The First Day Back

It is about to happen. The day every school child dreads the most.

The first day back in September.

I usually enjoy the first day back, the stationery buying, the gleefulness of being one year older, the enjoyment of rolling eyes at the new year sevens. However this year I am going to do my GCSEs which is quite a flipping terrifying prospect. Despite this, I have a plan to begin my year with the kind of inner-poise and altogether-ness usually associated with mature business women returning to a high-paid job in London, New York or similar after a wonderful and relaxing countryside getaway with their sleek black Labrador.

The plan is to wake up nice and early, a good hour before I need to leave the house, and start my day with some peaceful yoga, refraining from bowing and saying ‘namaste’ to a teddy bear like last time since I am now mature and grown-up. I shall then tuck in to a healthy breakfast of chopped fresh fruit and some nice wholemeal toast (not coated in Nutella – I know right, this just got serious) before getting calmly into my uniform and gliding out of the house with a pre-packed bag and a healthy packed lunch and moving effortlessly to the bus stop, where classmates will praise me on my radiance and tranquillity.

What I fear will actually happen is I will sleep through all three of my alarms and end up frantically rushing around the house picking up things I think on any level I may need throughout my day and flinging them into my bag, before eating Nutella from the jar and trying to extinguish a small fire from my burnt toast. Instead of calmly getting dressed I will end up trying to multitask in manner of octopus by cleaning my teeth at the same time as trying to ram my legs into tights that are much too long, and coming to the horrifying realisation that I have inadvertently managed to get both of my legs into the same bit of tight. Then there is the issue of the uniform itself; I have a sneaking suspicion that those who created our woolen school skirts paid the farmer to go around rubbing all his sheep to find the most itchy ones before shearing them and having them stitched into the longest, nun-like outfits possible, into which we tuck our shirts which at the same time manage to be fantastically unflattering while also being pretty much see-through. I have a feeling I will have to do a bit of running to get to the bus on time and will arrive red in the face with hair flying around me in manner of witch who has recently dismounted a broomstick.

But that’s just me…

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