Awakening

The room is enchanting- bare brick walls, adorned with all sorts of oddities- portraits, paintings, butterfly wings, ladders. The floor is vast, but littered with chairs and instruments. It’s the sort of room you could quite easily lose yourself in for hours, and keep finding new secrets that you hadn’t noticed before.
Suddenly, it’s plunged into darkness. Infinitely slowly, dots of light begin to glow through the murk- bulbs on strings act as improvised stars, illuminating a solitary chair. Standing on that chair is a girl- young, strangely bewitching looks, tightly curled hair and billowing dress. Her voice is delicate, her lullaby haunting.

An hour or so later, the girl is there once more; perched on a suspended platform, swinging silently in the dark. Her arms hoop around a broad-shouldered boy- all tightly curled hair and stormy eyes. Boys and girls in colourful dresses sit around them, hands raised to the platform, gazing upwards at the tryst. The boys shouts pierce the silence. Yet, he does not protest for long- soon, his lips are on the girls lips, then against her neck, then on her chest as he presses her down and unfastens her dress. She sighs in reply. His hands hitch up her skirt, delve for his own belt, and then mash his hips against hers. The people sat below them hum as they look upon the embrace. Suddenly, he thrusts; her leg shoots in the air; darkness.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then I suggest you discover Spring Awakening. I’m not much of a musical person, but as soon as I heard the soundtrack, I fell instantly and madly in love with Spring Awakening. It follows a group of teenagers in the late 19th century, as they reach puberty and discover the adult world- both sexually and emotionally. However, due to their parents’ inability to teach and guide them, maturity brings with it much despair.

I was a little apprehensive when I first heard it was coming to London, having fallen in love with the vocals of the original American cast (in particular, the original Moritz Steifel), but the London ensemble did not disappoint. It was a truly memorable show- and I wasn’t exactly complaining about the nudity, either…

Hampstead

David Mitchell (a literay genius, as far as I'm concerned), said this of Hampstead:

'The elevator doors open and you're suddenly out into a leafy street where even McDonald's had to tone down their red nad yellow for black and gold, to help it blend in with the bookshops. Old money lives in Hampstead. The last of the empire money. They take their grandchildren on birthday trips to the British Museum, and poison one anothers' spouses in elegant ways.'

Well, on our trip up last weekend, I saw no evidence of poisoning, but there was old money in abundance. Apparently, one should always check the charity shops when in London for a rare find; in Hampstead, you are confrotned with tweed suits, sensible heels, and shelves upon shelves of paperbacks. I did find a tialored tweed jacket (to be worn ironically, of course, with a minidress and coloured tights), but my friends convinced me it wasn't worth it; as J put it 'you just never know with charity shop tweed jackets- someone might've died in it!'

Apart from the charity shops, you had all of your usual high street fodder- big belts and big jewellery and big bags and tiny clothes. And, of course, chic overpriced eateries, which entice you with window display desserts, and then demand extortionate amounts of money for sub-standard icing.

And, of course, a little diamond shopping- well, a girl needs to treat herself every now and then! Sadly, I blew every penny I have in the madness that is the January sales, so I was merely browsing. It was slightly heartbreaking, seeing all of those shiny pretty thigns sparkling the mid-afternoon behind the plates of glass. I'm a bit of a fan of shiny things- Hell, I'm a bit of a fan for anything that involves blowing alot of money at once...

List

Christ on a bicycle- the shit has hit the fan. Again.
The college I attend is an all-girls' affair, and I also went to the linked secondary school. This has its advantages (the naughty catholic schoolgirl stigma) and disadvantages (every who doesn't know me assumes I'm filthy rich, or batting for the other team). However, there is one disadvantage that seems to stick out head and shoulders above the rest; it seems everyone knows everyone's business.
I can pass any girl in the hallway, and tell you who she's sleeping with, who she wishes she was sleeping with, the last time she dyed her hair and and whose front lawn she woke up on after her most recent night on the town.
Now, admittedly, most of my worst behavior occurs at parties (i.e right in the public eye), and so I have no qualm with people knowing my business. What I do have a problem with is people committing my business to paper, in a sort of sex-name-and-shame burn book.

What happened is this: after a forum last week, a group of girls got together after school, and, after finding nothing constructive or interesting to do, they decided to update the sex list. This is an age-old tradition in our school- it is basically a long list of girls' names, and beside their name is a list of everyone who they've ever slept with. Aside from this being slightly creepy and completely unnecessary, most people were not best pleased when the list of Domesday proportions (what can I say, we've been very busy girls)ended up in the hands of the faculty.

Yes. A comprehensive list of everyone's sexual partners is likely to be tacked up in the staff room as we speak.

Now, the teachers have asked the usual suspects why this list came into fruition. All of the perpetrators have come forward, but the teachers are still refusing to hand over the list, prompting all sorts of nightmarish speculation. After all, if they won't return the list, what's not to say it's not actually tacked up in the staffroom for all to see?

I, for one, will not be happy if this turns out to be the case- there are certain things that you just don't want your teachers to know...

Phoenix

K grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the corridor; past a parade of superheroes, cartoon characters, rave kids, rock stars and showgirls.
'What is it?' I ask. Maybe she can't hear me over the music, maybe she's just ignoring me- either way she doesn't answer. She yanks me up the spiral staircase; the parade of costumed teens swirl below me,as if in a kaleidoscope. I suddenly snap back to attention as K pokes my rib.
'Look!'
We appear to be in a hallway full of couples making out. I scan the room for something noticeable; a showgirl grinding against a vampire; two rave kids heading for a bedroom; a schoolgirl removing a boy's shirt.
Oh.
A boy I had seen stroking K's hair less than an hour ago.
'Shit...'
Before I can say anything else, K is dragging me back downstairs, past a group of topless dancers, past the towers of cans in the kitchen and straight outside. She lets go of me suddenly, running into the night, arms flailing behind her like tan streamers. 'Fuck!' I her hear curse as she comes to a stop still. She sits on the wall at the top of the drive, drunkenly swaying.
'I thought... he was...' half-formed words spill for her mouth, the ends of sentences shrouded in alcohol. 'She's probably fucking him right now'
I hug her. It's all I can do. We sit in silence, mascara-streaked tears silently falling down her face. I can't tell what is drunkenness and what is heartache.
K is a complex creature- depressed, drunk, slightly anorexic- if there's a disorder she;s probably had it. But, like a phoenix in the flames, she always seems to rise above her internal dramas, turning up to a party looking more fabulous than any of us thought humanly possible. The one thing she really can't rise above is boys- she is essentially a hopeless romantic. Once she sets on them, that's it- she's theirs, irrevocably, even if they don't want her. Heartache in such instant attachments is almost inevitable, but can usually be drowned by masses of vodka and a new target.
K notices I'm shivering- I am, after all, only wearing a badly-thought out Ann Summers ensemble.
'Go fetch my bag.'
'Why?'
'I'm going home.'
I sigh, agreeing to her demands. Back inside, the heat and smell are suddenly overbearing. I crawl all over the house- how hard can an orange vinyl bag be to find?- but no sign. I ask around, but mainly just get blank looks or casual gropes for my trouble.
There's only one room left- the room which the boy just disappeared into.
No choice, I guess.
I throw open the door unabashedly, still worrying what i might discover.
No need for such worries, it seems- the room is full of people, the schoolgirl he was embracing nowhere to be seen.
'Is K alright?' someone asks.
'I saw her disappearing into the bathroom earlier- she's not bulimic again, is she?'
'Umm... no, no i don't think so. She's just... she's leaving.'
'What? Why?' The boy looks up, curious. Everyone waits for an answer.
'Not now,' I usher, 'Have you seen her bag?'

Midnight (Part II)

An hour or so later, we sit alone, whispering the New Year into existence.
'Any resolutions?' he asks, he hand still stroking circles across my spine.
'Yeh,' I hesitate, wondering if I should be disclosing this much to a boy I've never spoken to before, 'To take things slower, with boys.'
'I can help you with that.'
'You can, but you won't.'
His thumb strokes my lip, silencing me. I'm lifted off him. He presses my back against the cool wall, our legs intertwining. I gaze up at him, his soft features illuminated by a string of blue fairy lights above us. His hands skim my arms, shoulders, neck, chin. My face is tilted to meet his, those warm lips tracing my features until, just when I can't take anymore, he kisses me again. The gentle tug of his lips against mine, so impassioned, so charged, so... unexpected. I can feel myself shuddering, but he holds me against his chest, so I'm secure and disarrayed all at once.
My heart begins to slow once more- I look up into his dark eyes, wondering why I hadn't noticed them before.
He shakes his head.
'What?' I ask.
'How did this happen to us?'
'I don't know.' And I don't.