RachCon One

Ow. And ow again. And, what the hell, let’s have another one. OW. I have a small army of sadistic goblins banging nails into my brain. Or it could be the alcohol: possibly the more likely scenario but I’m not ruling anything out.
Read it and weep, abroad-people: you missed the post-results celebration at Gatecrasher last night. I know you’re gutted now, but time heals. And six months in sunnier climes might help n all.
Anyway, the gossip, the news, the full on dirrrrty… I’ll break it down person by person, using bullet points cos I’m organised like that.

• Fluff: I probably shouldn’t gossip about your bruv Bicks’. But obviously I will. Fluff spent the night sucking face with someone called Nikki. I know that’s how you spell it, cos that’s how she introduced herself. She had those square-end false nails that WAGs like and hair so straight you could have followed it indefinitely (a maths joke for you there ; )). He razzle-dazzled her with his MA film-student ways. Something tells me they won’t be seeing each other again.
• Callie: cried twice. Once because of the evil in the world. Once because of the beauty of the streetlights reflected in the puddles. I know.
• Chris: pulled a 30 year old and ended up at her place. Where he discovered she had two kids. Who were being babysat by Sadie Miller!! (Oh you know: moved schools in year 8 due to B.O-based bullying.) Freaked the poor lad out.
• Jones: tripped over someone’s bag and incurred the wrath of a student wearing a Star Trek T-shirt. Needless to say, blows weren’t exchanged.
• Everyone else: no gossip to report.

What’s that you’re saying? What did I get up to? Oh ha ha, you don’t need to hear about that. Ha ha. Ha.
Oh OK I pulled a 17 year old. Happy now? You can say what you like, I don’t care. He was fit and a good kisser. And age ain’t nothing but a number. It was confined to Gatecrasher and we didn’t exchange numbers. All good.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and lie under a duvet in front of Halloween. No better hangover cure than a bit of ‘80s gore.

So just got back from picking up A Level results. Well, I say just. Actually I’ve watched Cash in the Attic and eaten a sandwich since getting home with the Fateful Envelope. See: still have my priorities right.
Anyway, I know you’ll be gagging to know the score. (Drumroll…) 3 As! (Symbol crash.) Who’d have thought?! So now I’m in possession of 360 of your finest tariff points to spend at the quality university of my choice.
Mum’s still gunning for Oxford, Cambridge or Imperial. As we know, Dad doesn’t do opinions (’just want you to be happy, love’). And sciencey uncle Markus still wants me to study flowers in South America before going to, yes, Oxford, Cambridge or Imperial.
But, since I have no desire to sit around eating Bean Feast, listening to Bob Marley and being earnest, they’re going to be disappointed. I’ll go to uni, but next year. Got plenty of time to choose somewhere.
You know I’d love to come with you when you go to Australia Bicks but, as last time I checked I had £3.62 in my bank, that’s sort of unlikely.
And, while I’d like to think I could do a you, Em, and do Good Works, I’m almost certainly too selfish. I’d miss my home comforts too much. (Do they have Cash in the Attic in Nepal??)
So, gap year it is. I’ll get a job, try to save some money, and try not to feel too lonely with all my SELFISH BLOODY FRIENDS off at uni or Abroad.
On which note, TEXT ME YOUR RESULTS! Slackers.
On that bombshell, I must go. Antiques-based telly waits for no man. Or woman. Uh-huh, I know how to celebrate.
Laterzzzzzz.