At the End of the Week

The debris of the week is spread out before me, calling to the teenage apathy just to let it be. Clothing is strewn across the cushion; jeans, several tops, a single forlorn sock perched on the pile. There’s the blue of denim, navy sleeves, a sky blue top with aquamarine designs, but all in blue. My bottom bunk pays tribute to my all-consuming hobby, Tartini mixed with Mozart and a book of Beatle’s classics, a birthday present from a distant relative who seems to think I’m still on grade four. Somewhere, buried in the omnipresent music, are practice papers for General Studies exams, A-level French texts, and a battered but beloved copy of the second Harry Potter. Old teddies war with GCSE revision guides, slowly but steadily being pushed aside, eventually to be relegated to a cupboard. The top bunk is rumpled, three layers of blue duvets to protect from the chill of a north-facing bedroom and as little central heating as we can afford.1

Behind the bed sits a large black bucket, a whimsical present, containing ‘bivvy bag, compass, and whistle, incongruous with the studious nature of the rest of the room. My CLOK O-top and BOF card hint at an active life outside these four walls. My dresser-top is cluttered, an eclectic mix of jewellery boxes, CDs, and boom box, and a crystal, feather and shell collection. Makeup collects dust in its box, seldom used and then usually for concerts or auditions. The wardrobe holds no dresses, only one long, black formal skirt and a plethora of blue jeans. The chest of drawers hold label less tops and comfortable sweaters, mostly blue. The top is pine, plain design from Ikea. Only two photos; one of my Conyers form, one of ISL classmates. A preview pack of Luxembourg Euros is languishing in my bottom drawer, with defunct luf, franc and mark, waiting for the day coin-collectors will double their value. A prism sparkles at my window, drawing attention from the dusty sill to the frosted grass outside.2

My bin is plastic, yellow and green, a remnant from primary school days. Then I and my sister both shared this room. It doesn’t contain much, certainly not enough to merit emptying. Just a few scrapped French essays and post-its from mum reminding of chores and deadlines. The desk beside it is crowded; computer and keyboard monopolizing the space. The shelf underneath is crammed with papers and manuals, messages from years past. The drive sitting underneath the pine is a tangled web of USB extensions, network linkups and mouse cord, a Gordian knot seemingly solvable only by destruction. The main box contains a mish-mash of two hard-drives, new soundcards and the original graphics card. The end result is somehow much more efficient than the sum of the parts, tribute to Dad’s expertise.3

My schoolbags sit by the door, sprawled in a contained heap opposite my first bookshelf. They are threatened by the rows of books, stacked two deep on the rickety pine shelves. It is a time-line of my growing tastes; Animal Ark on the bottom, Animorph series on the second and the top crowded with novels by Anne McCaffrey, my current author of choice. On the dusty tops of my Jacqueline Wilson section rest an elephant’s graveyard of broken reeds and empty cork-grease tubes. My rickety fold-up music stand carries multiple studies, a photocopied Bach invention for my GCSE performance. It is apt to spill all if nudged. My clarinet sits on its stand, silver keys against ebony trunk, a thousand pounds of craftsmanship and art. Across from these sits another wooden skeleton, holding a different theme for each of its three shelves. The bottom is filled with library books, loot from my Tuesday hour of service. Yarm library is warmer and less smelly than helping at Hilary’s animal shelter or some anonymous charity shop. On the middle is a pile of music, mainly clarinet solos and study books, with the odd duet for clarinet and trumpet for my sister. The pile is varied and multi-coloured, ‘first notes’ type books grow to Disney play-alongs, and a recently outgrown James Rae book of studies crowns them all. The top shelf houses important things to me: a folder of achievements, my notebook of poems, and a small manuscript book containing my musical compositions. French textbooks sit behind, desolate without a course to support their teachings. On the ground below sit three layers of planning, my future sorted into neat plastic bags. The first holds prospectuses and application forms, introduction booklets and course descriptions. Sixth form is less than a year away; my courses are chosen, my college selection is becoming imminent frighteningly fast. Behind this layer of documentation sit more prospectuses, and the University supplement from the Sunday Times. Only two prospectuses so far: Oxford and Cambridge. I had to choose quickly which to aim for; applications are really less than two years away, and activities must be angled to the college. The final layer is the transition that frightens so many, yet seems surprisingly clear to me. A bag from the Crown Prosecution Service, it overflows with details on legal practices, professional exams and conversion courses. A single packet on Actuarial work provides variety, but my course is clearly planned for a good six years at least. My course in the immediate future is, unfortunately, just as clear. With a sigh, I set to work.4