I’m Sorry, Hails, But Coffee Does Not Help.

Hails is my favourite blogger.  As well as being the most talented writer I know, she’s also the funniest person I have ever met.  Back in the good old days, when she lived in NI, she and I would occasionally go on adventures together, which usually ended up with one or both of us laughing so hard that we couldn’t breathe.  However, despite being Practically Perfect In Every Other Way, Hails suffers from a serious error in judgement.  She truly, sincerely, and most irrationally, believes that Coffee Helps.  My experience has shown me that the exact opposite is true.

You know how, when you know you’ve got an exam the following morning, you just can’t sleep?  Such was the case the night before my RE exam.  This is why, at 7am the next morning, I was dozing over my breakfast at the kitchen table.  I needed a cup of tea – or, perhaps, several gallons of the stuff.  I almost cried when I opened the tea caddy and found it empty.  There was only one thing to do in a situation like this: pray.  So, I got down on my knees, bowed my head, and prayed, “Dear God.  I know you think it’s funny to hide the tea from me, but I really, really need it back.  I’ve got my RE exam today, and I’m about to fall asleep.  When I get up, I know you’ll have put the tea back into the caddy.  Otherwise, I am going to cry.  Thanking you, Lord, for your kind attention to this matter.”

Of course, when I looked in the tea caddy again, it was empty.  I bravely held back the tears.  Perhaps, I thought, if I threw myself in front of a car, I’d get my predicted grades.  I pushed the thought from my mind, when I realised that I probably wouldn’t be out of hospital in time to do my Psychology exams, and I really needed to beat my predicted grades in that (Richard, I hope you’re reading and feeling guilty).  A glint of silver caught my eye: the coffee caddy.  Why hadn’t I thought of this before?  It was brilliant.  I chucked some of the dark brown power into a mug and poured boiling water on top.  The putrid smell of instant coffee filled the room.  I almost passed out.

After a quick stir, the water had turned a murky brown colour.  I could hardly bring myself to contemplate that I was, very soon, going to drink this concoction.  Distracted, I poured about half a pint of milk into the cup, making it flow over onto the granite work surface.  Argh.  The liquid was now the exact colour of a shirt that had been washed through too many times – a disgusting, depressing grey.  Unable to delay for any longer, I held my nose and swallowed the coffee in one, burning my tongue and the roof of my mouth in the process.  I waited for the buzz.  A minute passed, then two.  Nothing happened.  I think I actually fell asleep while standing up.  When I opened my eyes, ten minutes had passed, and I still felt as groggy as when I had woken up.  A sneaking suspicion began to work its way into my mind.  It couldn’t be true, though.  The fates would not be so cruel.  The taste of coffee was still strong in my mouth, a reminder of my latest sacrifice for the sake of my education.  Unable to bear the thought of being hoodwinked in such a way, I rifled through the cupboard and found the offending coffee jar.  At once, my worst fears were confirmed.

The label on the jar read : Nescafé Gold Blend: Decaf.

My life is a farce.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Having been absent for so long, I feel it’s worth going back a few months to tell you about some of the hilarious goings-on at good old Slemish.

I suppose it was quite some time ago that Head Girl Hannah and I arrived in the sixth-form centre to find that the dividing wall was gone.  Staring at the space where it had once been, I felt a range of emotions.  On one hand, this was a glorious, glorious day – possibly equal to when the Berlin wall came down.  On the other, the room was now freezing.  Head Girl Hannah raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think this is?” She asked.  I thought about it for a second before answering.

“Well, it looks like the invisible barrier onto platform nine and three-quarters.” I said, blushing slightly.

“You,” She replied, “are a ridiculous individual.  How on earth can anything look like something that’s invisible?  C’mon, let’s go.  Assembly’s about to start.”

“Just a second,” I begged. “C’mon…I want to try it out!”  And before she could say another word, I had grabbed my invisible trolley and charged through the barrier.  Unfortunately, this wasn’t quite as smooth or as funny as I had hoped it would be.  Being eternally clumsy, I tripped over my own foot, and landed, headfirst, onto platform nine and three-quarters.

For a second, I really could see a red steam train.  I could hear hooting owls and the chatter of hundreds of students.  It was difficult to see, because the train was creating so much steam, but I could have sworn I saw somebody wearing black robes and carrying a broomstick.  Then my head started to pound, and I realised that the chattering I could hear was Head Girl Hannah giggling, and the steam I thought I saw was dust rising up from the carpet.  The workmen, apparently, were not handy with a Hoover.

Of course, the whole school knows about this event, thanks to some gormless lower-sixths who watched the whole thing with mildly amused expressions on their faces.  NikNak, in particular, is very fond of grabbing me when I least expect it and throwing me through the barrier, yelling, “Best to take it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous, dear!”, in a passable impression of Mrs Weasley’s voice.  You might not be too surprised to know that I have stopped imagining steam trains and Hogwarts students in our sixth-form centre.

Tales of Brave Ulysses

Gemma and I were bored.  Our psychology exam had ended an hour previously, but there was still another hour to go before we could get the bus home.  That’s why we were sitting in the upstairs foodcourt in the Tower Centre, counting the number of orange stripy hoodies that passed below.  We’d already exhausted our primary source of entertainment (going through our psychology textbooks to find out how badly we’d failed), and were now craving something slightly naughty to do, since our exams were over and we were finally free of the burden of study (well, I was.  I very much doubt that Gemma’s ever felt “the burden of study”).  It was with half a mind of finding something bizarre to read that I suggested we go to the library. 

On the way there, though, we started talking about culture.  Gemma, being Greek, obviously feels like she is slightly more hard-done by than me in this respect, since I only have one God, and she’s expected to remember the names of about six dozen.  “Make up a song,” I suggested. “Then you might remember them.”  She looked at me beseechingly.  For goodness’ sake.  “Okay,” I said. “Fine.  I’ll make it up.  Just don’t forget where to send the royalty cheque.”

When we finally got to the library, I approached the woman at the service desk.  She looked rather like she was attempting to morph into a large monarch butterfly; her hair was blond until just below her ears, and bright red to its frizzy ends.  A look of extreme concentration was etched onto her bony face.  When she saw me approaching, she started to scrabble around the desk in quite a frantic manner, muttering “Glasses…glasses…glasses…”, seemingly unaware of the fact that the multi-coloured spectacles were dangling from a golden chain around her neck.   I cleared my throat.

“One second, love.” she said. 

“Your glasses are here.” I pointed out.  “They’re around your neck.” 

“Oh! Of course, dear.  How silly of me.  Now, how can I help you?”

I was a little put off by being addressed as “love” and “dear” by a woman who had clearly evolved from some kind of moth, but I spoke to her politely enough. 

“Errmm…I need a copy of the Iliad, for a project I’m…”  I trailed off, for she was staring at me blankly.

“‘Illiad’, did you say?  Can you spell that for me?”  I spelled the word I-L-I-A-D about four bloody times before she typed it into the computer properly.

“What exactly is this Iliad thing?” she asked, when the computer returned no results.

“An epic poem,” I explained.  “It’s…y’know…ancient, and stuff…”

A great snort of laughter suddenly sounded from behind the bookcase Gemma had been exploring only seconds before.  The Woman looked at me with some concern, apparently under the impression that I had made the noise.

“A poem?  I thought you said it was a book?”

Now, I usually have a lot of patience for people who would rather keep the world of literature at a distance.  I really do.  I may find it enjoyable, but some people are just better at knitting, and other such activities.  But this, I told myself, was really taking the biscuit.  I mean, she was a librarian, for pity’s sake.  If she’d been in a lute band, I mightn’t have expected her to have known about the longest-surviving and most influential piece of literature of all time, but this was supposed to be her forté.  Surely anyone who wanted to spend all day, every day working with books, would at least trouble themselves to learn a little bit about them?

“It is,” I said, through clenched teeth. “It’s just a really long poem.”

“I see,” she said, looking at me as if I had just said something very, very stupid. “And who wrote this…this…’really long poem’?”

“Homer.” Surely, surely she’d understand now.

“Homer?  Right…” She typed the name into the computer.  “And what’s Homer’s first name?”

I actually grabbed a fistful of my own hair at this point.  I could hear Gemma giggling manically from behind the bookcase.  I wanted to tell her that this was not funny.  Either the woman was being deliberately infuriating, or she really had no idea who Homer was.  Homer.

The computer beeped.

“Is that the Iliad -slash – odyssey?” asked The Woman.

“Yeah.” I was relieved that we’d finally got somewhere.

“Okay.  Are you sure this is a poem?  There are a lot of volumes.  It’s really long.”

Hadn’t I just told her it was a really long poem?  Hadn’t I made myself perfectly clear?

“When was this written, did you say?”

“About four hundred BC.  I told you – it’s ancient.”

“Oh!” She slapped herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand.  “No wonder we don’t have it, love!  Do you really think it’ll still be in print after all this time?  Of course not, darling.  These things get lost and damaged…and, anyway…why would you want to read something that old?  Wouldn’t it be in a funny language?”

I emerged from the library twenty minutes later, slapping myself gently on the forehead and carrying a copy of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar”.

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Gemma.

I gave her my most patronising look, and walked away without another word.

The Return Of Billybrid

The exams are over, the notes have been burned carefully stored away, and my summer holidays have started. I know I haven’t written in a few months, but now that I’ve got the time, Billybrid is, once again, live.  Keep dropping in to see what’s new.  Peace out, dudes.