I like school, in general, but it rhymes with ‘cruel’ and sometimes that ain’t no co-inki-dink. This Monday morning is not beginning itself well for me. I have a pounding headache and v little voice. My throat is raw and my limbs feel leaden. BUT I am determined to go to school because it is totes unthinkable to miss the first day back after the show and all the action and chat that will bring along with it. Besides, I have a postbox to attend to and money to make. I may feel cruddy, but as the song says, L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
The Assembly hall is BUZZING with talk of the show. The Guitars are getting slapped on the back and Delia is congratulated by anyone who can get near her through her crowd of admirers. She looks a bit bemused by it all. She is one person when she’s performing or on TV and another in ‘real life’. I wonder if it’ll get to her eventually that everyone expects her to be funny all the time, and that they think they must tell her all their bad jokes too!
The principal just can’t help himself as he addresses Assembly. He tells us, ‘I know you were all very proud of your schoolmates, but remember you are here to be educated. And to our wonderful contestants, do remember that too. You boys are back in town and I wouldn’t like you or Delia making spectacles of yourselves.’ He gives a little laugh as if at his own devilish cleverness, but mostly to show that he has made a joke in case we missed it. OUCH!
He’s clearly proud as punch to reveal that he:
a) is watching the show and
b) has a sense of humour and
c) is ‘hip’ with us kids.
We all stand with our mouths hanging open.
‘Oh. My. GROAN,’ Dixie groans. ‘He really did that, didn’t he? He really just said that, he went there.’
‘Adults should stay away from making jokes,’ I say. ‘They have a weird sense of humour.’
‘Agreed. Embarrassing,’ is Uggs’s verdict.
When will it happen to us, I wonder, as we grow up? It’s like, when does a lamb stop bouncing and jumping around and suddenly become a sheep that just eats grass and not much more?
My dad loves words and can’t resist puns as a result. He often makes a groanworthy quip and says, ‘Do you see? Do you see what I did there?’ just to rub it in.*
We always go, ‘Yes, Dad, we see,’ sighing sadly at his effort.
‘Blinded by it,’ Dermot once told him.
Delia sidles over and says, ‘I feel I should apologize for causing that groanworthy display from the Head.’
‘You’re only partly responsible,’ I tell her. ‘There are ten other people in the mix with you.’
‘Musicians,’ Uggs says, nodding at the splendid villainy of that. ‘Rebels and troublemakers always, since the dawn of time.’
Delia brightens. ‘Great, so. Rabble-rousing is a fine way to start the week.’
We all laugh at that because we all feel a bit involved and naughty. It feels good. Unlike my general head area, which is fuzzy and throbbing.
Dixie has made a poster, which she pins to the main school noticeboard.
And, we’re off!
‘First eight gone already,’ she tells us as the bell for class rings and we make our way to double Maths. My face hurts to think of the brainwork I may have to do over the next hour with a head full of, well, snot. Still, we’re ‘quids up’ and that’s a warm and happy place, a case of figures adding up, I think, and I groan. Here I am tying everything up, making it relevant to my Maths class, for fruitsake – I must have caught that from the principal and his cringe-making TFX speech. My head hurts a little more now that I have ‘gone there’. Eek!
