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Why the CCF is unhealthy (http://www.livejournal.com/users/turkeyphant/day/2002/11/10/).
Charlemagne entered my room and acted as his usual self. He is a most intriguingly strange child. He is obsessed with Nazism and bumsex, cannot keep still or refrain from poking and irritating people, and never showers. He is weird and friendless but seems to posses as few outstanding thoughts as changes of clothing. In fact nothing that extends beyond puerility whatsoever. But still, he is absolutely hilarious in every single way, and second only to Theodore in his receptiveness to my ideas imported directly from the bustling casbah of RGS.

I forget exactly the events leading up to that particular Sunday evening. I'd been kicking some cans, playing some hopscotch and forgetting about work, when restless Charles walked in for perhaps the fifth time in the hour and started poking me with my hockey stick and eating empty single-serving jam receptacles. He made an accusation, insult, insinuation - whatever - and I responded with a typically well-constructed counter-riposte. He then must have failed to understand or otherwise worked himself up into an angry fervour. In fact, thinking about it know, I remember that, in actual fact, his actions were entirely unprovoked. So Charlemagne walks out again, I settle down, get back to my work and hope he doesn't return soon...

As usual, I am engrossed in my screen - eyes fixed upon 1,310,720 bright pixels; mostly white. My fingers brush over the keys, uncertain how to commit, where to press next. I wonder which word to write, how to convey the meaning best, does it make sense, whether there is any meaning, do I want to find it?

The door creaks loudly open, and Charlemagne giggles - he's behind me and to the right by a few degrees. As I look back, a torn page from my maths notes falls from his hand, hits the floor at an angle and gracefully rolls over to a close. The pages rustle as they fall on each other. I bring up a password prompt, get up and stride directly to his room where I can wreak revenge. My attempt to write a decent journal entry is momentarily forgotten.

One of his textbooks is threatened before I decide upon a retaliatory offensive against his Maths notes. Rrrrrrrrrrrip, there goes a few weeks' work. Riprip shredddd - bye bye P1 and P2. Charles then brushes angrily past me and out of his door, so I slowly follow to find all my work from this term destroyed. We both wordlessly return to his room where I break past his physical defences and return the favour to his physics work. His anger has now been greatly roused, and, I too, am somewhat irate. A stand off ensues, but Charles is currently most violent (as persons of his peculiar nature tend to become), while my annoyance remains unabated . Much greater damage has been imposed upon my belongings than those he possesses, and Theodore and James make jibes in my ears and implores me to exact suitable revenge.

Eventually I was shoved close enough to the spitting and raging Charlemagne to enable the creation of a grapple or "ruck". Here we twisted and turned, he - serpentine - swung his forearms and hissed, while I merely wriggled away. Charles was holding a small penknife he uses in his CCF training, and swiped and slashed at the air in front of him as I kicked at his ankles. He lunged for me and I grabbed his wrist and twisted it into his body causing him to shriek and, in a moment of unanticipated stupidity, violently attempt to turn away. In doing so, the blunted attack instrument brushed against my right index finger on the second joint down from the tip. A small trickle of blood formed at the seam, and I licked it before making for him again, with vicious revenge in mind.

I never got the chance. Glancing at my finger again, I saw there was now significantly more blood than before, and freaked. A considerably greater force had been applied than we both had thought at first. I squeezed the limp flaps of flesh apart slightly and winced when I saw the torn sinewy tissue edged in frayed skin and throbbing pulses of blood. Considering the lack of pressure involved, a stupidly deep incision had been incurred, and I was sure I'd never stop bleeding. So then, I ran to Mrs. Smith's flat where she dressed my shaking hand and pondered over the course of action to be taken next. Remembering my warning to concoct an invented tale describing the events that led to the cut (lest Charles face expulsion), I made up some thing about slicing toast with my left hand, in order to placate her intrigue. Then she, upon deciding that it was likely that nerves or tendons had been rudely transected, swiftly ferried me to the nearest accident and emergency department (right after I'd collected a Steinbeck novel, as we suspected much of the night would be wasted in the ward).

Everyone could see though my bullshit contingency tale.

~

And so, we arrived beneath flickering lighting in the darkened car park, and approached the reception desk with my whole arm aching from being forced to elevate the wounded limb. We were told to take some of the seats, and I sat down to engross myself in my literature (so as to attempt to avoid further questions relating to the nature of the incurring of my unfortunate injury).

I don't often find myself in hospitals late at night so I forget, as places to be go, how amazing they are. There was a bunch of pikeys sitting with us on the ratty and scratched plastic yellow chairs - a laboured old mother tired of working for her kids' ciggies and alcopops, an old (left school long ago) girl and some other children, of roughly thirteen years, who wore white tracksuits with rolled over socks. Together, they held an animated discussion about the events that had befallen them that night, and I couldn't help glancing away from my book and turning toward them slightly to try and catch snippets of discourse. In front of me, a girl was wearing no shoes while kissing her boyfriend, and an old man was sitting quietly against the wall wishing everyone else to go away.

It was so fascinating trying to piece together other people's lives from across a hospital A & E department. I couldn't concentrate on the printed words in front of me, and kept being accosted by the intrigue of diversity. The hospital has no prejudice. I accumulated nothing of such a great book that evening and the few hours I remained there went by surprisingly fast. I only read a page and, of that, I took none of it in. I was eavesdropping the whole time; bewitched by the gripping tales they told and constantly conscious that I was analysing them. It was just such a different perspective to my views from being cooped up in a boys' boarding house ripping up each other's further maths homework for fun.

After I was called up and had my finger glued back together, Mrs. Smith sighed a sigh of relief and we headed out of the ward. I saw the same people again (the pikeys), hunched over a stretcher in which a teenaged girl lay, very weak, and wearing a neck brace. For the entire car journey back to school, I stared out of the windows, looking and searching for people casting shadows outside upon the orangey reflection of streetlight on puddles in the pavement.

~

When I arrived back a bit after twelve, I realised how I had intended to do loads of work that evening that I was now unable to complete due to the huge bandage surrounding my writing/typing hand. I also realised I was unable to do hockey for at least another week or two. Now however, I don't seem to mind at all, and I know why.

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We have all the time in the world
We have all the time in the world
We're two of a kind, you and me -
We stare blind and stupid
At a sky that refuses to fall

Two grown people sharing half a brain
In our many-splendoured vacuum we remain
'Til still asleep, we suffocate
Mutually masturbate
But neither of us comes

The future is now, boy
Let's get it on
And believe it: I'm leaving
I'm leaving
Don't speak my mind
Don't speak my mind
'Cause you don't know me at all

Instead of wasting time with the rise and fall
We stay grounded and never rise at all
Well, we'll have all the time in the world to confess
When we're dead and gone, and almost as useless

The future is now, boy
Let's get it on
And believe it: I'm leaving
I'm leaving
Don't speak my mind
Don't speak my mind
'Cause you don't know me at all

Don't speak my mind
Don't speak my mind for me
Don't speak my mind
Don't speak my mind for me
Don't speak my mind


    mood: aching
    choon: X – The Crystal Ship