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Preemptive tangent.
The fantabulously attractive Mini Daws possesses a horse for which she has an unfortunate affinity; a female hard-on, if you will. Every spare moment of her time, she has gaily skipped down to the stables and will be found together with her most revered animal chum. "Where is this going?" you may ask. Well, what is most interesting about this preamble is the excessive dose of replete wit involved. For, dear reader, you see this is not any old horse. He is a male horse - a stallion or, perhaps, a stud, if you will. What's more, he is named Woodbridge.

Now, in addition to these fascinating facets of factual information, you must learn that this horse is commonly referred to as "Woody". Now, I am unsure as to whether a naïve and innocent young girl such as Emma, just fifteen, could have predicted the inevitable deluge of double entendres and innuenduous allusions, but, no matter how many times the jokes have been made, I was most humoured by such a discovery. Can you imagine it now - the plethora of risqué suggestions just yearning to be made?

"Oooh, Woody's just too big for me - I find it awfully hard to mount him!"

"Gosh, I just love riding on Woody!"

"Oh yes, I wish I could spend all day rubbing, stroking and patting reliable old Woody!"

~

In other news, workaholic Martin is continuing to show me up. He does homework almost constantly - lunchtime, break, all morning and evening and involves himself in absolutely no leisure activities. He greatly resents any distractions that I produce such as Trillian's sound effects and sachets of crisped potato snacks. I am most infuriated by being forced to sacrifice my musical needs as, every evening he chirps up with, "Jonathan, do you think you could use headphones?" I discovered a superb way to annoy him - play Kompressor and Rammstein mp3s at a great amplitude. (He describes Alec Empire as "destruct0r music") Martin seems to posses no sense of humour and is terminally annoyed by pranks played upon him for which he blames me. He also has the most annoying habit of going to bed at nine o'clock every night.

But anyway, Martin basically had a nervous breakdown after spending every free moment on Physics coursework for two whole weeks and becoming overwhelmed with the workload. This was the assignment I aced by completing it in one morning and he also achieved 100% on. Still, he walked in crying once, and sat there spilling out his worries while Charlemagne and I sat there, awkwardly unsure as how to comfort him. We talked for a long time, strenuously coming up with endless suggestions to ease his stay here and reassure him. His father had informed him that should he, at any point, wish to leave, a flight will be arranged for Martin to return to Germany the next day.

Meanwhile, back in my tiny sphere, I have been unable to communicate with either of my parents without screaming angsty abuse at them for well over three weeks.

Martin is a feeble child, afraid of eating beef and communal butter supplies, who adores gifts such as monogrammed mugs and plaster clowns from senile relatives. Bloody hell, he listens to Radio Two, asked how to cook spaghetti and drinks carbonated water. He is meticulously tidy, and most ignorant of many things. Nevertheless, this was nothing of what I expected from him. Martin leads an anodyne life of saccharine pleasures but, still, certainly knows how to stick up for himself, and boy does he have guts to come here and speak in a foreign tongue. Especially due to the rabid racism and pre-WWII Churchillian mentality of many pupils.

But I was not quite sure what Martin meant when he came in the other day resolutely saying he's going home. He promptly started crying again, saying it's too much for him and that he's going back in two days. I didn't know what to say and after last time I wondered whether it was worth trying to persuade him otherwise. And then, consumed by overbearing shame and self-hatred, all I could think of was that maybe I'd get a single room.

In the end Martin didn't leave. He simply dropped two subjects and activities, missed half a week of school and was visited by his father. I was almost upset when Mrs McDonogh, the failure of an English teacher ("If I haven't heard of a word, it can’t possibly exist!"), managed to persuade him to remain. I'd planned everything for the few weeks I'd have left to enjoy a shiny new single room to myself.

Now, I have just managed to avoid uttering my favourite insult and have only said, "Go Home" to a still emotionally-fragile Martin on two vulnerable occasions.

    choon: Rhapsody – Emerald Sword
Comments
From:pynk_physh [.]
Posted: Saturday 29th March, 2003 at 23:00.41
 
I love the way you write! I'm adding you as a friend --there's nothing you can do about it either :P

--Robin
From:turkeyphant [.]
Posted: Sunday 30th March, 2003 at 20:43.03
 Ace.
Wow, thanks. Technically, I could make it friends-only and lock you out that way but, as it is, I'll just add you too and only consider custom friends groups :p
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