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A Life In The Day Of Me by Andy Taylor.

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A Life In The Day Of Me by Andy Taylor It is said that 666 is the number of the beast. This is completely wrong. It's 7:00. A pair of words glide slowly through the mists, floating up and down like a newspaper drifting across an empty street carried by a fresh breeze. They approach me, and gradually it occurs to me that the words are "up-town". They are shortly followed by another word, then another, until slowly a number of these words merge together to form a sentence. This sentence sits in the back of my mind for a few seconds like an embarrassed school-boy waiting outside the head-masters office, before eventually gathering the courage needed to break forward. The sentence formed is "Up-town girl, she's been living in an up-town world". My conscious mind slams into gear, missing the clutch and threatening to stall, before the association it has been looking for pops into being, bringing with it all the pain and confusion of a large nuclear warhead - Westlife. My head shoots up off the pillow faster than a bullet from a gun and I turn towards the offending object: my radio alarm clock. Slowly it fuses into a fuzzy mess that my feeble eyes seem to think is focus, and a groan escapes my lips as I see those dreaded numbers - 7:00. ...read more.


But this is not so. The cruel caretakers like to play a little game with us poor students, where each day they will lock one of the doors. It is up to us to guess which door is locked and which is unlocked, at the risk of looking like a complete tit in front of their friends. But I have come up with a cunning plan. I steal up to the door, looking over my shoulders like a frightened squirrel, praying that no-one is watching me, and carefully try a door. It doesn't budge. I smile to myself, knowing that my plan has worked and that I no longer face the imminent danger of embarrassment, and walk straight into the other door. Having found out the hard way that today they are in fact both locked, I pick myself up, and swear that someday I will get my revenge on the caretakers, and it shall be sweet. Now school is one of those unanswerable questions that life likes to throw in our faces like an unwashed pair of y-fronts. On the one hand, it is a brilliant opportunity to socialise and gain ourselves a sparkling education that will get us well-paid jobs and allow us to die fat, rich, and satisfied (or so they tell us). On the other hand it is one of the single most boring experiences ever devised by those evil little pixies that we pass off as our government. ...read more.


It's not as if she doesn't try, it's just that I'd probably prefer it if she didn't, as it doesn't usually add anything except a bad taste. Having force fed myself to please her, I wriggle free from her clutches and continue to avoid her for the rest of the night with the same effort and dedication that Osama Bin Laden puts into avoiding the American military. When bedtime finally arrives, I grudgingly check my alarm, setting the time to wake me up as 7:01 (anything to avoid 7:00), before throwing my school clothes on to the top bunk for their nightly crumpling. This is sometimes assisted by one of the cats, usually Felony (my 20 year old half sister Jessica's cat), sometimes Tiddles (my 17 year old sister Stella's cat), but never Maximillian - my Dad's fat cat, who sleeps on top of the washing machine, or in the dog's bed if the mood suits him. I take no responsibility for any of the names, as I'm not crazy, just a little disturbed. If any of the cats do decide to intervene in the nightly crumpling process, I have to search out some (relatively) clean clothes the next morning. As soon as all of this is dealt with I climb into my bed and either read or make desperate attempts at sleep. When it finally comes, I don't usually notice until the next morning when that noise interrupts again, and that ghastly green glow returns to haunt me... ...read more.

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