Tuesday 19 March 2013

The things I don't understand

dinosaurs going on a date before extinction funny cartoon All last night I was negotiating with Jof to get the Lego Millennium Falcon, bidding now at £1,550. She said she wouldn't buy it for me and that I didn't have enough money. OK then, I retorted, I shall use the £11 in my piggy bank to buy lottery tickets, and then I shall use the winnings to buy the Falcon. But ye shalt never win upon the MoronTax (aka the lottery) and in any case, as a minor, thou art not entitled to buy tickets. OK, I said, you buy the tickets and we can share the winnings. This did not work either. I don't understand.
Anyway, first thing this morning, Jof made the classic beginner's error and said I was perfectly well enough to go to school but if I felt sick then the teacher would have to ring her and she'd have to come home and collect me from school early and take me home*. So of course I felt dreadfully sick all day, don't know how I survived. I kept telling the teachers how dead I was and the lunchtime helper said go outside and get some fresh air (this is fine by me because food gets in the way of play) but I don't understand how nobody phoned anybody and I still had to do school like everyone else, even though I clearly had terminal Rigellian Flu, ulcerated leprosy and Baron Munchausen Syndrome.
Bud was quietly pensive this afternoon. Something to do with a strategic headcount reduction and review with compulsory redundancies. I don't understand this either. Hope it doesn't affect me moving house to a bigger Lego room.
Kids from the Junior school next door visited us to reassure us that our future was safe and we shouldn't fear moving to bigger schools. I knew them all anyway as they're only 1 year above me so there was Katelyn's sister and Honey (a definite sweetie, mmm).
In gymnastics I got better at handstands and afterwards demanded loads of sofa and TV time because of my near-fatal injuries. Or was it a cough. Well anyway. I got to bed at 8pm, a good 90 mins early.
* This may not be verbatim. But by the time it was processed through the waxy ears of a seven year-old boy, it was lucky she managed to send me to school at all, I should have been in that special hospital full of hot and cold running mummies and Lego and TV.

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