Work Experience (or Internships, as I believe they are also called)

Gimme that tub of ice cream, I need a treat.

And while we’re on the topic of food (if you can count delicious, delicious ice cream coated with chocolate syrup as “food”), let me tell you about what my week was made of.

  • a dash of early mornings
  • a dollop of forgotten meetings
  • four cups of way-too-much-walking
  • one hundred and eleven pages of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, and finally
  • countless of awkward conversations and smiles

Marry Poppins once said that a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down… but you know what? I’ve consumed way too much sugar over the past week, I can never look at another Cadbury miniroll again. (It still won’t stop me from snacking on them, though.)

So basically, my regular schedule of going to school, doing homework and whiling away the hours on the Internet has been turned topsy-turvy by this thing called WORK EXPERIENCE. Yes, all the students in my year at school were assigned two weeks’ worth of Work Experience at any place we chose to apply to.

I wanted to work for a publishing company somewhere in London (cough*RandomHouseGroup*cough), but for some reason that didn’t work out. Instead, a primary school accepted me, which sounded like a good idea at the time, mainly because I was so relieved to have been able to find a placement. Don’t get me wrong — I absolutely adore my placement. I’m learning a lot and I quite enjoy having “colleagues” even though they’re more than twice my age. I enjoy eating lunch in a staff room, reading either Tess of the D’Urbervilles or The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, depending on my mood. But honestly, does the school have to be so. damn. far. away?!

The distance from the school to where I live is approximately two miles. And guess what — I don’t drive, nor do I even have a bike. Having roughly timed myself for the past five days (yes, I do things like that), I’ve worked out that I spend forty five minutes walking endlessly from home to workplace at seven thirty in the morning, and three in the afternoon. By the time I get home, I’m just about ready to collapse on the bed and just die.

I mean, come onTwo miles. Coming from the girl who takes the odd staircase instead of the escalator and considers that as exercise, that it quite a lot.

But quite enough whining. I’ve signed up for this and I’m seeing it through. I’ve got one more week to go. I can do this, right? Who knows, maybe I just might go into teaching. Both my grandparents were teachers once, and both were quite successful in their careers. They both served their own terms as principals at the same school, which is very idyllic now that I think about it.


Over and out.


Now This Is Just Ridiculous

Heatwave, anyone?

According to my BBC Weather app (yes, I have one!), it’s 23 degrees Centigrade — that’s 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Now, I’m no expert at climate temperatures or anything like that… but isn’t England supposed to be, y’know, cold? I understand that’s it’s summer and apparently we had a very light winter, but I know it shouldn’t be this hot.

I’ve lived in the Philippines and I swear it was never like this. Though, it’s not like my word has any merit on this matter, given that I spent most of my time either in an air-conditioned classroom, an air-conditioned car or an air-conditioned bedroom… See the pattern? This might be a sign saying I ought to invest in a fan.

I should get one of those portable ones that can hang around your neck. That way, I can have carry it around in school and be all like “I’m the boss of this heatwave.”

And the teachers can’t tell me to turn it off because I’m sure it’s against the law somewhere to slowly boil a teenager alive. It would be a cruel and unusual punishment…

Okay, my thoughts have returned to school. Damn. I really should get back to my work — lots to do, so little time. And I have an exam tomorrow. Wish me luck??

Over and out. I hope you guys have a bucket of ice cream — or at the very least just a bucket of ice — to keep you sane.

The Day After Wednesday and The Day Before Friday

I could never get the hang of Thursdays.

And wow, I’m giving Rebecca Black a run for her money.

I apologize in advance to Thor*, who I’m sure will be thoroughly offended, but need to share this to the world: I hate the day ThursdayIt could just be the day itself and not the fact that it’s a Thursday, or it could just be because it’s been raining on and off… either way, I’m sick of Thursdays in general. It seemed like today it was just one misstep after the other.

Want to know a (scarily) accurate account of my horrible, horrible day? Then read on, people. Just read on.

  • First things first, I woke up the bread’s gone off and so couldn’t go to school straightaway; I had to stop by McDonald’s to get myself breakfast, and my stomach was grumbling for an entire hour before I had the chance to eat.
  • I realized that it was raining the moment I stepped out the door.
  • And then my left side got splashed by a passing car.
  • Clumsy me dropped the 50p change that the cashier was handing me — I’m sure he already hates me before this incident, anyway.
  • I got splashed by a passing car AGAIN, only this time it was on my right side… and some water went int my eye. Great.
  • The first lesson on the day was Mathematics and, lo and behold, I could not wrap my head around trigonometric inequalities (or whatever it was we were discussing).
  • The Pride and Prejudice study guide that I was reading sent me into a sneezing fit. I’m now allergic to old, dusty books printed in the 70s.
  • Walking home, I tripped up the stairs and managed to squash my bucket of KFC chicken. Boo hoo for me.

So there you go. Do you still think Thursdays are fun, awesome, one-day-before-Friday-and-then-it’s-freedom days that should be celebrated and exalted??

I don’t think so.

*Thor’s day, geddit? ;D

Third Edition of Hair-Pulling and Head-Banging

Every decision I do seems to put me into an even deeper hole. I do not like making adults go out of their way to accommodate me and my problems, because it seems they’re busy enough to begin with. And the only time I go to an adult for help — academic-wise, nothing life threatening or anything — I manage to get myself into deeper trouble. I have niggling feeling that this would all go topsy-turvy on me… but oh well, I can’t change the past.

I just want to ask a questions for you adults out there, because for some reason I believe that whenever there are no children or teens about, you all talk to yourselves about… younger people. Like senior citizens discussing “young people these days”, but only more discreet. Please educate me on this, because I’m sure this isn’t the case.

Damn, my imagination’s running amok.

Anyway, it might sound silly that I’m going crazy over a simple twenty minute discussion with two adults about my *academic career*, but since I seem to be wired to keep myself to myself, this is a pretty big step. It amazes me every day that my fellow peers are so easy in admitting they need help, I sometimes think it’s borderline laziness. Not that there’s anything wrong with asking for help, but wouldn’t it be more fulfilling if you achieve something yourself? Besides, talking to people in general scare me a little bit. I’m freaky like that.