Why, Universe ? Why must you hurt me in this way?

Oh, the shame.

I don’t even know how much more I can take. Seriously, universe, what did I do? Did I piss you off in some way?

Why must you shame me in this way????

For those of you glued to your computer screens, just dying to know why I’m so embarrassed, I drove over to the DSA Test Centre (the place where you take your practical driving test) yesterday, to have a look and see if I could navigate the massive junction just before it. However, not knowing my way around Quedgeley, I ended up going the wrong way, then missing the turning. While heading at a dead-end. I then panicked, turned too fast and too late and ended up on the wrong side of the road sandwiched between a whole bunch of other learners.

Needless to say, I performed a U-turn and went straight home. It was that bad.

In other news, I took my driving theory test and passed! I was so nervous, because my hazard perception is lousy (see incident above), but I was well above the pass mark.

Of course, this means I now have to do the practical. And not get lost and panic on my way into the test centre.

In other, other news, Ofsted announced they were arriving on one of their short-notice calls to inspect my school. Honestly, seeing an entire school full of teachers panicking and doing interactive lessons while dressed up in suits and ties is really quite amusing. By the sounds of things, every teacher was up by 4AM, and one of them was planning all his lessons as well as getting written plans down.


How not to buy underwear.

As a member of the female sex of the human species, I am compelled to buy underwear. However, I do not buy underwear regularly and hide it amongst other items to be purchased. No, I bulk buy my underwear once a year or so. This works out fine most times.

Today, on the other hand, I bought my underwear from a supermarket. I would normally have gone through the self-checkout, but every single one was occupied and we (my mother and I) were in a rush and instead we went to the nearest checkout.

This is the first time I have been to that supermarket and seen a checkout that does not have a queue of people with trolleys full of miniscule items that must all be blipped individually. This was also the first time I have seen a checkout at that supermarket that is manned by a remotely attractive member of the opposite sex. And this guy was a tad more than ‘remotely attractive’.

My mother did not help matters by steering me towards that checkout while laughing maniacally.

Nor did she help by making comments afterwards about how maybe the bras in question didn’t even fit me.

I didn’t make eye contact with the checkout guy once.

Now, I realise that I am probably blowing this all out of proportion because I’m a teenager. But I’m a teenager. How many of you remember being a teenager and being hideously embarrassed by the most ridiculous of stuff? Because it stinks.

A friend and I were having a chat about getting old. My friend is helping to deal with her grandmother and we agreed that there is nothing to look forward to about getting old. Nothing.

In light of today’s events, I have changed my mind. There is one good thing about getting old. It’s the complete lack of shame you develop and the ability to not blush, because blushing is a sure-fire way to make a situation ten times more awkward.


In other news, I lost my second L-Plate in two days today. I am pleased that the sun is out, but can the wind go away. Please? Please?

Silence is a terrible thing.

Today, I endured a horrible, horrible trauma.

I am speaking, of course, about the silence competition I was coerced into entering with my friend. The speed at which all our other friends agreed we should have a contest to see who could be quiet for the longest was frankly insulting and I can’t believe they thought I wouldn’t go the distance. Because I did.

We agreed to end our competition at 2.30, partly because neither of us would back down, but also because we couldn’t stand being quiet for any longer. Also because conversation is very difficult when you have to write everything because you finish your sentence about beards and everyone else has moved on to insulting you and telling embarrassing lies about you to other people because they know you can’t answer back. (To anyone reading this who may know me: I DID NOT WET MYSELF.) If we could only communicate by writing, the world would be stuck in approximately 1764 because everything would take such a long time. Also, there would be no rainforests left and half the population would have murdered the other half for bad grammar.

I have just realised that this is what would happen today if the Internet were not a suitably protective dividing force between the people online. Thank God for the Internet.

The ‘Who-Let-You-On-The-Road?’ Awards:

Three nominations today:

In third place, Woman Who Beeped and Gestured At Me Because I Waited For Another Car. This one’s pretty self-explanatory, but to clarify; the car had right-of-way and the traffic lights were out so I did the sensible thing and let him go.

In second, Woman Who Beeped At Me Because I Pulled On To The Roundabout In Front Of Her. You were driving too fast, there was traffic anyway so you would have had to slow down as soon as you came off the roundabout, I wasn’t even close to you and you then got left behind because you were too busy checking your phone to notice that I (and all the other traffic in front) was moving on while you held up the whole queue of cars behind you. Also, well done on your violent acceleration, erratic lane-change, and even more violent braking every time the stop-start traffic came to a stop. It must be immensely satisfying to watch your fuel gauge drop every time you put your foot on a pedal.

And in first place, the big winner: Motorbike Man. It was so impressive and manly, the way you roared across the junction (through a red light, by the looks of things) into a 20 zone and that double-rev as you bounced over the speed bump made me weak at the knees, especially as you weren’t wearing leathers. What was most amazingly sexual, though, was the L-Plates you had on.


Dear Next,

First of all, I would like to say that I love your clothes. I probably shouldn’t, because I am under the age of thirty, but I do. They are comfortable, wearable and not too ridiculous.

However, I have an issue with one thing. And it is this: was whoever designed all your shirts a complete pervert? Because I have to wear a jumper with all of my school shirts due to the fact that the button placement on your shirts makes me look like a flasher. The buttons are spaced in such a way that there is an almost perfectly circular peephole onto my bra. No amount of shrugging, hunching or wriggling will make it go away. It’s like Tony Stark’s power source only with a bra instead of the bright lights. And I unfortunately cannot use my bra to power-punch my enemies, which would be awesome. Nor can I use it to power a flying suit, which would also be awesome.

Please either fix the problem with the shirts, or invent a bra that can double up as a miniature arc-reactor. Either will be fine.



WANTED: Some brains, certain people appear to have misplaced theirs.

The new Youth Police Commissioner for Kent is a seventeen year old girl who’s just come under fire from…well, everyone, for certain rude and offensive tweets she posted before she got the job last week.

I’d just like to stop here and say how sorry I feel for her; it was the Mail on Sunday that was responsible for hunting down and publicising these tweets. I personally can’t think of anything worse than to have the Daily Mail on my case with regard to stuff on the internet.

I also think that she’s a silly girl who didn’t listen in the Internet Safety talks we’re being given repeatedly at the moment. As teenagers, we’re all supposed to be internet-savvy, and frankly, it’s common sense to realise that tweets are public and if you are applying for a highly publicised and groundbreaking role in an area that is particularly sensitive to the British public, it may be an idea to check what you are tweeting. There are millions of journalists out there (most of them are probably employed by the Daily Mail) with nothing better to do than to search through minor celebrities’ twitter accounts for something to kick off about.

I also do not think it’s necessary to cry when giving your public statement. Yes, this is a hideous and embarrassing thing to happen to anyone, not least a seventeen year old girl, but please try to be dignified about it.

My real anger here is directed at the Police Commissioner for Kent and the people in charge of appointing the YPCC. Where were the background checks? Where was the ‘Oh, by the way, maybe you shouldn’t have racist/homophobic/anti-immigration comments on your Twitter account, and condoning violence in any way, no matter how many qualifications you make, is a huge no-no’ when she got the job?

I mean, just the other week at school we had an Information and Guidance session going over the dangers of putting exactly this sort of thing on your social media accounts. They covered everything, from why you might not get a job, to how that information could be used against you or taken wildly out of context. Also, just how easy it is to be tracked down on the internet. On the one hand, the girl in question should really have known all this, being a ‘normal teenager’, but on the other, why wasn’t an internet background check carried out? Why? And if it was, why was she not told to remove the comments or told she couldn’t be a YPC with this sort of stuff floating around?

Also, why does it appear that she’s being given no support besides a statement from the Police Commissioner about how she won’t lose the job. This seems grossly unfair and really harsh on her. Yes, what she did was wrong and more than a little bit stupid, but she’s admitted the problem, taken down the Twitter account and made a public apology. She’s seventeenI’m seventeen, and I make stupid comments on a daily basis. I think very carefully before I write things online, but it’s generally accepted that I am not a horrible person and I will grow out of saying stupid and mildly offensive things.

One comment made by Ann Barnes, the Police Commissioner, did make me laugh, though: “I think that if everyone’s future was determined by what they wrote on social networking sites between the ages of 14 and 16 we’d live in a very odd world.” We live in that world now. It is routine practice to check out a person online. Maybe something said at the age of sixteen doesn’t apply so much to a thirty year old, but what is said at sixteen definitely applies to a seventeen year old. Especially as some of the posts are as little as a month old. All it’s doing is giving teenagers a bad name and proving that no, we aren’t mature enough to hold £15,000/year jobs.

That was a gross generalisation, but I don’t think the majority of teenagers have got the life experience necessary to represent the views of a massive age group in a large county diplomatically and sensibly. At least, not without a huge amount of support from people who do have that kind of experience, which this poor girl obviously isn’t getting.