Oliver Bad Luck
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11 October
Right, so you wanted a story? Okay. And it is all thanks to Mrs. Periwinkle, my English teacher.
Mrs. Periwinkle, a woman whose enthusiasm for literature was matched only by her inability to grasp the concept of "fun," decided, in her infinite wisdom, that we, her captive audience of hormonal teenagers, needed to "express ourselves." Her grand solution? A diary.
A diary! Can you imagine? It wasn't even one of those cool, suspiciously ancient looking journals that a proper detective might use. No, this was a perfectly innocent, painfully beige exercise book. It looked like it had been designed by a committee whose sole purpose was to drain all joy from the universe. It was as inspiring as a damp sock. As thrilling as watching paint dry. As useful as a chocolate teapot in a heatwave.
"Oliver," Mrs. Periwinkle had chirped, her eyes gleaming with that terrifying optimism. "I want you to write in it every day. Your thoughts, your feelings, your observations on the world around you!"
My thoughts? My feelings? My observations? My thoughts usually revolved around how to avoid homework, my feelings were generally bored or hungry and my observations mostly consisted of noticing how much my classmates resembled various farm animals (Like I wasn't one..but why should I write about it?!). Not exactly Pulitzer Prize-winning material.
I mean, what was I supposed to write?
- Day 1: Woke up. Still in England. Still bored. The toast was adequately toasted. A truly gripping start.
- Day 2: Went to school. Mrs. Periwinkle droned on about Shakespeare. I considered faking a sudden, debilitating allergy to iambic pentameter. Decided against it. Too much effort.
- Day 3: My parents argued about the correct way to load the dishwasher. Riveting stuff. I considered running away and joining the circus, but then remembered I'm not particularly good at juggling. Or being cheerful.
The whole thing was utterly pointless. What was the point of writing down how utterly miserable you were? Did it make you less miserable? No. It just made you a miserable person with a written record of your misery. It was like documenting the Titanic sinking, but instead of trying to save anyone, you just meticulously noted how cold the water was. Darkly humorous perhaps, but entirely unhelpful.
Mrs. Periwinkle seemed to think it was some kind of magical cure for teenage angst. As if pouring my mundane existence onto cheap paper would somehow transform it into a thrilling saga. It was more likely to transform it into a fire hazard, given how quickly my boredom could spontaneously combust.
So every evening, I'd sit there, staring at that blank page, the beige abyss staring back. My pen would hover, poised, ready to record the thrilling minutiae of my day. "A fly landed on my window. It was quite large. It then flew away. The excitement was almost unbearable." Truly, a literary masterpiece in the making.
The diary wasn't a tool for self-discovery; it was a torture device disguised as stationery. It was a monument to the mundane. And Mrs. Periwinkle, bless her cotton socks, was the unwitting architect of my daily, existential dread. I swear, if I ever actually did have a thrilling adventure, I'd probably forget to write it down, too busy trying to survive. Which, as it turns out, was a rather prophetic thought.
2 November
Mrs. Periwinkle, in her infinite wisdom, had scheduled the great "Diary Hand-In Day" with all the solemnity of a national holiday. I approached her desk with the diary clutched in my hand, feeling like a condemned man presenting his own very dull death warrant. The beige book felt heavier than it had any right to, probably because it was crammed with the collective weight of my profound boredom and a few highly embellished accounts of eating biscuits.
She took it, her smile as fixed and unnerving as ever. "Ah, Oliver! I'm so looking forward to reading your insights. I'm sure it's a treasure trove of introspection!"
A treasure trove of introspection, she called it. More like a landfill of mediocrity. I nodded sagely, trying to look profound. "Indeed, Mrs. Periwinkle. I poured my soul into its pages." (By "poured my soul," I meant I spent twenty minutes each night staring at a blank page, then quickly scribbled down something vaguely plausible before rushing off to play video games.)
A few days later, the diaries were returned. Mine, predictably, came back with more red pen than a butcher's apron. Mrs. Periwinkle beckoned me over, her face a peculiar shade of... well, not quite angry, but definitely disappointed. It was the kind of disappointment usually reserved for damp fireworks or flat lemonade.
"Oliver," she began, her voice a low cinematic sigh, "I'm afraid I have some... concerns." She tapped a page with her pen. "Here, on Day 4: 'Today, the sky was blue. It was quite blue.' Is that truly all you observed?"
I shrugged. "Well, it was very blue, Mrs. Periwinkle. Exceptionally so, in fact. One might even call it... azure." I tried to sound poetic. She clearly wasn't buying it.
She flipped to another page. "And this entry, on Day 7: 'Contemplated the futility of human existence whilst consuming a cheese sandwich. The sandwich was adequate.' Is this your deepest thought...? The futility of existence linked to a cheese sandwich?"
"It was a particularly philosophical sandwich, Mrs. Periwinkle," I explained, trying to sound earnest. "One feels a profound connection to the dairy products at such times."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "And what of your feelings? You mention 'bored' an astonishing eighteen times in the first two weeks. And 'hungry' a further twelve. Are these truly the only emotions you experience?"
"Well, Mrs. Periwinkle," I replied, feeling a familiar flush creeping up my neck. "As a connoisseur of emotions, I find 'bored' and 'hungry' to be quite fundamental. One must master the basics before delving into the more... complex neuroses."
She sighed, a long drawn out sound that could have deflated a hot air balloon. "Hey, your diary reads less like a journey of self discovery and more like a police report from a very uneventful surveillance operation. Or perhaps," she paused, her eyes narrowing, "a desperate cry for help disguised as profound apathy."
I managed a weak, innocent smile. "Just exploring the depths of the human condition, Mrs. Periwinkle. It's a vast and often uninteresting, ocean."
She closed the diary. "Hey," she said, her voice firm, "you will continue to write in this diary. And I expect to see some actual introspection, and perhaps, just perhaps, a glimmer of something resembling... joy."
And so, the diary continued its thankless existence. Every night, I'd stare at the blank page, a battle of wills between my profound disinterest and Mrs. Periwinkle's unwavering optimism. My entries became increasingly desperate in their attempts to sound profound without actually being profound.
- Day 15: "The intricate dance of dust motes in a sunbeam suggests a cosmic indifference to our petty squabbles. Also, I was out of my favourite biscuits."
- Day 21: "One ponders the true meaning of 'crispy' versus 'crunchy.' A philosophical quandary that perhaps humanity is not yet ready to address. Lunch was passable."
Mrs. Periwinkle however, remained unmoved. Her comments in the margins were increasingly pointed. "Oliver, please elaborate on your 'feelings' about the sunbeam. Were they feelings of joy? Sadness? Hunger?" The woman was relentless.
One afternoon, during a particularly mind numbing lesson on the symbolism of a fallen leaf (honestly it was just a leaf), a thought, daring and slightly unhinged, crossed my brain. Mrs. Periwinkle wanted "actual introspection" and "joy"? Fine. I would give her introspection. And joy. The kind of joy that only a true connoisseur of chaos could appreciate.
That evening, I opened the beige prison, pen poised. This wasn't going to be about my dreary life anymore. This was going to be about creating a life. A thrilling, dangerous, utterly unbelievable life, filled with the sort of adventures that would make even Mrs. Periwinkle's hair curlers stand on end.
15 November - The Great Diary Deception
I decided to make my diary entries sound like something out of a spy movie, but still keeping them about my "normal" life. I’d write about secret missions in the school cafeteria, or how my boring homework was actually a code I had to crack. It was all a big joke, a way to trick Mrs. Periwinkle.
One night, after watching a spy film with Dad (he forced me to watch it obviously), I got an idea. A brilliant and crazy idea.
- Day 29: "Today, a suspicious-looking pigeon landed on my window. Its eyes seemed to follow my every move. I suspect it's working for the 'Organisation.' The secret message was hidden in my maths homework, disguised as fractions. Only I, Oliver, can understand it."
The next week, I got my diary back. Mrs. Periwinkle's usual neat red pen was all over it, but her comments were different. They weren't just about my lack of feelings.
"Uh," she wrote next to the pigeon entry, "this is... vivid. Perhaps too vivid. Are you quite alright?"
That just made me want to go even crazier. I started writing about mysterious figures lurking in the schoolyard and cryptic notes left in my locker that only I could understand. I even wrote about finding a hidden tunnel under the sports field, which was actually just a broken drainpipe.
- Day 35: "The tunnel beneath the football pitch hums with a strange energy. I believe it leads to an underground lair. I must investigate at night. My parents are, predictably, too busy with 'gardening' to notice my vital work."
I handed in the diary while trying to keep a straight face. I wondered if Mrs. Periwinkle would finally realise I was messing with her. Or if she'd just think I needed serious help.
A few days later, she called me to her desk. Her face was pale. She didn't look mad or disappointed. She looked worried.
"Oliver," she whispered, her voice shaky. "About your diary. The... the tunnels. And the 'Organisation.' Are these things... real?"
I stared at her. She actually believed me. Or, at least, she was worried enough to think it might be real. A rush of triumph went through me. I had done it! I had tricked the untrickable Mrs. Periwinkle!
"Well, Mrs. Periwinkle," I said, trying to sound mysterious and a little bit sad. "Some things are best left unsaid. For everyone's safety, you understand."
She just nodded slowly, her eyes wide. She looked like she'd just seen a ghost. I knew then that my diary wasn't boring anymore. It was a weapon. And I, Oliver, was a master of it.
Mrs. Periwinkle. Oh, that woman. You might think I was just being a naturally brilliant prankster, doing it for the sheer artistic merit of deception. And yes, a part of it was about proving my undeniable genius. But mostly? Mostly, it was because Mrs. Periwinkle was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most miserable human being I had ever encountered, and she seemed to make it her personal mission to spread that misery to every unfortunate soul in her classroom.
Every single day was a battle. She'd glide into the room, a walking cloud of doom, with a sigh that could deflate a bouncy castle. Her voice, a monotonous drone, would launch into another lecture about poetry that was older than dirt, or grammar rules so obscure they felt like traps. She’d go on and on about "literary merit" and "emotional depth," when the only emotional depth I felt was the bottomless pit of boredom opening up inside me.
And her eyes! They weren't just disappointed; they were actively judging. Like she could see right through your perfectly crafted facade of indifference and knew exactly how much you'd rather be anywhere else. She'd ask a question, and if your answer wasn't coated in layers of metaphorical meaning and profound insight, she'd sigh again, making you feel like you'd personally failed the entire history of literature.
She made learning English feel like a slow and painful dental surgery. Every essay was a mountain, every reading assignment a punishment. She made me feel like my brain was a barren wasteland, completely devoid of anything worthwhile. She wanted "joy" in my diary? How could I find joy when she sucked it out of the air like a human misery vacuum cleaner?
So, the diary pranks? That was my tiny act of rebellion. My little way of fighting back. If she wanted "introspection," I'd give her introspection so bizarre it would make her question her entire career choice. If she wanted "joy," I'd give her the perverse joy of watching her slowly lose her grip on reality over a fictional secret society and a killer pigeon. It was pure, unadulterated payback. And frankly, it felt pretty good.
A few weeks after my daring diary deception, Mrs. Periwinkle decided it was time for a grand assessment. A proper English literature test on some dreadful old poem about a man who talks to a bird. Riveting. I’d barely glanced at the poem, figuring my natural brilliance would carry me through. Turns out, natural brilliance doesn't always translate to understanding archaic verse.
The test itself was a wasteland of confusing questions and cryptic demands for "deeper meaning." My answers, while undoubtedly creative and brimming with my usual flair, were probably not what Mrs. Periwinkle was looking for. I likely interpreted the bird's chirping as a secret code from an underground espionage ring, or something equally plausible.
When the results came back, my paper stood out like a sore thumb in a room full of glowing stars. It wasn't just bad; it was, by Mrs. Periwinkle’s standards, a literary catastrophe. A resounding, soul-crushing 6 Or, as she dramatically called it, "an effort that suggests a profound misunderstanding of both the text and the fundamental principles of academic endeavor." Basically, I’d messed up big time.
Parental Peril
Now, a bad grade, for most normal teenagers, is just a bad grade. For me, Oliver, with my parents, it was a full-blown international incident. Because Mrs. Periwinkle, not content with merely inflicting misery in the classroom, took it upon herself to deliver the bad news personally. To my parents.
I knew it was coming. The dreaded phone call. The way Mrs. Periwinkle’s eyes had lingered on me after handing back the test, a silent promise of impending doom. I braced myself. But nothing truly prepares you for the sheer theatricality of parental disappointment.
That evening, the phone rang. Mum answered, her voice chirpy. Within seconds, it dropped, then sharpened. I could hear snippets even from my room: "...profound misunderstanding..." "...lack of effort..." "...Oliver's potential..." It was like listening to my own execution, but with a far less exciting soundtrack.
When Mum finally hung up, she came into my room, Dad trailing behind her like a loyal, equally perturbed bloodhound. Mum’s face was a masterpiece of controlled fury, Dad’s a mask of grim exasperation.
"Oliver," Mum began, her voice dangerously calm, "The English Teacher just called."
I tried to look innocent. "Oh? Anything interesting?"
Dad sighed. "She says you got an 6 on your English test."
"A 6, Oliver!" Mum burst out, the controlled fury was becoming annoying. "How could you? Mrs. Periwinkle said it was... it was..." She struggled for the words, as if the sheer horror of my grade was unspeakable. "...'a disappointment'!"
I shrugged attempting nonchalance. "Well perhaps the test simply failed to capture my true genius. It was rather poorly designed actually. And the poem, frankly, was dull."
Mum's eyes narrowed. "Dull? This is not a joke! Mrs. Periwinkle was quite concerned. She said you seemed... distracted. And that your recent diary entries were 'alarming'!"
My blood ran cold. The diary. My brilliant prank was backfiring. It seemed my fictional adventures were causing more trouble than my real ones. And that, I realised, was a truly masterful piece of dark comedy. Just not for me.
Right, so after that delightful conversation with Mum and Dad, and the looming shadow of Mrs. Periwinkle’s disappointment, you might be thinking I'm some kind of gloomy cloud of misery. And yes, when they're around, especially Mrs. Periwinkle, I admit I can lean into the whole "misunderstood genius trapped in a dull world" vibe. But let's be clear: I'm not a permanently "depressed" teenager. Not by a long shot.
The Real Me (Minus the Grown-Ups)
When the parental units and the English teacher of doom aren't breathing down my neck, life is actually pretty wild. Especially during school breaks. That's when the real Oliver comes out to play. My friends are always up for some proper, unadulterated chaos.
We don't just sit around playing video games though that has its moments. No, we engage in what I like to call "strategic urban recreation." Like the time we managed to somehow inflate a giant inflatable unicorn in the middle of the school quad during lunch, much to the headmaster's utter bewilderment. Or the legendary "Great Chip Shop Heist," where we meticulously planned the acquisition of extra free chips by deploying a series of increasingly elaborate sob stories to the unsuspecting server. (My performance as a starving orphan was particularly compelling if I do say so myself.)
There was also the time we engineered a complex system of elastic bands and paper airplanes to launch a packet of biscuits from the top floor of the library straight into the hands of our friend waiting below. It was a masterpiece of physics, really. We nearly took out a passing pigeon, but that's just collateral damage in the pursuit of scientific advancement and a mid-afternoon snack.
My One True Academic Love
And speaking of physics, let me tell you about Ms. Albright. Now, she's a teacher. Ms. Albright is brilliant. She's got this wild, curly hair that always looks like she's just been struck by a bolt of pure inspiration, which she probably has. She doesn't drone on about old poems or demand "feelings" about dust motes. No, Ms. Albright understands how the world really works.
The best part? She rarely gives tests. Instead, it's all project Glorious, open-ended, brilliantly complex projects. Want to build a working model of a roller coaster? Go for it. Design a system to clean up ocean plastic? Absolutely. She lets us experiment, make a magnificent mess, and actually do things. It's exhilarating. It's the kind of academic pursuit that really gets my brain buzzing unlike trying to figure out what Shakespeare meant by a "sea of troubles" (probably just a bad commute if you ask me).
So yeah, when the forces of parental expectation and literary misery aren't actively trying to crush my spirit, I'm actually a pretty fun chap. And quite brilliant obviously. It's just that sometimes, the universe and my parents and Mrs. Periwinkle seem determined to prove otherwise.
Right, so after Mrs. Periwinkle’s rather alarming discovery of my literary genius – or what she probably perceived as a cry for professional help – the diary didn't exactly vanish into obscurity. Oh no. It went straight into the hands of the parental units.
21 November
I came home from school one afternoon, blissfully unaware, whistling a tune (probably something inappropriately cheerful given my life's general state of affairs). I walked into the living room, and there they were. Mum and Dad sitting on the sofa. With the diary open.
Mum looked like she'd just discovered a nest of particularly venomous spiders in the sugar bowl. Dad meanwhile, was meticulously polishing his glasses, his face a mask of grim, strained concentration. The beige book lay between them like a ticking time bomb. My heart sank faster than a lead balloon in a swamp.
"Oliver," Mum began, her voice a low, trembling accusation. "What... what is this?" She gestured vaguely at the diary, as if it were a highly offensive alien artefact.
Dad cleared his throat. "We've just been speaking with Mrs. Periwinkle, son. She was... concerned." He picked up the diary, his finger landing on a particularly vivid entry. "'The shadowy figure in the school library, communicating via coded whispers only discernible through the unique frequency of the librarian's clearing her throat.' Oliver, what in God's name is this about?"
My cheeks flushed. They were actually reading it. My brilliant, darkly humorous masterpiece of deception. And they weren't amused. They were... terrified.
"It's... it's a story," I muttered trying to sound casual, like any normal, well-adjusted teenager writes about secret organisations hidden beneath the sports pitch. "For English. Creative writing, you know?"
"Creative writing?!" Mum shrieked, suddenly finding her full voice. "Oliver, Mrs. Periwinkle says you're writing about secret tunnels and 'the Organisation'! She thinks you're either deeply disturbed or involved in something utterly inappropriate! And what's this about 'Mr. Henderson in Chemistry' being a double agent?"
Dad slammed the diary shut. "Are you making these things up, Oliver? Or is there something going on that you're not telling us?" His voice was low and dangerous. The kind of dangerous that usually precedes being grounded until you're old enough to vote.
And that's when something inside me snapped. All the boredom, all the lectures, all the misery Mrs. Periwinkle inflicted, the endless questions about my "feelings," the constant judgment, the "6" on the test- it all just bubbled up.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" I screamed, my voice cracking with a mixture of rage and sheer and unadulterated frustration. "You're actually asking me if my boring and awful life is a secret spy mission?! This is your fault! All of it! Mrs. Periwinkle makes everything so fucking dull I had to make up something just to feel like I was alive! You complain I'm not 'creative' and not 'expressing myself,' and when I do, you think I'm insane?! You want 'introspection'? You want 'feelings'? Fine! My feelings are that this whole ass situation is ridiculous! And Mrs. Periwinkle is a human black hole of joy that sucks the life out of every single bloody day! So yeah I made it all up! Because my real life, thanks to all of you is too boring to even write about!"
I stood there panting, my chest heaving, probably red in the face. Mum and Dad just stared at me, their mouths slightly agape. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by my own ragged breathing.
I stormed off, my lungs still burning from the screaming match, and slammed my bedroom door shut with a satisfying boom. I didn't bother turning on the light. The faint glow from the streetlights outside was enough. I just stumbled over to my bed and threw myself onto it, face-first, letting out a muffled groan into the pillow.
My brain was a chaotic mess. The argument with my parents, Mrs. Periwinkle's horrified face, the 6 on the test... it was all swirling around. My entire "brilliant idea" to spice up my life with a fake spy diary had spectacularly backfired. Now, instead of just being "distracted," my parents probably thought I was having some kind of mental breakdown, fantasising about secret organisations and underground tunnels. The diary, my masterpiece of dark humour had become a real piece of evidence against me.
I lay there for a long time, just breathing heavily, staring at the dimly lit ceiling. The thought of another day in Mrs. Periwinkle's class, another lecture, another diary entry... it felt like a life sentence.
I was tired of just writing about adventures; I wanted to have one. A real one. One that didn't require me to make up stories about pigeons.
But what? My phone was still clutched in my hand, a useless slab of plastic. There was no one to call who understood. No one to plot with. My friends? They were allowed to do and feel whatever. Just me, stuck in this beige room, in this beige town, with a head full of wild ideas and a life too boring to contain them. I eventually drifted off to sleep, the quiet hum of Sussex doing nothing to quiet the desperate craving for something, anything to happen.
I slammed my bedroom door shut, the sound echoing the storm raging inside me. I threw myself onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow, the anger from the argument with my parents still fizzing in my veins. My brilliant diary prank had backfired spectacularly, turning my mundane existence into a supposed cry for help.
The Parental Intervention
The next morning, the air in the house was thick with an unnatural quiet. No usual shouts about breakfast, no passive aggressive comments about my phone usage. Just... silence. That in itself was unsettling. I walked into the kitchen bracing myself for the usual barrage of questions about my homework, but instead I found Mum and Dad sitting at the table, looking like they'd just attended a very depressing seminar on "Teenage Melancholy."
"Oliver," Mum started, her voice unnervingly soft, like she was talking to a fragile bird. "We've been doing some thinking."
Dad, looking equally uncomfortable nodded gravely. "Yes, son. About... everything."
My stomach did a nervous flip. This wasn't about the test anymore. This was about the diary. And my feelings. Did they watch one of those parenting videos with the title "Signs your child might want a hug"?
"Mrs. Periwinkle," Mum continued, her gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made me want to bolt, "she mentioned... your entries. And how you described yourself as 'bored' and 'hungry' so often." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Oliver, darling, your father and I... we're concerned. We think you might be... generally sad."
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Generally sad? Me, the connoisseur of chaos, the master of sarcastic wit, the very definition of a thriving, if slightly misunderstood, genius? The idea was preposterous! I hated depression myself. I am not like this all the time. It's just a time when everything is just super boring. And anyway, what do people bomb their diaires with?
"Sad?" I scoffed, trying to sound offended, but my voice came out a little higher than usual. "No! I'm not sad! I'm just... bored! And you two, and Mrs. Periwinkle, make everything boring!"
Mum's eyes welled up. "See, Philip? He's lashing out. It's a classic sign!"
Dad put a comforting hand on her arm, still looking at me with that worried, searching expression. "It's okay to talk about these things. We just want you to be happy. Perhaps we could... find you someone to talk to? A professional?"
A professional. They thought I needed a shrink because I found my life utterly devoid of excitement. The irony was so thick you could cut it with a blunt butter knife. Here I was, desperate for a real adventure, and they thought I was spiralling into despair. It was, I had to admit, a darkly hilarious turn of events. But it was also terrifying. They weren't just disappointed now; they were genuinely worried I was broken. And that, I realised, was a far more complicated problem to solve.
The Diary Debrief: A WhatsApp Catastrophe
The "depression" talk from my parents was, frankly, a new low. A true testament to Mrs. Periwinkle’s horrible influence. Lying in bed later that evening trying to plot my escape from this mental health intervention, a thought struck me. I wasn't the only poor soul forced to endure the beige horror of the diary. My friends, those glorious, chaotic individuals, had also been subjected to Mrs. Periwinkle's literary torture.
I grabbed my phone, navigating to our WhatsApp group chat. The screen name, "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (and Liam)," was a fitting tribute to our collective brilliance. And perfect to troll around, you know. A sarcastic ahh name...very sarcastic of me. My thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Me: Alright gentlemen. Urgent debrief required. How did the diary presentation to your parents go?
The replies started trickling in almost immediately. Clearly I wasn't the only one having a crisis of literary proportions.
Gaz: Mate it was a disaster. She told me my "insights lacked emotional resonance." I literally wrote about my cat. How much more emotional can you get than a cat?!
Me: your feline muse wasn't sufficiently tortured. Mine thinks I'm forming an underground paramilitary unit 😂💀
Liam: lol mine just got a smiley face and "vague." What does that even mean?! Was it good vague or bad vague?!
Me: Knowing Periwinkle probably "vague" as in "this is vaguely disappointing."
Jay: My mum cried actual tears. Periwinkle told her my entries showed "a concerning lack of ambition." I just wrote about wanting to get a decent score on Fortnite. Is that not ambition?
Me: Mine thinks I'm clinically ill because I found my life too boring to write about
The irony is absolutely killing me
Gaz: Lmao she thinks ur posessed? 💀
Me: Yeahhh parental units currently discussing "deep school and emotional talk" 😭😭 All thanks to my daring literary escapades into fictional secret societies. Apparently documenting a mundane existence is a sign of mental fragility. Who knew?
Liam: lolololololololololol
Jay: Mine's calling the school councillor tomorrow. Good luck dude. You're going to need it
I sighed staring at my phone. So my diary wasn't just a prank; it was a fullblown parental and institutional catastrophe for all involved. Mrs. Periwinkle had unleashed a wave of teenage angst disguised as literary expression, and the fallout was glorious. And utterly disastrous. Just the way I liked it.
What do you think Mrs. Periwinkle's reaction would be if she ever stumbled upon our WhatsApp groupchat?
That evening, the WhatsApp group chat was buzzing with the shared misery of our diary assignments. It was oddly comforting to know I wasn't the only one whose "introspection" had led to parental alarm. Liam's mom calling the school counsellor was a particularly dark highlight.
23 November
The next day at school, Mrs. Periwinkle looked... different. Less like a human misery vacuum, more like someone who'd just seen a ghost. Her usual sharp gaze was a little unfocused, and she kept adjusting her spectacles as if trying to bring the world back into focus.
She returned our diaries. When she handed mine back, her fingers brushed mine, and I swear she flinched. The red pen was gone. Instead, there was a single, neatly written note at the bottom of the last entry: "Oliver, please come see me after class. URGENT." The word "URGENT" was underlined twice.
My heart did a little drum solo. This wasn't about grades or feelings anymore. This was about the "Organisation."
After the bell, I approached her desk. She looked up, her face pale. "Oliver," she began, her voice a low whisper, "I've been thinking about your diary. And... I've been doing some research."
My mind raced. Had she tried to find the "underground lair" under the sports field? Had she googled "Organisation with pigeon operatives"? The possibilities were terrifyingly amusing.
"Your descriptions, Oliver," she continued, her eyes wide, "they are... remarkably detailed. The 'shadowy figures,' the 'coded whispers,' the 'surveillance operations.' It's all so... specific." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "I've been reading about cold war espionage. And certain... agencies. And I can't help but wonder..."
She looked at me, her gaze piercing. "Oliver, are you, by any chance, a child operative?"
I stared at her. For a moment, my usual witty retorts completely abandoned me. She wasn't just believing my nonsense; she thought I was a child spy! It was so utterly ridiculous, so magnificently absurd, that a strange sort of triumph swelled in my chest. This was beyond anything I could have hoped for.
"Mrs. Periwinkle," I said, trying to keep my face serious, trying not to burst out laughing. "I'm not a spy teacher. I made all that up, come on." I gave her my most enigmatic world weary look.
Her eyes widened further. She simply nodded slowly, a new, unsettling understanding dawning in her gaze. It was clear she now believed every single word of my fictional exploits. And as I walked out of that classroom, leaving Mrs. Periwinkle to ponder the intricacies of child espionage, I knew one thing for certain: my diary, once a monument to boredom, had become a testament to my genius. And, perhaps, a ticking time bomb of future confusion for my English teacher.
I trudged back home, the fluorescent glare of the school hallway still burning behind my eyes, thoroughly fed up with the entire day's proceedings. The "spy" nonsense with Mrs. Periwinkle, the exhausting performance of anger – it was all just too much. I just wanted to be swallowed by my duvet and wake up in a universe where diaries were simply used for jotting down grocery lists.
The Unexpected Embrace
I pushed open the front door, expecting the usual quiet hum of an empty house or, at best, a casual "You're home" from whichever parent happened to be lurking. Instead, the moment my foot crossed the threshold, I was ambushed.
My mum, appearing seemingly out of nowhere lunged at me. Not with a lecture, not with a sigh of disappointment, but with a fullblown hug. It was the kind of hug usually reserved for returning war heroes or long lost pets. Her arms wrapped around me so tightly I briefly worried about my ribcage.
"Oliver! Oh, my precious boy! Are you alright?"
I raised my eyebrow. Then she held me a lecture about the diary, going to "I think you feel misunderstood". Her voice was muffled against my shoulder, a frantic mixture of concern and relief. She pulled back slightly, her hands gripping my shoulders, her eyes scanning my face as if looking for invisible battle scars.
I blinked. "Misunderstood?" That was her takeaway from my epic outburst about boredom and fake spy rings? Not "mad," or "deeply troubled," but "misunderstood"? It was almost more frustrating than the actual shouting.
The Glorious Absurdity of Existence
I finally disentangled myself from Mum's embrace, stepping back into the slightly unnerving quiet of the living room. "I'm fine," I muttered, though my brain felt less "fine" and more like a deflated balloon.
It makes you wonder, doesn't it? About life. You try to be normal, to just get through the day, and then boom! You're either a depressed teenager with a penchant for fictional espionage, or a misunderstood artist prone to "cathartic releases." There's no middle ground. No gentle slope. Just a sudden, dramatic plunge into the utterly bizarre.
And the most hillarious part? I had started this whole diary thing to escape boredom, to prove I was clever. Now I was caught in a tangled web of my own making, with everyone projecting their wildest theories onto my own existence. Life seemed now to be boring at all. It was just spectacularly, hillariously, and inconveniently weird, And I was apparently at the very epicentre of its glorious absurdity. It was almost enough to make me want to write it all down. So yeah, this is how this whole paper story was born. Anger combined with boredom and absurdity gave birth to this, kind of bothered to say, actual journal.
I strolled through the front door, feeling rather pleased with myself. Breaking Mr. Peterson's spirit with a single, perfectly aimed question felt like a minor victory in the ongoing war against boredom. I half-expected my parents to be debating the precise geographical location of ancient Roman burial grounds, but no such luck. They were, predictably, focused on something far more mundane, and yet, in their own way, equally baffling.
The Laundry List of Doom
"Oliver!" Mum's voice cut through the afternoon quiet the moment I stepped inside. She emerged from the kitchen, a grim expression on her face, clutching a crumpled piece of paper. Dad was lurking behind her, looking vaguely uncomfortable, as if he'd just been volunteered for a particularly unpleasant chore.
"Welcome home, dear," Mum continued, but her tone suggested I had, in fact, just arrived at the scene of a major domestic incident. "We need to have a serious talk about your... contributions to the household." Wait. Wasn't I the sad little one that needed some rest? Oh well.
My heart sank. My personal triumphs always seemed to be met with a swift return to the crushing reality of chores. I braced myself. Had I left a rogue sock on the floor? Forgotten to flush a particularly uncooperative toilet? The possibilities for parental outrage were endless.
"Your father and I," she went on, waving the paper like it was a damning piece of evidence, "have compiled a list. Of things that simply aren't getting done."
Dad, clearly under duress, mumbled, "It's for the good of the family, son. Teamwork."
Mum held up the paper triumphantly. "First: your laundry. It's been accumulating for days. It's reached critical mass, Oliver. We found socks that could vote."
I scoffed. "Exaggeration, Mum. They were merely... seasoned."
"And your dishes," she pressed on, ignoring my witty retort, "they're breeding in the sink. We saw a spoon trying to escape."
"A valid evolutionary adaptation," I muttered, but it was lost to her momentum.
"Then there's your room," Dad chimed in, now pointing a finger. "It looks like a badger set had an argument with a clothes explosion. Why you had a mouldy sandwich under your bed?"
I narrowed my eyes. "That was for scientific observation! A long term study on organic decay!"
Mum sighed, a familiar, put-upon sound. "We just want you to be a more responsible member of this family. We're not asking for the moon, just for you to put your clothes in the hamper, wash your plate, and perhaps, occasionally, see the floor of your bedroom."
I stood there, surrounded by the tyranny of household chores. No recognition of my academic brilliance, no curiosity about the fate of Roman skeletons, just a relentless focus on laundry and decaying sandwiches. It was truly humbling. In the most infuriating way possible.
I found myself standing at the kitchen sink, a soapy sponge in one hand, a plate in the other. My audience for this was Snuggles, my white-brown cat, who was perched precariously on the counter, watching my every move with the intense, unblinking stare of a highly judgmental furry overlord.
"Honestly Snuggles," I muttered, scrubbing furiously at a crust, "you'd think they'd invented self-cleaning dishes by now. This is beneath my intellectual capabilities."
Snuggles blinked slowly, perhaps agreeing, perhaps just contemplating the fleeting nature of dry cat food.
"And the sheer audacity of it all," I continued, warming to my theme. "Accusing me of having mouldy sandwiches. As if I'm not conducting vital scientific research into the long-term decomposition of common foodstuffs."
Just then Mum walked in wiping her hands on a tea towel. She glanced at the sink and then at Snuggles, then at me. Her expression was strangely neutral.
"Oh, Oliver, dear," she said, almost casually, "just thought I'd mention. Your father and I have decided on a little trip. To London."
My scrubbing hand froze. I dropped the sponge with a splash. London? My London? The London of mysterious encounters and highly exaggerated diary entries? The London I’d only ever dreamed of exploring for real adventures?
"London?" I repeated, my voice coming out as a squeak. "When?"
"In about two weeks," Mum replied, picking up a rogue tea leaf from the counter. "Just a little cultural excursion. You know, museums, galleries. A bit of fresh air and broadening your horizons." She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And perhaps it will be good for your... mood. A change of scenery."
Snuggles, sensing my sudden change in emotional state, jumped gracefully from the counter and rubbed against my leg, purring loudly.
I stared at Mum, then at the half-washed plate, then at Snuggles. So, after all the drama about my diary, my "mood," and my general lack of enthusiasm for Sussex, they were sending me to the very place where real, non-fictional chaos might actually find me. It was either the most brilliant stroke of accidental genius on their part, or a truly magnificent piece of cosmic irony. Probably the latter. London. In two weeks. This was going to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.
Part Two: We Fell In Love in London
6 December
East Dulwich Sainsbury's
Elephant & Castle
Chloe
Realisation
Talk at the moon glim
Where the hell are we?
Stargazing
Woof
It's night-night time
Grigore
Chair
Knock-knock and Police
Just as I was about to launch into a simplified, highly edited version of my evening's escapades – omitting, of course, the parts involving strange men, syringes, and spontaneous trips – a new light, this one blue and flashing, decided to join the party. A police car, looking far too official for the quiet street, cruised slowly past, its headlights sweeping over us like an accusatory finger. My heart did a little jig of terror.
The car stopped. The window rolled down, and a policeman, looking entirely too well-rested for this hour, poked his head out. His eyes, surprisingly sharp, landed directly on me.
"Evening," he drawled, his voice calm, which was, frankly, more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. "You wouldn't happen to be an Oliver Miller, would you?"
My jaw probably hit the pavement. "Oliver Miller?" I spluttered, the name sounding utterly foreign and vaguely insulting. "No! I'm Oliver Maxwell!" The sheer audacity of being mistaken for some other Oliver was, frankly, a blow to my ego, even under these rather trying circumstances.
The neighbour merely blinked at the policeman, then back at me, as if this was all a perfectly normal Tuesday evening in Camberwell.
The officer however didn't seem impressed by my indignation. He gave me a nod. "Oliver Maxwell, is it? Right. Well, we've had a report. Missing person, fitting your description. Parents rather frantic, I'm told." His gaze swept over my dishevelled state, lingered on my probably-still-blushing cheeks, and then, rather pointedly, landed on my scraped knee. "Looks like you've had a bit of an evening, Mr. Maxwell."
My carefully constructed facade of cool indifference crumbled into a pile of unfortunate rubble. Missing person report? Frantic parents? This was far, far worse than a public spectacle; this was an actual, certified disaster. My brilliant solo adventure had culminated in a police interrogation on a quiet residential street, mistaken for some other chap, and with a rather unflattering injury.
"I can explain," I started, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak. Pathetic, even. How exactly was I supposed to explain the rottweiler, the near-miss with a car, the syringe, the concrete room, and the sudden, inexplicable appearance in Soho? It sounded like the ramblings of a lunatic.
The officer just raised an eyebrow, a clear invitation for me to elaborate. The neighbour, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying the show, her lips pursed in what I suspected was a smug little smile. This was going to be a long night.
"Right," I began, trying to pull myself together, to sound coherent, like a responsible, albeit temporarily disoriented, young man. "It all started when my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided an evening trip to Sainsbury's for... organic kale was a vital cultural experience." I paused, gauging the officer's reaction. Nothing. Just that steady, unblinking stare. "And I, naturally, opted out. One can only endure so much talk of root vegetables."
I then launched into the highly edited version. The "exploring" that led to Elephant and Castle, the accidental wrong bus, getting lost in a less-than-salubrious residential area, the incident with the overly enthusiastic dog (I carefully skipped the vehicular near-miss, and most important, Chloe). I conveniently glossed over the syringe-wielding guy and the concrete room in Soho, chalking it up to a vague "very confusing and frightening encounter" with someone I'd mistaken for a concerned citizen. My sudden appearance in Soho? A quick, frantic, and entirely unmemorable bus ride from said confusing encounter. Why did I just give out all the locations I'd been to? Because there are cameras. Everywhere.
The officer listened, his expression giving nothing away. He didn't interrupt, didn't scoff, which in a way, was even more concerning. When I finally finished, breathless and probably looking like I'd just run a marathon, he just nodded slowly.
"Right," he said again, drawing out the word. He looked at the neighbour, who had now decided to cross her arms, making her curlers bob slightly. "And you are...?"
"Mrs. Higgins," she announced, clearly relishing her moment in the spotlight. "He just ringed my door."
The ride to the station was hell as you'd imagine. The inside of a police car at night isn't exactly a luxury ride and the silence from the officer was even worse than a lecture in English class. I tried to stare out the window pretending to be fascinated by the late night streetlights, but I could feel his eyes on me probably trying to figure out if I was a genuine missing person or just a very dramatic teenager. But the reality was that I was tired and unslept. Really tired.
At the station it was all fluorescent lights and greyness, tired faces. They sat me down in a small room that smelt of old coffee and regret. My phone was finally working, as I put it to charge, and the officer made a few calls. It turns out my parents had reported me missing, with Mum apparently in hysterics about "my precious Oliver" and Dad trying to sound calm while probably hyperventilating. The police had even checked the rental house, found it empty, and just assumed I'd done a little runner. A brilliant piece of detective work, that.
It took what felt like an eternity for my parents to arrive, their faces a mix of relief and fury. Mum immediately wrapped me in a hug that nearly squeezed the life out of me, while Dad just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to ground me until I was thirty.
The officer gave them the version I'd told him of my "story"— the bus, getting lost and the dog. I conveniently thought of the man with the syringe and the concrete room that only me and Chloe knew about. Some things, even for the precious little Oliver, were best left unsaid.
As we were finally walking out of the station, Mum already launching into a scold and "conversation" about "irresponsible behaviour" and "the dangers of London," Dad stopped me. He put a hand on my shoulder, his expression serious. "Oliver," he said, his voice quiet. "We were worried sick. Don't ever do something like that again." Then, he looked at my scraped knee, then back at me. "And what the hell happened to you?"
I just shrugged, trying to act tough. "Oh, you know, just London. It's a jungle out there." I ignored the lingering phantom prick in my arm, and the memory of Chloe's face as the door clicked shut. Some parts of the jungle, it seemed, were best explored alone. And then never spoken of again.
Home
The contrast was jarring. One minute, I was an absolute hero navigating a labyrinth of urban peril with a quick witted girl. The next I was back to being just Oliver, the slightly-too-clever-for-his-own-good teenager who occasionally sulked about homework. It was frankly insulting.
But London, or rather, the memory of London, lingered. Especially the memory of Chloe. I found myself staring at her social media profile more often than I'd care to admit. Her holiday pics, as she'd called them, were mostly just blurry selfies and pictures of rustic looking villages...not exactly thrilling. But her blue eyes had that annoying, knowing spark that I loved.
I'd occasionally draft messages in my head. "Dearest Chloe, I trust you haven't been abducted by any further syringe wielding maniacs since our last eventful encounter?" Or, "To the esteemed Ms. Davies, a query regarding the current state of your urban navigation skills, and perhaps a casual inquiry into whether you too dreamt of concrete rooms and terrifying dogs."
But I hadn't sent them. I eventually drifted off to sleep and the hum of London traffic in my head still running. The city was still out there full of its normal chaos and I, now knew, its hidden, terrifying corners. And somewhere out there, was Chloe. I wondered if she was thinking about the day too. And if she ever remembered that kiss.
Part three:
10 December
The rain in Sussex wasn't just rain; it was a full-blown atmospheric tantrum. It hammered against my window, a relentless, drumming roar that made the entire house feel like it was inside a giant, leaky drum. Outside, everything was a miserable, blurry mess of grey and green. It was, frankly, the perfect backdrop for my current state of profound contemplation.
It had been a while since the London trip. Long enough for the novelty of having survived a near-death experience (or several, depending on how you count the dog) to wear off, and for the crushing reality of Sussex life to set back in. My parents, still under the misguided impression that I was a sensitive artistic soul rather than a master of cynical wit, were currently debating the merits of interpretive dance as a form of emotional expression downstairs. It was excruciating.
My eyes kept drifting to my phone, lying innocently on my bedside table. More specifically, to Chloe's contact. Her social media profile, the one I’d saved in that desperate, chaotic London moment, was a constant, low-level hum in the back of my mind.
She was the only one who truly knew. The only one who'd seen the syringe, the concrete room, the sheer, bewildering absurdity of it all. The memory of that quick, unexpected kiss on the bus, especially now with the rain lashing down, seemed oddly vivid. It wasn't exactly a passionate embrace, more like a brief, slightly chapped, moment of shared lunacy. But it stuck with me.
I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over her name. What would I say? "Hey, remember that time we almost got injected with a mystery substance and then I got mistaken for a spy and you vanished?" Too much. "Fancy a chat about the inexplicable nature of reality and rogue pigeons?" Even worse.
The rain outside intensified, drumming a frantic rhythm against the glass, almost like a command. It was precisely the kind of miserable, dramatic weather that made you want to connect with someone who understood that life wasn't always beige. And Chloe, despite her initial arrogance, definitely understood that.
Maybe it was the boredom. Maybe it was the rain. Or maybe, just maybe, I actually wanted to know if she was okay. And if she, too, occasionally wondered if that whole London adventure had actually happened, or if we'd both just had a really bad dream.
I took a deep breath. Time to text her..
The Digital Abyss
I had done it. After all that internal debate, the profound contemplation, and the dramatic backdrop of the Sussex downpour, I’d managed a single, utterly uninspired word: "Hey."
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the phone like it might spontaneously combust. The rain outside continued its furious assault on the window, perfectly mirroring the frantic, silent screaming happening in my head.
Had she seen it?
Was she rolling her eyes?
Was she, at this very moment, wondering if "Hey" was some kind of subtle coded message related to the "Organisation" that Mrs. Periwinkle was so obsessed with? (Probably not, but the thought amused me.)
The seconds stretched into an eternity. My internal monologue was working overtime. Perhaps I should have gone with something more profound. "Greetings, fellow survivor of inexplicable urban chaos." No, too much. "To the individual formerly known as Chloe: a query regarding the current state of your existence." Definitely too much.
My stomach did a nervous flip. The awkwardness was almost unbearable. Why was a single syllable so terrifying? It was just Chloe. The girl who'd seen me at my most pathetic (tripping) and my most terrified (getting injected). There was nothing left to lose.
Just as I was about to type a follow-up, something witty and self-deprecating to cover my initial lameness, the dreaded three dots appeared. She was typing. My breath caught.
Then, the reply popped up.
Chloe: Oliver? Srsly?
My eyes widened.
Me: Yeah. Really.
I paused, rereading it. A bit much, perhaps. But it was Oliver. And it was better than "Hey" again.
The dots appeared almost instantly this time.
Chloe: ur not dead? last time was wild
A faint smile touched my lips. She got it. She actually got it.
Me: Nah. Still here. London was nuts though. U good?
Another pause. More dots. The anticipation was almost unbearable.
Chloe: Yeah good. Just... weird. Sometimes I think I dreamt that whole thing. Yknow?
Me: Yeah uh listen
Me: The double decker thing
Chloe: Oh yes. Why did you really do it?
Me: Chloe... You're more than just someone who remembers it.
This conversation felt dry. And what did I do? I hit send. It felt like I'd just accidentally published my most embarrassing childhood photo to the entire internet.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. My breath hitched. Then they vanished. Then they reappeared, slowly. This was it. The moment of truth. She was either going to send a laughing emoji, or block me forever, or, even worse, send some kind of vaguely sympathetic, incredibly awkward "Aww, Oliver" message.
My heart was doing a frantic drum solo against my ribs. "Chloe... You're more than just someone who remembers it." The words sat there, exposed, utterly devoid of irony or sarcasm. It felt like I'd just accidentally published my most embarrassing childhood photo to the entire internet.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. My breath hitched. Then they vanished. Then they reappeared, slowly. This was it. The moment of truth. She was either going to send a laughing emoji, or block me forever, or, even worse, send some kind of vaguely sympathetic, incredibly awkward "Aww, Oliver" message.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. The rain outside seemed to amplify the silence in my room, making it feel vast and empty. I briefly considered throwing my phone across the room, then decided against it. Too dramatic. Also, I’d need it for the reply.
Then, the message popped up.
Chloe: Wow. Okay.
My stomach did a nervous flip. "Okay." What did "okay" mean? Was it a good "okay"? A bad "okay"? The cryptic nature of online communication was a new kind of torture.
Then, a second message followed, almost instantly.
Chloe: That's... really nice to hear, Oliver. Actually.
A wave of something resembling relief washed over me. Not a laugh. Not a block. "Really nice to hear." That was... positive. My fingers, still trembling slightly, hovered over the keyboard. My usual cleverness was still on vacation, apparently.
Me: Good. Because it's true.
I hit send before I could overthink it. No grand speeches, no elaborate metaphors. Just the plain, unvarnished truth. It felt strangely liberating.
The dots appeared again. This time, they stayed for a bit longer. I pictured Chloe on the other end, perhaps smiling, perhaps frowning, perhaps trying to figure out if I was actually being serious.
Chloe: who am i? don't tell me I'm your official chronicler of boring Sussex days
A genuine unforced smile spread across my face. She was challenging me. Playing along. And somehow, in her directness, it made things less terrifying. This was Chloe.
Me: that would be a grave underestimation of your current standing
Me: And frankly too dull a role for someone who survived a rogue syringe and a questionable bus ride
I typed again, faster this time, the words coming more naturally. The awkwardness was fading, replaced by that familiar, slightly unhinged excitement I only seemed to get around her.
The Utter Absurdity of It All
And she'd replied. And I'd replied back. And now, lying here in my bed, the rain still lashing against the window, I couldn't help but feel like the most monumentally, hilariously, tragically stupid person on the planet.
Falling for a girl. Falling. Me. The guy who prides himself on being above such messy, illogical things as "feelings." And not just any girl, oh no. A girl I'd spent approximately one single, incredibly bizzare with in London. A day that involved a rogue bus, a frantic chase, a syringe wielding lunatic, a terrifying dog and a concrete room. It was hardly a meet-cute from a romantic comedy. More like a meet-traumatise.
And yet, here I was, my stomach doing actual, physical flips every time her name popped up on my screen. My heart, a famously cynical and detached organ, was now apparently capable of performing elaborate dance routines. It was utterly humiliating. How did this even happen? Was it the shared trauma? A Stockholm Syndrome situation, but for mutual near-death experiences?
It was illogical. Preposterous. And yet, when her messages came in, witty and sharp and somehow perfectly understanding of the utter chaos that was my brain, everything else just... faded. The boredom of Sussex, the torment of Mrs. Periwinkle, the absurd parental interventions – they all just became background noise. All that mattered was the screen, glowing in the dark, with her words.
The universe, it seemed, had a truly twisted sense of humour. It had dragged me through a genuinely terrifying ordeal, then thrown me into the most mundane existence imaginable, only to deliver this final, perfectly timed, utterly inconvenient punchline: I was, inexplicably and undeniably, falling for Chloe. The girl who probably thought I was a slightly awkward, overly dramatic, and possibly hallucinating mess. What a glorious, idiotic mess.
Think about it. My life up until recently, has been a carefully constructed edifice of boredom and intellectual superiority. My primary emotional output has been mild irritation and the occasional bout of hunger. And then one disastrous day in London, I'm thrust into a situation so monumentally absurd that it forces me to interact with another human being on a level beyond sarcastic commentary. It's like my brain, starved of actual excitement, latched onto the nearest available source of dramatic tension and decided it was... love.
It's probably just the shared trauma. That's a thing, right? People bond over surviving plane crashes, or getting stuck in elevators, or, in our case, nearly getting injected by a deranged stranger while a very enthusiastic dog tries to eat your shoes. My brain is probably just confusing the adrenaline from the near-death experiences with actual genuine affection. It’s a classic misattribution error, a temporary neural misfire.
13 December
Right, so picture this. Going to school today. But it wasn't just a normal walk. It was like a scene from a really bad movie, all because of the snow.
The snow wasn't just falling. It was coming down hard, like it wanted to bury everything. It was thick, white, and seemed like it had a plan to make everything super slippery and frozen. The wind howled loud, like someone crying really hard. And it was colder than a freezer.
When I breathed out, my breath looked like smoke, like a tiny dragon puffing. The streetlights, which usually just looked sad, now had big, ghostly circles around them, making the whole thing feel like a deleted scene from a particularly bleak Scandinavian noir film.
The few other people outside looked like sleepy zombies, their faces pale, moving slow and dragging their feet. I, of course, kept my cool, like I usually do. But even I had to admit, it was tough. The wind howled like a banshee with a head cold and the temperature, well, let's just say it was colder than a penguin's ex-girlfriend.
Walking to the bus stop, which normally takes just five minutes, felt like a huge trip across a frozen desert. Every step was tricky. I had to be super careful not to fall and break something. The wind tried to pull my coat right off, and the snow got into every little space, making my eyebrows feel like tiny ice sculptures.
When I finally got to the bus stop, it was empty. No one there. Like everyone just gave up. There was only one old poster flapping in the wind, advertising a car wash. Funny, right?
I stood there, all alone in the swirling white snow, thinking about what to do. Should I go home, give up, and just stay warm in bed? Or should I keep going, fight the storm, and face the even worse things waiting for me at school?
It wasn't a hard choice, really. Giving up to the snow would be like giving up on everything boring in my life. It would be like letting the dullness win. And Oliver Maxwell, like I always say, doesn't give up.
So, I kept walking, even when the wind pushed hard and the snow kept falling. Every step was like I was saying "no" to the storm. I was like a lone wolf, a hero against the cold, a… well, a very cold and wet kid trying to get to school. But in my head, it was epic. Absolutely epic. Even if the only audience was a particularly unimpressed pigeon.
I stood there shivering like an idiot in the swirling white. Waiting for a bus that probably just laughed at me from a warm garage somewhere. Pulled out my phone, hoping for a quick escape from the freezing air and the crushing feeling that my life was a joke. But, of course, no Wi-Fi. The universe, it seemed, was really trying its best to make my morning extra special, in the worst way possible.
Then, it happened. Not slow. Not with any warning rumble. Just....The huge pile of snow behind the bus stop bench, the one that looked all quiet and innocent, decided it was done sitting still. It peeled off the world like a giant sticker and came right down on me.
One second, I was thinking about how dumb buses are when it snows. The next, I was buried. Completely. Like a prize in a very cold, very unpleasant lucky dip.
There was a quick moment of feeling light, like a feather being swallowed by a big, fluffy monster. Then, the heavy feeling. The world went totally quiet, like someone put a giant blanket over my head. I could feel the cold getting into my bones, the snow pushing on my face, filling my nose.
My first thought, because I'm Oliver, was: "Well, isn't this just perfect."
My second thought was: "Hope Snuggles is having a better day. He probably is. Cats are smart."
Then, a little bit of panic. I was buried alive. Under a mountain of snow. On my way to school. The whole thing was so stupid, so ridiculous, it almost made me laugh. Almost.
I started to dig. Because what else are you gonna do? Just wait to become a human ice cube? Not exactly a grand exit, even for me.
I dug. And dug. Snow got in my mouth, up my nose. It was like fighting a really cold, really fluffy monster. Just when I thought I might actually become a permanent part of the winter landscape, my hand hit something hard. The bench. I pulled myself up, gasping, shaking off snow like a very annoyed polar bear. I was soaked. Freezing. And probably looked like a human snowball.
Just then, through the blurry, swirling white, I saw it. A dark shape. Getting bigger. The bus. Finally. It lumbered to a stop, its headlights cutting through the snow like tired eyes. The doors hissed open, and a blast of warm air, smelling faintly of stale chips and damp coats, hit me. Sweet relief.
I stumbled up the steps, dripping water and shedding chunks of snow. The driver, a woman with a face like she'd seen it all (and probably had, given my luck), just blinked at me. Didn't even say anything. Probably speechless at the sheer majesty of my accidental transformation.
But the kids on the bus? Oh, they weren't speechless. Not at all.
As I stepped onto the bus, looking like I'd just wrestled a yeti in a washing machine, a ripple of quiet giggles started. Then it grew. Louder. Soon, the whole bus was filled with the sound of kids laughing, some were even slapping their knees.
"Look at him!" someone yelled, between gasps of laughter. "He's bringing snow in the bus!"
"Did you fall in a snow bank, dude?" another voice shrieked. "Or did the snow bank fall on you?"
My clothes were plastered to me, my hair was dripping, my nose was probably bright red. I could feel icy water running down my back, and they were just sitting there, warm and dry, pointing and laughing at my very public humiliation.
"Oh, really?" I said, my voice cutting through the laughter, cold and sharp as the wind outside. I peeled a chunk of snow off my eyebrow and flicked it towards them. "You think this is funny? You think I'm funny?"
I slowly scanned the bus, my eyes narrowing. "You're laughing at a guy who just survived being attacked by a snowdrift. A snowdrift big enough to eat a small car. You know what you were doing when that happened? Probably still drooling on your pillows, dreaming about your mum making you toast."
I took another step into the bus, letting the water drip onto the floor. "And you think you're tough? Imagine this: if a little bit of snow fell on your pathetic little heads, you'd be crying for your teddy bears. You'd be calling for your parents to dig you out with a teaspoon. You'd probably freeze solid trying to figure out which end of a shovel goes where."
I gestured around at their smug, dry faces. "You wouldn't last five seconds out there. You'd be blubbering, complaining, probably trying to take a selfie with the snowbank before it ate you. You're not tough. You're just... warm. And incredibly tragically ten year olds."
A few of the laughs died down. Some of the faces actually looked a bit stunned, maybe even a little pale. My dramatic performance, as always, had its intended effect. The bus went mostly quiet, leaving only the sound of the rain and my own dripping clothes. Success.
For some reason, ten year olds tend to be really annoying. So was I. Acting smart, in fact I wasn't. It's easy to make them shut up with a tough-wannabe speech..
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