactory, thank you very much, scribbles down the license plate, and drives off. Nicely done sir.


When you get dropped off home by Sarah's family, you find Mum and Dad standing by the door, dressed in all their finery, and next to them stands Roaz, the Croatian babysitter, which means only one thing : Date Night. An evening of fluffy, slushy, lovey doves mush for Mum and Dad, while you get stuck at home eating cabbage soup. Yippee.

Roaz hasn't babysat for about four years, back when you where nine and went to bed at eight on the dot, Alex was twelve, Matthew was three and Charlotte was just one. Brace yourselves, teens.

You sit down to dinner at half past five, half an hour after you stuffed your face on the coach. This turns out to be a positive, because Roaz has prepared a 'healthily experimental dinner'. Roaz dishes out ladlefuls of what looks like chicken floating in a thin grey sauce. Suede and potato that have obviously been through the blender are added to the plate, along with a slice of cucumber for garnish. Normal. Roaz carefully explains every aspect of the meal to you, but forgets to mention the whole peppercorns which are hidden in the potato, as you find out when you bite into one, and as a result have to drink an entire litre of milk and spend ten minutes with your face under the tap while Roaz tries to force feed Charlotte with artichoke juice.

Next comes pudding. A large bowl of banana mash mixed with what could be guacamole and chocolate sprinkles is put on the table. Roaz spoons it out into bowls and pours blueberry compote on it until the mash is floating. Lovely.

At six o'clock Charlotte goes to bed. You and Alex hide upstairs to 'do homework', while Matthew is stuck downstairs playing Poker with Roaz, which is probably illegal. At eight, Roaz comes into your room and tells you it's time for bed. You protest, because you haven't finished your homework yet and it's only eight o'clock, but she won't budge. So you get into bed and fake sleep until she goes downstairs, but by nine you are seriously hungry. You go to the side of your bed, and pull out your emergency bread bag. You flick on the lamp, and carefully balance the bread on the top. In the meantime, you grab your science book and aim to finish that homework you were set, er, three weeks ago, but have managed to put off till now. But your original thought of, oh, it'll take no time at all, it's easy, is soon put off by the fact that you check your targets list and see the seventeen points that have to be covered. Oh dear. You open your textbook, and attempt to flick smoothly to the contents page, frustrated because you can't find it. Because there isn't one. A textbook, a TEXTBOOK without a contents page. That is THE most annoying thing. In the world. Don't they take things like this into account when they make textbooks? Don't they think of all the teens out there who spend their evenings frantically searching through their book for the pages they need, for that project they haven't done THAT HAS TO BE IN TOMORROW? Evidently not.

In your slightly crazy after dinner mood swing, you find yourself writing out an incredibly a angry letter to Heaven knows who, with the vague notion that you would throw it onto the postbox, and it would magically find it's way to the editor in chief of textbooks UK, or whatever, and in your silent rant mode, you forget about both your project and the lightbulb toast experiment.

Suddenly, a violent, awful noise fills your ears. You fall off your chair, get up quickly, and realise what you've done. You swear, loudly, though this is nicely masked by the smoke alarm. You'd forgotten Mum had fitted one to your room after the whole Blu-Tac incident, and now you've burnt your toast. In a panic, you grab the lamp, and the toast, and fling them out of the window to hide evidence. Then you join the rest of the family rushing down the stairs.

*****

You're all shivering out on the pavement when the Fire Brigade finally emerge. They tell you that it was a false alarm, but they hand over the lamp to Roaz, quietly explaining something in her ear, and pointing towards Matthew's window. This is the time at which the parentals arrive. Mum lets out a small screech of horror, and rushes over to the now whimpering Roaz, while Dad just stands by the car looking like a demented goldfish. This is not what you had in mind when you planned your midnight snack.

[Tuesday Done]
Tuesday

After hauling yourself up out of bed for the second time this week,
munching through your slightly charred toast, and having a full on
fight with your brother about who gets the last of the orange juice
(Congratulations if you won, if not, begin attending karate classes,
it helps a lot), you are faced with another major morning issue. The
bathroom.



The bathroom. A phrase of terror for all families, especially in the
morning. If you are the kind of person who lives in a house with two or
more other people, with just one bathroom, possibly two, then this
subject is definitely relevant to you, listen up please. If you have a
large family, but make up for this in bathroom numbers, your house
possibly boasting two or three, then this still may be a sore subject
in your family. However, if you are the only child of doting parents,
with your own personal bathroom and walk in shower, you are one of the
lucky ones, and please read on and discover the misery and terror that
constitutes family bathrooms.



When battling the bathroom debacle, it is essential to remain organised
and alert. Perhaps pin a note on the door the night before, stating
that "Bethan gets the bathroom first, deal with it siblings", or maybe
take the organised route, and use the bathroom BEFORE breakfast, that
way you won't have to step into a cold, already wet shower, or tread in
puddles of water all over the floor, don't you just hate that? Ugh.



We don't understand the way parents see fit not to have a lock on the
bathroom door. If they did have a lock on the door it would be much
nicer to everyone and avoid that embarrassment when you walk in on
someone in the shower - help us all.



But no, you couldn't possibly have a lock on the door, a lock, even the
notion! Not since the time Little Cousin Charlie locked himself in
there and wouldn't come out. Gerald, Next Door Gerald, had to come and
squeeze through the window to unlock the door from the inside because
he was the only one thin enough and owed Mum a favour anyway. Nobody
will ever be sure what happened in that bathroom, but Next Door Gerald
came out looking ill and paler than usual and doesn't talk to Mum
anymore. Although to be honest, Little Cousin Charlie scares everyone.


Some of our fellow teenage sufferers will be out there thinking 'What?
This isn't how it works, we have a lock, thank goodness, we have a
running order, we don't leave notes on the door, what?'

These few will be from the families who live in the household with a
mother who doesn't need to worry about cousins and neighbours and
bathrooms and doors, because her children are all perfectly well
trained, thank you very much. She will have an excellent bathroom
system, her bathrooms will be clean, whitewashed, Febreezed, modern
versions of hotel loos. Don't judge, there is reason behind this
slightly strange statement. You see, Mother will probably have a
BATHROOM, and a bathroom. There is a difference. The BATHROOM contains
a loo, sink, and a BATH. However the bathroom is just a loo and sink,
and has pretty orchids and smooth tiles and a modern mirror. This is
the guest bathroom, also to be used when one just needs the loo,
therefore freeing up the BATHROOM for people who want a shower or bath.
In the morning, people are assigned a bathroom depending on whether
they wish to have a shower or not, and the same thing happens in the
evening. Each bathroom door has a lock, yes mothers, a LOCK. This is a
system that must be employed in homes all over the world, to help
prevent family embarrassment, arguments, war and death.



Glad we got that sorted out. Onwards to the car everyone.





*****



After the morning, all you really need is to curl up in the car with
your iPod on all the way to school. But no, after you have 'been a
darling' and helped Mum load all her bags, your brothers and sister's
bags, your brothers and sister, and yourself into the people carrier (a
helpful but disgusting creation), while your older brother lounges
casually on the front seat and the little ones make rude noises and
laugh, Mum is determined that you are going to have a conversation with
her this morning, of all days.



MUM: So, what have you got at school today sweetheart?

YOU: Um, lessons. Why?

MUM: Just wanting to keep up with the little'uns, you know, keep down
wit da yoot, yeah?

*Mum shuffles about in her seat trying to be 'cool'*

YOU: Mum no, just, just no! You are not cool. You are a mother
therefore you will never be cool.

MUM: Hey, I was cool, y'know, back in da day, yeah?

*Mum switches on the radio and starts hand jiving to a tune from, like,
the Stone Age*



Before you can do anything about this, you pull up outside school and
Mum is in full, glorious, dancing, hand jiving view of all your
friends, and your enemies. Older brother swiftly sneaks out of the car
and swaggers over to join his year eleven cronies, but you aren't quick
enough and are treated to Mum's parting shot of "Have a healthy, happy
day mon 'petit cheuffler'!"

How many times do we have to tell them that we are NOT their little
cabbage flowers?



*****





So, you you turn away quickly, determined to run as fast as you can
from Mum, who begins to slowly ease out of the school gates, waving at
complete strangers and now evidently pretending to be Adele singing an
emotional number at Wembley, with all the added facial expressions, I
know, terrifying.

You join up with your pack of friends, wander through school corridors
to reach your form room, passing loopy Mrs Blake and lovely Mrs N on
the way. You reach your form room and flop down on a desk, or possibly
on top of a cupboard, to gossip with your friends until ten past.



Mr Brown arrives, sporting his new hat, a leather, Crocodile Dundee-
esque creation, sits down at his computer to take the register and has
to kick it a few times to heave it into life. Half the form are at the
Early Morning Fitness Squad (I mean why, just why?), while the rest of
you are slightly more lively than you were yesterday, which annoys him,
and he shouts. Then he takes the register, calling everyone by the silly
names he has invented for you, and the angry moment is gone. You give up
on the wholesome form time activities and lounge around, gossiping with
your prefect and teasing Mr B about his hat.



Soon you are on our way to your first lesson, French, what terrific
joy. You storm through vocab, exercises and general torture, before
moving on to Chemistry, ugh ugh ugh. The slightly eclectic and odd
teacher, Dr McDonald (Burger and fries if you please!) begins to waffle
about displacementy iron powder mixed copper ionic corrosive bonding or
whatever, and you begin to drift into a peaceful daydream about
whichever totally gorge celebrity/guy you are currently lusting over,
until horror! You are asked a question. You peer at your notes,
desperately hoping that this will bring an answer to your brain. You
eventually settle with : "Um, well, it's difficult to explain, um, I...
I have this thing where I can't explain stuff, in, in words, I..." At
this point Dr FastFood gives up, and scribbles a C beside your name.
Turns out he was quizzing the class as part of your half term report.
Whoops.



Finally, breaktime arrives. Immediately there is the usual stampede for
food, despite the fact that it is a school, there will be enough for
everyone. But no, we must get there first, we must trample everyone in
our path, the food, THE FOOD!!



When you eventually emerge from the crush, battered and bruised, you
are in need of some fun. A small gaggle of you gallop joyfully down a
corridor, terrifying some poor little Year Sevens as you round a
corner. Poor things. They don't know what kind of world they have just
enrolled at. Mrs Blake is startled as you hurtle past, but smiles and
shakes her head as if this is the kind of thing that she did during her
school days, too. Yeah, actually, that's believable.




*****



However, as the bell rings, all happy thoughts of galloping and fun are
diminished from your mind. How could you have forgotten? A dark cloud
suddenly appears over you, and you begin to tremble. Because now, we're
lessons, and the, the dreaded, evil, terrible, awful MATHS TEST!



Everyone else seems to have revised a lot more than you, you suddenly
feel unprepared and in a way, as though you could be savaged by a pack
of numbers, or perhaps times tables at every turn? Does everyone feel
like that, or, is it, no, just me I guess, just me. Right, well, moving
on...



So you sit down at the desk, there it is. The paper looks thick, terribly thick,
how many topics were there? You flop into your seat. Scary Mrs Ryans takes the
register, mutters 'skivers' at absent Billy and Lucy's names, and tells
you to begin. As you advance through the test, you become more jittery
and on edge as the questions become more obscure. You find yourself
thinking, when did we learn this? This was not on the checklist, this
isn't even anything to do with algebra, this is a line graph, with a
wiggly line, and it is NOTHING TO DO WITH OUR TOPIC! So you struggle on
through, convinced that this is the cruellest and most terrifying
test you have ever taken, and leave the room feeling thoroughly
depressed by your morning so far. Luckily, English is a 'silent
reading' lesson, which evidently means that Mr Simons has a headache
and doesn't want to deal with a lively and chatty class. Fair play to
him.



*****



After school, Mum picks you and Alex up, and you bags the front seat
this time. Mum waves at all your friends, who look slightly bemused,
and pulls away singing loudly to an 80s pop track, Tainted something or
other.



When you arrive home, you find Dad, on the phone, umming and ahhing,
his head actually IN the oven. He's fiddling with something and jumps
violently as Matthew pokes him hello.

DAD: Oh! Hello everyone. Yup, thanks that will be great, bye.

*Puts the phone down and turns to Mum*

DAD: Blooming oven's blown up. The emergency repairmen are coming out in the
morning but I guess we'll have to find some other means of dinner
today.

ALEX: Burger King.

MUM: No, Alexander, we are not common, we are not having a meal in a
Burger King on the side of the road. What about a lovely family
resteraunt!

YOU: Nooo! Why are you obsessed with family togetherness? Why can't we
have a BK, pleeease?



But Mum uses her veto power and gets her way. So half an hour later there
you all are, five out of six of you really not wanting to be there, but
Mum strides confidently ahead, asking for a table for six, if you
please. When lead to your table, you find that you have been placed in the
'Kiddi Korner', what joy. An area full of snotty, food smotherd
children screaming and fighting, yippee.



So you sit down and order, and then Matthew and Charlotte go off to play
with some children from another table. You sit in silence. Suddenly, a
piercing scream and before you know what is happening, Charlotte is full
on wrestling a boy at least twice her size, while Matthew deals with
his brother. It's amazing what kids can do when they're cross. At one
point, Charlotte manages to head but this kid right in the gentleman's
region, and he squeals, and runs to his mum, who then gets cross and
goes to scold Charlotte. But Mum won't have that. Nuh uh, not her
little girl. She marches towards the scene, scoops up Charlie and
begins a large argument with the other mother, who is clutching her own
weeping eight year old.



In the middle of this, the food arrives, and Alex tucks into his
spaghetti bolognese while Dad looks on blankly. Meanwhile you are struggling with a lemonade can, having got your tongue stuck inside it. You eventually get it out, and succeed in lacerating your taste buds. After the waiter has tended to the enormous amount of blood, he notices the child stampede in the corner, and sighs. He is evidently used to it. The waiter looks
On for a while, then makes a bold decision to enter the fray. The mothers
make use of him, each of them thrusting their child at him before
engaging in a full on fight. After the barman, manager and three other
waiters are involved, you are asked very politely to leave.



You get a Burger King on the way home.

Wednesday]
After another hectic morning involving porridge, a chair and an entire bottle of Vanish, you realise too late that you are supposed to be taking a friend to school. You hurtle down the stairs, tripping over the cat on the way, and yell to Mum, who reacts in a surprisingly calm manner as she carefully detaches Charlotte from the kitchen table leg where she's just spent half an hour being a tree. Believe it or not, you were probably like that once, too. Then Mum looks at the clock, and panic reins. You grab all the bags, dump them in the car and take Matthew by the rucksack, push him into his car seat and help him do up his seatbelt. Mum plonks Charlotte in her seat while you run up the stairs and hammer on Alex's door. When he emerges, you are almost suffocated by the cloud of cologne that follows him everywhere, and you notice that his hair is a little more spiked than usual, his tie a little looser around his neck. When you question him, he simply says, "We're picking Tasha up today, aren't we?" Oh great. So your brother is now in love with your best friend. This is all you need. You tell him to hurry up or be late picking up Tasha, and he bolts down the stairs, grabs his bag and sits in the BACK seat! He wants to sit next to Natasha. Just to spite him, you go and slump down next to him, giving him a sickly sweet smile as he realises what you've done.

Thursday

You wake up to the sound of Jessie J being blasted out of you phone, (Another mystery tune, that you had no idea you had!) as your IPod no longer exists. Your mum refuses to buy you a new one, and insists that you buy it yourself. How, you get no pocket money?! It takes you around five minutes to find your phone, which is buried inside your pillowcase, from illegal night texting. No, really Mum, I was doing my homework. By the time you find it, you feel like you have done a two hour workout, you hair now has some new edition dreadlocks, and all members of your family are banging on your bedroom door, telling you to shut up, it’s only 6.00. I know, 6.00?! But you are confused as to why you got up at 6.00, when you look at your bedside table. There is a giant, fluorescent sticky note placed on a glass of water, which has obviously been knocked over in the recent Jessie J episode, and is no longer legible. It is smudged beyond belief. You start panicking, what were you meant to remember? Was there a test? Is it sports day? After a few more minutes of mindless panic, you give up, and head for the shower.

Again, you are faced with the same situation. Bright, bold post-it note pinned to the shower curtain. But, Alex the clean, freak has obviously beaten you there. It is, as the other one was, smudged beyond belief. You sigh, and hope it doesn’t turn out like the last time this happened, and you ended up missing the coach to London, resulting in a very embarrassing car chase up the M3. No more said. Well, at least the coach driver had insurance. Who knew people carriers could cause so much damage? Particularly to your reputation (Not that you have one, but it could be worsened)

After you get out the shower, you fight past the clouds of stinking deodorant, coming out from underneath Alex’s door, and go to your room, only to find you have no school shirt, and you are going to have to go all the way downstairs to get another one. Unfortunately you can’t find one, so you end up borrowing Alex’s only white shirt, and are threatened with a machete of eBay if you get it dirty. You then lope downstairs, dwarfed and borrower like in his shirt, and discover that Charlotte has been using your school shoes, and they need polishing.

Now fellow teenage sufferer, you will know what a challenge this is, especially for the average teenager. The last time you attempted this, you put blue shoe polish on brown shoes, resulting in a purple mush. So, this time, you check the packaging before, and the only brown shoe polish you can find (I mean really, who asks for brown school shoes?) is in one of those really stiff tins, that you have to use several different brushes for. Now, the mother, OCD as she is, has a little box, filled full of around 20 labelled brushes, with different coloured stickers on, indicating which polish it should be used for. You pick up the nearest brush, which also has a mini one attached to it (What’s that for??) and begin the arduous task of opening the tin. First you try the push and pull method (NO!) which gets you absolutely no where, so you grab hold of the metal bits on the side, and succeed in bending them. You slam the tin down in frustration, the metal bit comes of, and the tin explodes. Everywhere. You are busy scraping the sticky paste of the floor, your shoes, and the table, when your mother comes in. To put it lightly, she explodes. After you have sat her down, and brushed the shoe polish out of her hair, offered to pay for the damage to the floor (Which now looks like a giant mud patch) she relaxes enough to start complaining about the lack of toast (for the second time this week you have to resort to Shreddies, vile things) and notice the time. She then abruptly shoves you out of the door, and demands that you walk. ‘You need to spend more time outside!’

Unfortunately, so wasn’t as observant as to notice the rain. After you have walked a few roads closer to school, it starts hailing. You are joined by Sarah, who has also been denied a car lift by her mother. She stops. She stares. You look at what she is wearing. It’s a mufti day. THAT is what you were supposed to remember. You then looks down, and discover that Alex’s shirt is covered in brown shoe polish, which is now bleeding, due to the hailstones. You take refuge in a bus shelter, and attempt to sort out an outfit. Sarah has a mustard coloured, knitted jumper, with kangaroos on, which she is meant to be dropping of to Oxfam on the way home. She kindly lends you it, and you take of your skirt, and hope that your holey, half-see through tights will pass for leggings. As for shoes, well, your school ones are drying on the radiator at home, and you are wearing Charlotte’s ‘Lelli Kelly’ trainers, as yours are no longer the right size (I mean really, they are from year 6!)

After a lecture at the school gates about the ‘leggings’ you discover you have missed assembly (Joy!) You then discover that it is French, and make your way to the ‘language lab’ which is basically just an IT room, with language posters on the walls. It turns out that the teacher is away and he is replaced with a supply teacher, who looks about two years older than you, and has no clue what she is even doing there. She attempts to organise the rampaging class, who, upon seeing that it is a supply teacher, have immediately rushed to sit next to their friends. At the back of the classroom, there is a mini scrum, because Bonnie is sitting next to Evangeline, and not Poppy. At the front of the classroom, the two ‘geeks’ of the year, are sitting patiently, have already logged in to their computers, and are busy marking their homework. Behind them, Sue is munching away at a packet of Jaffa Cakes, oblivious to the fact that her computer is smoking, due to the fact the chocolate has melted and seeped through the keyboard.

The poor supply teacher eventually manages to regain control of the class, for her to call the register. You drift off in a daydream, only to be abruptly awoken by Sarah, who is prodding you violently. The whole class is staring at you, and you notice that you are on the floor, along with the keyboard and the entire contents of your school bag. The teacher then calls out your name, evidently not the first time, sees you on the floor, and gives you a look that says ‘I am a Barbie princess, mummy and daddy have got me this far in life, and I won’t have you ruining it for me!’

When you come back from the loo half way through the lesson, the whole class is in rebellion. A crisp packet flies past your head as you enter and Sue is sobbing in the corner -they are evidently hers. Karaoke is up on the smart board, and everyone is belting out the words, as loudly as possible. A computer at the back is on the floor, and wires are hanging out in very odd places! An IT technician is cowering underneath a desk, while a group of your friends are galloping manically around him, singing the Morecambe and Wise theme tune, which half the class look utterly shocked about! The supply teacher is also cowering, as much as she can when she is tied to the chair with Sellotape (Who knew it could be that useful!?)

You are just about to join your friends, dancing and galloping at the back of the classroom, when the deputy head, who happens to be showing some parents around, walks in. You all freeze, mid boogie, and stare, open mouthed at the situation. You decide to take this in to your own hands, and begin to explain what is happening to the confused group at the door.

YOU: Basically, the cover teacher has got us to do this new, interactive type of learning thingy ma-bob, where you have to rob a bank, using French, ‘cause we are doing money and stuff….and we made it more realistic, and we decided to do a night club scene at the same time, with the food, and music and stuff, ‘cause we are doing hobbies and food, and yeah…basically its really cool…and…yeah!

DEPUTY HEAD: *glares at you, then smiles sweetly at parents* Yes, it’s a new technique we are trying out, and it’s going surprisingly well, the students are loving it! If you could just wait outside, I need to give these students a notice…..?

Parents leave

My fellow teenage sufferer, I will not disclose the conversation that followed, as I am sure that you can already guess what happened. After you had untied the teacher, ran for a glass of water for the Deputy Head, and explained to the other teachers who came crowding in as soon as they heard the shouts, what exactly was happening, you end up in a detention at lunch, which is rather, shall we say tense?

You come in with your tray of food, and sit down at a small desk in the corner of the deputy heads room. You sit in silence, facing the deputy head, and rocking slightly in the spinny office chair. She glares. And glares some more. Then she starts the rant. It goes on for a while, and you start dreaming about alpacas, until you notice her glaring some more. ‘Did you hear what I said??’ She demands. ‘Um, yeah..I erm, sorry?!’ She glares, and you start your lunch, while she is busy typing on her computer. It is baked beans, but you’ll feel guilty if you don’t eat them, so you start struggling through. You eat half of them, and start feeling a little queasy, not helped by the fact that the Deputy Head is chewing on gum, very, very loudly. You take to pushing them around your plate, making a bean tsunami.

Unfortunately, you get a bit enthusiastic, and the Deputy Head ends up with a bean face, while the jacket potato goes rolling through the open door and down the corridor. A gaggle of year 7 students manage to trip over it, falling in to the staffroom, where a screaming match ensues, and papers fly out of the door. You look over, and the Deputy Head is sitting on her chair, wiping beans off her face. You decide that now might be a good time to leave, and stand up, only to get your legs caught in the chair, it spins round frantically, while your arms flail about, and you are catapulted out of the office, and end up wheeling yourself in to the staffroom, where there are several crying year 7’s sitting on some chairs, while Mrs N is trying to arrange her entire teacher planner.

After an hour in the heads office, explaining why several year7’s are suffering from shock, and why the Deputy Head has had to go home to change her outfit, you escape in time for last lesson. Art. You enter the art room, and attempt to find a desk that is not physically impaired or has paint smeared all over it by the A- level artists. Mr Desandio, the notoriously eccentric and camp teacher floats in, and announces that you will be doing life drawing. Next lesson. Phew! He then perches on the edge of your desk, and gives you some ‘simple pictures to copy’. You spend the next hour slaving away over a replica of the Mona-Lisa, who now has an unexplained moustache. Your freakily arty friend gets out her ‘special art pencils’ and insists that you use them. She attempts to teach you to use these strange objects of graphite, which have names like ‘5B’ and ‘2F’. Apparently there is not a 20C or a 5D. Just as you feel like this is all beyond you, your teacher skips back in room, and proclaims that you have all drawn ‘beauuuutifulll drrrrawingsss!’ He then pulls you up in front of the class, and explains what we will be focusing on next lesson. Your friends, Sally and Sarah laugh from the back of the class, while he prattles on about the ‘lovely undualtionsssss’ and ‘currrrvyyyy linnnnessssss’ that you have. You start to blush, as he has started stroking your face, in explanation, and you suddenly feel rather hot, the jumper you borrowed is a very thick knit, after all. You are about to take it off, when you remember the stained shirt underneath. You decide against it, and just as you are walking back to your place, the most embarrassing thing happens. You faint. Like, proper swoony fainting. Right in to the arms of Mr Desandio. I know, cringe.

You wake up in the Nurses office, and immediately throw up, all over the nurse. Again, cringe. You fall back asleep, and when you next wake up, your mother is sobbing over you, and repeatedly stroking your face. You glance over to the door, where your entire class are peering in, and struggling not to laugh. The nurse (Who now has a completely new outfit on) shoos them away, and attempts to calm your mother, who screams and yells in her face ‘Calm down??? My daughter is dying, and you are telling me to CALM DOWN???!’ Once the nurse has explained to her that you are only suffering from mild heat exhaustion, and had simply over heated from the jumper you were wearing, the mother does calm down, enough to notice that the shirt you are wearing doesn’t belong to you, and it is covered in shoe polish. However, she must be feeling mildly sympathetic, as she doesn’t comment, but the level and shape of her eyebrows make up for it, as they practically disappear underneath her hair. The nurse then hands you an ice-pack, tells you to put it on to your head, and tells your mother that all you need is a nice rest. Your mother, to your extreme embarrassment, picks you up, sweeps past the gaggle of year 7’s on the stairs and carries you out to the car park, where you see all your friends have come out to watch, and they laugh their heads off as you head back home.

As soon as you get home, your mum demands you get in to your pyjamas. You are feeling absolutely fine now, but your mum insists. You go to your room, only to find Charlotte and her bratty friend Margo with your pyjama top and bottoms around their heads, pretending to be Batman. You yell for mum, and for once she comes to your rescue, sweeping the kids out the way, and handing you…a banana. You try to explain to her that a) You don’t like bananas and that b) When Sally is ill, her mum gives her ice-cream. Sadly your mother doesn’t listen, and to your horror, she suggests, no, sorry, demands, an early night. I am sure, my fellow teenage sufferer, that you have partaken in many a battle against the dreaded early night, and know the outcome by now. Your mum confiscates all technology from your room, steals the chocolate stash from under your bed, and departs with a parting shot of ‘You can have an early night tomorrow as well, for that behaviour young lady!’ You lie still for around 30 seconds, and then switch your bedside light on. The mother has obviously been waiting for this, as she pounces on you from outside the door. ‘BACK TO BED!’ She snarls. Mothers can get surprisingly vicious!

You give up, and feeling quite exhausted by that battle, you do fall asleep. The mother has won again. However, she is obviously feeling guilty, because she comes back in to your room at around 8.00, hands you the chocolate stash, crawls in to your bed, and starts crying. She blubs for around half an hour, with intervals of ‘I’m ssooo sorry...sweetie!’ Meanwhile, you are sitting up in bed, and are scoffing the chocolate down at a hasty pace. Your mum gets up, stares at the empty chocolate tub, and, all remorse forgotten, she starts yelling again. You manage to steer her out of the room, and dump her on Alex, who lets out a yell of pain, as she smothers him with a hug, and sits him down for a ‘Mummy talk’. Apparently we don’t communicate enough. Who can blame us, really!?

Friday

After yesterday’s early night, you wake up feeling fresh, alert and ready too go. You decide to have a shower, and check the time, as it is suspiciously dark. It is 4.30 am. You growl decisively, and punch your teddy in the stomach (I mean really, has anyone really got the heart to chuck them out, nothing to do with the fact you can’t sleep without it?) You turn over, and are later awakened by a shrill voice in your ear. Yes, It’s the mother. You have a headache, and the image of your half-dressed mother swims slowly in to focus. You scream and dive under the covers. Why couldn’t it have been the top half lacking clothes? You are actually and physically feeling dead, so you mumble that you are ‘ill’. Unfortunatley the ever sympathetic mother tells you to ‘get a move on’, and that she is ‘not falling for that one again’.

You get dressed, and on the 5th attempt, you get the right shirt on, along with a pair of tights, without holes. Half falling, half galloping you go downsatairs, and into the kitchen, and pour yourself a glass of orange juice, aiming spectacularly, and getting half of it down your shirt. You then notice that a stray cat from next door Gerald’s is on the worktop, and has been sick on the floor. You bend down, armed with a paper towel, and your mother enters the kitchen. ‘Oh, sweetie, you are ill! Oh, my petit poi, don’t worry, we’ll get you back in to bed’. With a swift move she hurds you up the stairs, and yells to Alex to clean the mess up, and upon seeing what ‘the mess’ is, he glares at you, and walks out the door, the cat closely in tow.

You crawl slowly back in to bed, glad of the extra lie in, and snuggle into the duvet, making a little burrow (I thank you!) However you are soon dragged out of bed, and placed in the bathroom, and told to ‘wash yourself free of germs’. You get into the shower, and are immediately drenched with a torrent of icy water. Alex has obviously used all the hot water up. Again. When boys are 10 there is no need to have any level of self hygiene, but when they hit 14…..they have washing rituals. I mean, who needs or even wants two showers a day? You attempt to then brush your teeth, but the minty toothpaste has been used up, and replaced with the sage flavoured one (Seriously? Sage?) which is basically run out, and rock solid. You try to squeeze it out, and nothing happens, so you take the cap of, and squeeze it again. It bursts, and you are covered in a brown paste, as well as the rest of the bathroom.

After you have used up the last of the Vanish (Who knew toothpaste stained?) and had a second, freezing shower, you enter your bedroom again, only to find your mum spraying a liquid around called ‘Olbus Oil’ and lighting ‘meditation candles’ , from when ‘I used to do nudist hot yoga’ (No more said!) You ask what she is doing, and then remembering that you are supposed to be in, you add a little cough. ‘I am displacing the aurora of illness, and freeing the germs, it’s from Dr Zafauri’s natural health bible’. You ask her to ‘go away, I have a headache’ and immediately open all the windows and blow out the candles, as they really are making you feel ill.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my fellow teenage sufferer, there is nothing more satisfying than sponging off your friends and family, but when it comes too being ill, mothers are more than cautious. Anything too active, they will pack you off too school again, no matter the time of the day. Your mum is constantly popping in, placing smelling salts on your desk, and giving you icy water. Then, she resorts too the low of low, when you announce that you are feeling sick (Just to keep up the pretence, of course) She gets out the sick bowl. This is a manky, age old washing up bowl, that has been out of use by Alex and you for many years. It is mustard coloured, and smells, well, like sick. It is labelled; Family Sick Bowl, and has been illustrated with some lovely drawings of sick on the side. You prepare yourself for a shouting match, as your mums wafting antics (That is not what it sounds like!) have been driving you insane, however your mum then asks you if you would like some food, or something to drink.

After the 4th bowl of ice cream to ‘ease your throat’ the mother is starting to get suspicious, and as it is only midday, and as maths is after lunch on a Friday, you decide to ease off a tad, and go back to plain ice cream, without the cream, sprinkles, sauce and marshmallows. Your mum then gets cross, and says that she is ‘going out’ and that if you are ‘better by the time she gets back’ she will ‘pack you off to school’. As she leaves, you decide drastic action is needed.

You leave the house as surreptitiously as possible, wearing a rainbow balaclava (Couldn’t find a black one) and a black cat suit (Dressing up box) You climb through Next door Gerald’s conservatory window, and find yourself in a sea of cats. You try and pick one up, however they seemed to have been trained, as it hisses and emits a yowling sound, similar to the noise Gerald made when he rescued Cousin Charlie from the bathroom. You try a different technique, grabbing its throat, and trying to make it retch. You end up with a bleeding hand and a small mouse tail in your sample pot. A scratching noise comes from the front door, and all the cats disappear, leaving a small pathetic kitten, shuffling on its bum after them. Gerald is home. ABORT ABORT!!

Safely back in the comfort of your own house, you decide to consult the kitchen. A big bowl is inviting you on the side board, and as it already contains a mixture of sickly consistency, you decide to use it. You add some grated carrot on the sideboard, some porridge and some of that cat-wee Chinese sauce (I mean does anybody know what it’s actually called?) Mum’s car pulls up, just as you are finished, and you race upstairs, pour the mixture in to the Family Sick Bowl, and slide in to bed, just as your mum opens the door. ‘How are you?’ She asks suspiciously, and packet of raisins in her hand. You point to the sick bowl. Her face softens. ‘Aw, sweetie, are you Ok? Have a nice sleep now, yeah? I’m going to go and finish of the carrot cake downstairs’ RESULT! She leaves the room and you jump out of bed. You need a disposal place for the cooking bowl, fast.

To cut a long story short, the therapist next door will never know where her ‘extra garden ornament’ came from, and your mum is now entirely convinced that she is going mad. Still, I think the dementia test was a little over reactive. She could have just never started the carrot cake in the first place. Probably.

You decide after the morning’s antics, it is probably best to lay low for the rest of the afternoon, and as mum is lying in the living room with a wet cloth over her head and the lights out, the T.V is no longer an option. So, you decide to re-arrange you room. What, it always occupies time. Ok, fine, it usually ends in disaster too!

Your mum comes running upstairs as soon as she hears the cry’s for help, which is probably a good thing, as you are in a compromising position, which consists of leaning half out the window, with your head under the bed, which is balanced on the desk. Unfortunately, your mother cannot get in, as the desk is blocking the door. When you finally manage to extract yourself from the bed, you realise your mum is outside the door, waiting for an explanation as to what is going on. You quickly re-arrange the bed, and desk to original position, and position the Tom Ellis novelty mugs carefully in their rightful place (what?!) Now, you have to think of an excuse. One of the hardest tasks my fellow teenage sufferer, especially when you’re ill. The parents are most suspicious then.

You, being the artful master of disguise, push all your cushions out of bed, roll up in the duvet on the floor, and roll restlessly around. Just in time, your mother tries the door again, and it opens. You yell a few effective ‘help!’ ‘s before your mother realises that you are ‘dreaming’ and kindly shuts the door again. Not even stopping to pull a blanket over you, lying on the floor. Rude. Very.

After several hours, you wake up, still on the floor, to find that your leg is under the bed, and when you attempt to move it, it will not. After several excruciating minutes, you manage to get it out, and are attacked by pins and needles. Charlotte walks in to find you spasm-ing on the floor. She slowly walks up, and pokes you, right in the stomach. You jerk violently, resulting in bashing your funny bone on the bed. You start spasm-ing, again. Charlotte stares for a while and then asks ‘Are you going to die? Only mummy said you were ill, but I didn’t think you were this ill’. You growl at her, and ask when dinner’s ready, but your mouth is muffled by your giant Minion toy (sorry!) and she smiles sweetly. ‘I guess you don’t want dinner then? Its fish and chips, but you look tired. I’ll tell mummy you’re sleeping’. She merrily skips off, and out of the room, leaving you cursing on the floor. How can a 5 year old be so intelligent? Of course, there is the option of sneaking down later, but the last time that happened, Alex walked in on you with his girlfriend, but didn’t realise you were there! It is a scene you never, ever, want to re-live. No, really, never.

[Saturday Done]
Saturday

After the trauma of yesterdays illness (wink, wink my fellow teenage
sufferer!), you decide you need a lie in, nothing to do with the fact
that you stayed up till 11pm watching Ultimate Fail videos on YouTube.
However your plans are scuppered, good word that, say it now please,
shed your teenager nush nush nush, (That is NOT what it sounds like)
and say it altogether now, 1, 2, 3 Scuppered!
I thank you.



They are scuppered because of the fact that you woke up to an extreme
invasion of your privacy. ALL family members are rooting around your
cupboard, in which they insist on keeping the 15 Hawaiian printed
rucksacks, the ancient camera from around 1940 and the unlimited
collection of walking boots, most of which are coated in mud from that
walk you did, when you were about 5, and are falling apart, partly
because they have been rotting, due to the lack of use since.



‘‘Wakey, wakey’’ coos ‘the mother’ Oh, sure, you wern’t already awake.
‘We’ she announces, hands on hips ‘are going hiking’ Yay, Fun! I hear
you say. NO. OHHH NO. 1. It is December 2nd. This is a walk with all the
family, yes including the brat face brother and sister (sorry, but
really, they are 5 and 7!) and the lump of an older brother, Alex. 3.
It is impossible to go on a walk with your family without ending up in
a lawnmower musem or some unnatural collection place of that sort. (oh
yes, it does exist my fellow teenage sufferer, see link)

http://www.lawnmowerworld.co.uk

The father, emerging with the 57 British isles maps piled in his arms,
has an announcement. ‘AND, all technology is banned for the day, your
mother and I have decided that you spend too much time, plugged in to
these ‘I player video ma-bob whatsits’ This is the point, my fellow
teenage sufferer, when you explode. I’m sure you all know the feeling,
they are getting it WRONG, you are tired AND the brat face has just
announced that you have a chocolate stash under your bed. Immediently
your mother starts. ‘You get spots from eating chocolate darrrrrrling’
Oh no, you can see where this is going. ‘Actually is that..yes it is!’
‘Come here darrrling!’ ‘MUM, you are not squeezing my spot..gerrrofff!’
Why? Why do the Darling Mother Dears find it so satisfying squeezing someone
else’s pustules?



‘We have also decided to confiscate the errr… Idodah-whatsit ma-bob
until further notice’. ‘WHAT???.....that is a breach of my privacy,
why?? It’s…its STEALING yeah, I could like…arrest you or something’ you
add with a final flourish, even though you are not entirely sure if
this is possible. You get up, in attempt to make a grand and stormy
exit, and end up falling over the pile of rucksacks, maps and limited
edition lunchboxes on carpet. You swish hair back (even though it is
barley long enough to put in a ponytail) and assume lady-like position
on the floor. (Nay, say nothing) ‘Oh yeah..that was like…totally meant
to happen..I just.. OH WHATEVER!’



****

Five hours later half way to the peaks, (I mean really, for a day
trip??) the parentals will be wishing that they hadn’t confiscated the
Ipad. After being forced to an hour of Les-Mis (Yes, it isn’t just you,
fellow teenage sufferer) you will probably end up resorting to staring
at people through the window. So, I herby presenteth thee (Oh, gone a
bit medieval!) With……………..



Teenage Driving Observations



1. FACES- Every driver has a face for driving.

• Constipated duck look. Leaning forward, straining at the wheel and
tongue out in concentration. Often seen on racing drivers. Tis never a
good look, please never let it grace your face (oooh, a rhyme!) my
fellow teenage sufferers.

• The boredom look. Extremely common, blank expressionless face,
usually found on that of the PM during one of his speeches (sorry sir,
your manlynessship)

• The silent rocker. Very funny, belting out songs, bouncing in seat,
really going for it, ending up, because you can’t hear them, looking
like they are having an epileptic fit. Actually, once turned out that
the guy was, very embarrassing…I had been laughing the whole
time…Whoops! It all got a bit much when the ambulance arrived...



2. PASSENGERS- Now I am sure you find, my fellow teenage sufferer,
there is nothing more satisfying than engaging yourself (If you’ll
pardon) in a battle between the opposite sex, unnatural breeds of your
age, the headphone wearer, Goths. If you have never done this before,
then I urge you, pluck up your courage, practice the evil teenage glare,
and accept this challenge.
Wherever you are, in a car, train or bus, pick a weirdo of our age
and...LET THE STARE OFF BEGIN! (I hasten to add, do make sure the
person is not inside the mode of transport you are currently using, can
get a bit messy!) Tis also very fun to do with annoyed adults, for
example the unfortunate parent in a Ferrari, because it is of course
our fault that Little Lord Fauntleroy-Tarquinius has sicked up his vitamin fruit
tablets all over Mummy’s new silk pashmina!



3. REACTIONS- Reactions to delays, traffic jams and diversions are
brilliant, nay, superbulent to watch.



• The business man- often late for a meeting, sweat will start running
down his forehead, they will brush their hair back far, far to often,
look at their watch around 50 times in a matter of minutes, wring their
ands and fumble to adjust their £250.00 Sat Nav, without which they
would be lost.

• The highly strung mother- Yes, this is the typical mother who after
two hours of constant whining and demands, sees the sign for a
diversion, and promptly bursts in to tears, pulling the car into the
lay-by, where she then attempts to re-organise her life.

• The lorry driver (alright there Eddie?!)- A man of many, many face
colours, firstly turning red, then purple at the sign of a delay,
letting out a volley of silent swear words, breathing so heavily that
his moustache defys all laws of gravity, and a cloud of steam appears
on the windscreen. After this little episode he will stroke the
dashboard, and appear to talk quietly and softly to his darling,
precious lorry.



I herby announceth the end of my list. For those who cheered, I thank
you.



Alert, Alert!! The tiring and frankly boring journey appears to come to
an end, when you feel the car slowing. Horror of horrors. You look out
the window, only to see a Motor Heritage Museum, in which you appear to
be turning in to. You immediately turn to your phone, which you have
surreptitiously hidden inside your sock, and discover that there is no
signal. Great.



‘This will be a nice break, won’t it?’ coos Mother, glancing back
to see Charlotte tearing the head off a Barbie (ghastly creations)
Matthew exploring the ins and outs of his nose canal (gross, I happen
to be sitting next to him) and Alex sitting in the back, with
headphones plugged in to an illegally sourced iPod (where did he get
that??) You add to the glare that is coming from all four children,
nice, you are thinking, nice?? A word our English teacher tells us
never to use, but perhaps that is all that is suitable for this dull
and dreary spectacle for the over 40’s!



You pull up into the car park, the security/car park guy giving us the
evils as you enter, probably to do with the fact that Matthew is now making
faces at him and smearing the contents of his nose canal all over the
window. ICK! The smell of engine oil and coffee wafts toward you and
you gag. The office, situated in the corner has a small hawkish lady,
who looks like she originated from the dino years, is glaring at you
and the rest of your lovely family. There is a titchy café, the only
hope that you spy in this…this abomination, but then again there is a
National Trust emblem on the door, warning you away, there is only a
sugar-free flapjack and a bun that no-one under the age of 50 can
identify the name of.



Now, my fellow teenage sufferer, I am sure, if you are used to the
nature of the parents (darling as they are) you will be able to predict
this all too common occurrence, as soon as I mention the word
‘closed’. For the others, wherever you maybe sitting, in bed, or on a
chaise for the more sophisticated, which frankly you are, and haven’t
got a Boris Jonson about what is going on (I thank you), then I am of
the opinion that you are the family with the perfect bathroom, an
organised tea-rota, and a mother and father who leave you every night
with a ‘nanny’ to look after you. (Just to inform you, you are one of
a kind) In which case, I’m not being rude (I am!) but you need
educating.



Now, your entire family piles out of the frankly disgusting, but
necessary people carrier, and the lovely adorable Charlotte does an
enormous fart. Lovely. Now, the educated and intelligent family that you
are, you all, yes including Alex the grumpy lump, burst out laughing.
You laugh for a few seconds along with them, until you notice the look
you are being given by the lovely receptionist. It’s all soo lovely,
isn’t it my fellow teenage sufferer? You poke the father and he walks
slowly up to the office. You now notice that it is closed, and Alex
kindly points this out to the father. ‘No, no, there’s someone there,
it can’t be closed!’ We all sigh. We have been through this thousands
of times ( may I add that the last time involved escape via boat, baby
sick and an illegally sourced pizza, no more said) The glowering
receptionist then opens the partition. ‘Yes?’ Dad looks shocked at the
hostile tone. You would have thought he had learnt by now. ‘Is the
museum open?’ he asks, too confident for his own good. The glower
increases. ‘Speak through the partition please’ ‘Oh err… sorry. IS THE
MUSEUM OPEN?’ He yells full pelt through the glass. You, Alex, Matthew,
Charlotte and the mother sigh. Hear we go. The receptionists eyebrows
nearly envelop her eyes. She points at the sign, still silent. Dad is
confused. ‘So…errr is it open?’ Again another point and more tutting.
‘IS IT CLOSED?’ He yells again. The car park warden is now staring. We
are all getting worried. ‘IS THE MUSEUM CLOSED OR OPEN?’ She shuts the
partition. ‘Right, that is it!’ He marches closer to the window and
bangs on the partition. ‘Dad’ Alex ventures in cautiously. ‘I think it
is closed’ Dad gives him a look that suggests he wants no more
interruptions. He cannot be defeated.



This is the point where I interject, my fellow teenage sufferer, so as not to
disclose the, shall we say fruity, language that followed? Let us just say that
within 30 minutes you and your family are back in the car, dad complete with a
hearty bruise- security had not been kind.



****

After finally arriving after that rather eventful escapade you have suffered the inevitable.
You are stuck at the top of a hill, in the beautiful English weather (AKA Rain) and lost.
Very much lost. With a 5 year old sister, singing Justin Beiber (how she knows
it, I have no clue?) full pelt, so loud in fact that you have to tell
her to shut up, or you will swear at her, accompanied by the 7 year old
singing the same line of Batman over and over, and demanding to be
carried. The older idiot Alex will of course refuse to help, so you are
stuck with both of them clinging on to you. The parentals have
discovered that you are lost because the sodden, disintegrating map is
of Ireland. Only your family could do that. Or is anyone else too? Now,
I feel a list coming on so, I humbly present you with…………



The teenagers hill survival list



1. YELL- Now, this is something you should be good at, so go on, try
it. Yell as hard as possible. Unfortunately other family members may
refuse to join in (particularly big, stinky brothers) so you may be
left singing the Wombles by yourself (yes, I am 6) However, I do warn
you that after about 30 minutes, you will end up sounding like a kettle
in distress crossed with a dying chicken, so at that point, I do
suggest you stop.



2. WALK- Just keep walking. Always hard with a five and seven year old
clinging to your leg, however this may be a good time to chuck them of
the side of said hill. Nah, I’m just joking! (NO, seriously though) You
may end up somewhere…probably…hopefully…maybe. Ok, you will most likely
be more lost, but always worth a try. Remember though, never run, never
exert any energy. Nah, it’s really just cause you can’t be bothered!



3. FIRE- Yay! Fire is always a good option, as most teenagers are pyro
maniacs! It’s brilliant. Very dangerous, but a paramaniac always knows
how to start a fire. Then toast food. Or grass in our case, as the
parentals had forgotton that ‘ever so minor thing’ Minor? We cannot
survive without it! Mind you, if you are organised enough to have
remembered food, then you probably wouldn’t have bought a map of
Ireland with you, so kind of irrelevant



You finally arrive home, miraculously with the family complete! You
were slightly put out by you dad’s suggestion to ask a sheep farmer,
although to be fair, Moses and Peter were very helpful. We get to the
door, and the father cheerfully announces the keys are….on a hill in
the peak district. At this point its getting dark, so you decide to
reveal the hidden phone, in order to get some light. Now, our only
option is the bathroom window, which is slightly ajar. Poor next door
Gerald, now you owe him a favour, but that may be risky, as the last
time that happened you ended up babysitting his 27 cats. Traumatising
is all you can say. When he unlocks the door, you tell him he should
‘go and have a burger king’ although, you think he might have taken it
the wrong way, as you wake up at 12.00 to hear cats yowling, and
dramatic thuds against the wall.



All I can say, my fellow teenage sufferer, that it has been rather eventful,
has it not? Bring on Sunday………..!

Sunday Done]

You wake up at a far more respectable time than yesterday, your
friend phoning just as you finish breakfast. Friends know the
respectable awakening times, why can’t parents learn? They live with
you after all! But your heart sinks, as the friend on the other line
proposes a shopping trip. Argh! You consider the crinkling sweet
wrapper option, but decide against it, as last time you did this, it
turned out it wasn’t a mobile call, it was face time. She still doesn’t
speak to you anymore. Reluctantly, you accept the offer in order to
‘fit in’ Teenagers are constantly pressurised to fit in, completing
rituals such as shopping, and girly sleepovers. Give me a river to swim
in any day. Just me? Ah well!



Now, what to pack? There are several options for the occasion, a small
bag, and rely on other plastic bags to carry purchases, a big bag, and
lug all your stuff around in it, or just put money in a pocket. Why oh
why does it have to be so complicated my fellow teenage sufferer? You
decide on the small bag, and attempt to extract it from the mound of
chocolate wrappers (sorry mum!) shoes and other nonsense, and end up
extracting a mouldy banana. This can only be Matthews, as you refuse to
eat bananas. You go to murder him, but unfortunately he is at a friend’
s. He got up at 7.00 to go. 7.00 What is this world coming to?? You
decide to just take money, and a phone. More simple. You would of
thought. You go to put it in your pocket, but unfortunately, your jeans
(way more comfy than leggings, we all admit it) have A FAKE POCKET.
What is it with clothes manufactures? Let’s put a pocket in, actually
no, let’s just put a thing that looks like a pocket BUT ISNT! Either
have a pocket. Or not. Soooo annoying.



You have unfortunately been forced to take the train, which is a
disaster. See another lovely list (you can’t say we don’t spoil you!)





Teenage problems with trains



1. The machines. - Put in travel destination. Accidently press wrong
thing because of dodgy touch screen. Redo it. Press print. Put in
money. Machine rejects it. Put back in. Rejects it again. End up having
to ask annoyed business man behind for change. Receipt comes out. Go to
get it, it goes back in machine because it hasn’t finished printing
properly. You bang your hand on machine. Immediately goes purple.
Business man starts tutting. Grab receipt. RUN to catch train as it
leaves in less than 1 minute.

2. The people-You have to sit with people. For the anti-social teenager
this is not good. There will be at least one person who is far to
talkative for their own good. In this situation the tiny Japanese
lady.



YOU: Can I sit here?

LADY: Of course. How old are you?

YOU: Eeer.. 14

LADY: Aren’t you quite young to be travelling on your own?



You are starting to get annoyed now.



YOU: (Snaps) NO!

LADY: Oh, er OK.



Lady gets out packet of sunflower seeds and shakes some in to palm.
You give her a weird look.



LADY: Good for constipation!

YOU: Oh right (Thinking: Ehttp://WWWW)



She licks them of her palm and crunches with teeth.



LADY: They are good, do you want some?



She digs spit covered hand in packet and offers them to you



YOU: I’m Fine thanks….I’ve just got to go now…



Hurry in to next carriage where you are faced with the choice of
sitting next to an old lady wearing a shower cap or a rough, tough
looking man with ripped jeans and piercings….and reading Daphne du
Maurier’s Rebecca.



3. Music- The really annoying men who blast music out of their
iPods’ soo loudly. They occasionally sing out the odd line, and bop
experimentally. AND my fellow teenage sufferer, they listen to Justin
Beiber, One Direction and Union J. . Girls listening to and lusting after
boy bands, fine, but men? Bit wierd, might need a psychiatrist there.
Personally, we don't feel the love for the 'Beiber Fever', we are not
'Directioners', or 'Jcats', (Go Heather Small!).



You get off the train, feeling mildly disgruntled, and a tad disturbed
by the conversation you have just had with the lady with the shower
cap. You now know that her granddaughter is Kate Middleton (Hello, your
ladynessship!) and that she has 2 sausage dogs, one named Bert, you
know what she did in the world war, and how her husband is also on the
train, but he sits separately, because he thinks she talks too much-
can you believe that? However you still don’t know what is with the
shower cap?!



You meet with your friends, and attempt to be cool by asking ‘Shall we
go into H and M?’ Turns out it is no longer the ‘thing’ to do, so we
head to Jack Wills. This, my fellow teenage sufferers is one of the
shops that is too cool to play Christmas music, have shop assistants
that are far too helpful for their own good, and have designer
stockings. I mean really, if you own a designer stocking, I’m not being
rude, but you are just showing off. Everybody starts trying stuff on,
and you attempt to fit in by grabbing the nearest item, which happens
to be a pair of socks, so you swap it for a top, that turns out to be
basically see-through, and is £100.00 The shop assistant smiles and
says sweetly ‘It’s on sale, do you like it?’ WHAT?? On sale. At £100.00
ON SALE?? You go in to a rant about money for a label, and your friends
quickly escort you out before security try. (I wish I could say that
was the first time that had happened, my fellow teenage sufferer)



After that little escapade, your friends, Sally and Sarah decide to take
you into a more…shall we say lightweight shop?! Entré le Primark (oh
Francais, get moi!) you actually buy something in this revolution of a store
(£2.50 for a pair of pumps anyone?) but the tricky bit is coming. You go to
take the money out of your purse, and the assistant hands you a mile long
receipt. You attempt to stuff it back in purse, but there is no room. You then
shove half back in your pocket, unaware that the other hlf is trailing behind
you. You get money out of purse, and hand to assistant. She gives you
the change, and you immediately drop it. Bending down you pick it up,
and….let out an enormous F-A-R-T!! You collapse in to giggles, while
Sarah and Sally stand looking mortified, along with the shop assistant,
and the rest of the shop. You then attempt a graceful exit, tripping
over the receipt hanging from your pocket, tear it and walk in to a
pile of Monday- Sunday patterned pants, which promptly fall over, and
you are left picking them up, while you are abandoned by Sally and
Sarah. Before you leave, you run back and collect your purchases, which
you left on the till.



There is no sign of Sally and Sarah, so you assume they have ditched
you for some other cronies (RUDE- you are crème de la crème!) You
decide to go in to Starbucks, but there is no space, so you are forced,
to go and sit with someone else.



Fat man is sitting by himself



YOU: Errr.. Can I sit here?

MAN: Yeah go ahead, pretty little thing aint ya!

YOU: Er…thanks?



You are getting worried, and decide to eat your sandwich in peace



MAN: Out on your own are ya?

YOU: Mmmm…



You are now freaking out, then suddenly, the old chavvy lot from your
school walk past. They are coated with makeup, have nose rings and
cropped tee-shirts expose their belly piercings. They glare, then,
noticing the fat man start to laugh. They whip out their ‘only £500’
phones a take around 10 pics each, and disappear round the corner,
dropping their cigarettes on the pavement.



YOU: I’m gonna errr go..now

MAN: Aw shame..I was just gonna say…

YOU: BYEE!!



You leave ASAP!



Your phone pings. *Chelsea Hadden has just uploaded a photo on to
Facebook* You click on it. Great. It’s a picture of you, with the fat
man, who happens to be staring right at you, and smiling. The caption
reads: Having fun with daddy on a Sunday afternoon!

Great…GREAT!! As the shopping trip hasn’t exactly gone to plan, what
with friend abandonment, and dads you never knew you even had, you
decide to go home. However the train seems like a rather bad option, as
you see the chavs heading straight toward the station. You decide to
take the bus, and slip in to a seat, just as its about to leave. Second
close call.

It is full of old age pensioners, and at every stop, yet another gets
on, and is greeted like so:



Belinda: Oh Marjorie, how lovely to see you again!

Majorie: Oh hello Belinda, and Doris, didn’t see you there. Been to do a
bit of shopping?

Doris: Yes, lovely weather, isn’t it?

Majorie: Yes, quite.

Belinda: You know, I remember in 63, when Doris told us that…..



This is the point where you zone out, having looked outside (still
pelting with rain) and looked for shopping bags (none) you decide that
they are not worth bothering with.

A few minutes later, you look outside, as the bus pulls to a halt, as
the driver announces that it is the last stop before Weybridge. You get
out. Bum. It is the small village of Graysmille, about half an hour
outside of your town. The bus is going on the new road, which skips
your stop. You are going to have to ring mum, and explain why you have
taken the bus, and wasted your return train ticket, and why you on a
pavement, in the middle of Graysmille, soaking wet, and with no more
‘emergency cash’ to last you for another bus journey, (nothing to do
with that smoothie you had in Starbucks)



The immediate freaked out reaction when you phone them on your mobile
from anywhere, observe:

YOU: Hey Mum, I was wondering if-

MUM: Darling! Are you ok? What's happened? Why are you phoning, are you
lost? Where are you? Can you find a grown up, or a safe place? Oh my
God, have you been kidnapped - you haven't been kidnapped have you? No,
she's been kidnapped, call the police, HELP!!!

YOU: No, no Mum no don't call the police, I just-

MUM: OH MY GOD! YOU HAVE NOT, YOU, YOU, you HAVE NOT been ARRESTED??

I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN! Trouble from the beginning, you and that, that,
that GANG!!

YOU: No, Mum, just, will you just CALM DOWN PLEASE!! I have NOT been
kidnapped, OR arrested, and it’s Not a gang, it is just my friendship
group, and I simply wanted to know if you could pick me up. I’m in
Graysmille.

MUM: What? WHAT? You had me COMPLETELY panicked, how dare you! I bet
that was a dare wasn't it, hey, hey! Leading me up the garden path,
this is the FINAL STRAW, you are GROUNDED till you leave home, I don't
know what to say, I, I, you GET HOME THIS INSTANT!! *hangs up*

YOU: Rude.



After around 40 minutes of hard core walking (I mean really, is it just
me who collapses after 5 minutes of the cardio workout video at school,
and settles to commenting on the abnormal limb size of the trainer? No?
Ah well!) You reach home, soaked to the skin, and hungry. Then you
notice the police car. After around another 40 minutes spent explaining
to the policeman that you had not been kidnapped, simply stranded in the
next village, you decide you need a shower, and Mum gets away with an
official warning for calling the police in without an emergency - funny!



Unfortunately, when you finally get in the shower (Mum ranting at you
for at least 10 minutes about the police) you notice there is no towel.
You have to run, yes run, all the way up stairs, without anyone seeing
you, to the airing cupboard to retrieve a towel. A mean feat for
anyone. To make matters worse, you discover your brother, Matthew (bit
weird if it was Alex) hiding in the airing cupboard, playing ‘dens’
with the towels.



I suppose it was a little traumatic for him, but mum needn’t have got
the therapist next-door involved. I’m sure he would have got over it.
Ok, it didn’t help that I grabbed the towel and the shelf collapsed,
but I would have found some way to escape, I suppose we were in rather
close proximity. Too close for my liking, I might add!



I mean really, I need the therapist, I’m sure you will all agree,
teenagerhood needs a lifetime of therapy to get over! However, they do
say your school days are the best in your life, and I mean think about
it, we will actually have to work. Like properly. Ugh! I suppose, what
I’m trying to say now, and I will stop beating around the bush (NO!) is
that you should embrace your inner teenagerhood (minus the opposite
sex, makeup and running) and just be yourself. I thank you for this
highly dramatic speech, and assure you that it will all be OK. Well, I
am just assuming this, I still haven’t worked out why the majority of
adults think we are immature (not true) and why Next-Door-But-One-Steve
never speaks about his childhood…….Actually that’s a point……



Goodbye to you, and thank you for taking the time to read our frankly
amateurish attempt at a guide to the horrors of teenagerhood. Good luck
and god speed. (Thanks Miranda!)