An alternative title to this post could be ‘doing 4 A-Levels will kill you’, but I’m still waiting for the early onset of arthritis to kick in. Confirmation pending. I’ll let you know how I get on with the whole dying thing.
The first week of my sixth form experience began last Monday (5th September). We had an induction day, which I was supposed to be in at 1pm for. Of course, being me, I got in at 9am… What follows is a dark period in my life which I’m reluctant to admit to.
(I just sat at a table and got a numb arse by reading through two entire books.)
Anyway. From my experience so far, I have picked the right A-Levels. I get my kick out of writing essays, which my History teacher is always happy to give me. I get to watch television documentaries as Archaeology homework, and my French and German classes are already improving my meagre knowledge of each language.
That’s why I’m not dropping any of them. At least if I die, I’ll be treated as a martyr. Always look on the bright side, right?
My first lesson that I had, ever, was French, which was a bit of a culture shock. The thing with languages at A-Level is that it’s constant. I find it hard to pay attention all the time, so having to constantly bring myself back to reality is… Fun. And tiring. Having that first lesson, on the first proper day, was actually horrible.
I’ve got the know the girl I sit next to, though. She likes twenty one pilots, and that’s all I need to say. That’s the foundation of a good friendship.
German is actually pretty great. I’m pretty good friends with someone in there already, so she saves me seats when my bus inevitably arrives late (I swear to god, though. What kind of bus arrives ten minutes late every single day?). And we’re currently just revising present tense, so it’s an easy ride for me. An hour of note taking and only half paying attention.
I’m doing Medieval/Early Modern History, which is basically the Crusades and a load of Tudor monarchs piled on top. Like a magnificent violent sandwich. Death and gore, between slices of the finest historical textbook.
I’ll stop now.
Finally, Archaeology, which isn’t dinosaurs, as my teacher made sure to tell us. Way to crush my heart, Indiana (that’s the nickname I’ve given him… original, I know). But it’s so, so cool. I’m obsessed with the Egyptians, and we get to study that first as our first module, so I’m REALLY REALLY HAPPY.
I really will stop now, I swear.
Canopic jars, though…
Another great part about Year Twelve is… NEW STATIONARY!
Capitalisation needed, trust me. I’m a slut for stationary, I always have been and I always will be. I own about 60-odd notebooks, my pen collection is extensive and I’m in love with Paperchase. So the prospect of new pencils and the opportunity to carry folders around like the cute nerdy girls in American teen movies was… Awesome.
Word of warning, though, sweaty palms mean that sharpie gets transferred off said folder and onto your hand, meaning that you look like that slug thing from Monsters Inc. And I don’t carry my sharpies around with me all the time (surprisingly) so I had to wait until I got home to reverse the damage. I wanted to cry. I really, honestly did.
My sixth form is also pretty close to KFC, which means that me and my friend are doing a ‘KFC/other fast food place Wednesday’ thing, which basically means that – as we get Wednesday afternoons off – we walk down and eat chicken all afternoon. Because why not?
A slightly crappy thing, though – my bag has broken. Again. I broke it in Year Eleven and then sewed it back up again so I could keep using it, and now it’s just gone and died again. It’s a really nice bag, too. And I can’t be arsed to sew it up again.
Another shit thing about sixth form is all the fucking homework I get. I’ve had to rewrite a French essay seven times, just because I keep messing up the double spacing thing. I’m just… urgh. It’s just formatting. Just write small.
That’s all I have to report on, really… Apart from the fact that you can eat four cookies for lunch, and absolutely no one will care.
That is the highlight.