Some kind of a scandal?

[Some kind of a title?]

Well, last month was our all time bestest ever month here at daveisgreatallthetime.blogspot.com, we averaged 7.76666667 views per day.  This month, we are so far averaging exactly one per day.  Needless to say, this is entirely my fault, as it has been over a week since the last post, partially because I wanted to give you some time to digest the richness of that last November's end treat, partially becuase I did do something vaguely like a post which didn't work because of the school computers, and partially because I'm not that great.  Still, let us forgive and forget, move out of this wilderness of dry pages, and onwards to the wealth of David Lovell-type goodness we have in store for this most festive of months.

First this month is the best and worst story of it so far.  It all began when Miss Davis, being the imaginative woman she is, set us a LitLang task which involved writing a lonely hearts column for Dupin.  For those of you just joining us, Dupin is solitary, not lonely, and even Poe would struggle to write a lonely hearts column five to eight hundred words long in which he tore up all that he had previously embroided of this magnificent persona.  It was practically sacrilege in the field of literature, so David Glover and I did not hesitate to share with each other just how disgusted we were by this bizarre concept.

One thing, however, led to another (as it tends to do when Mr. Glover's mind and my own collaborate in any manner), and before long we were both just slating Miss Davis.  There was criticism gushing from pore of our bodies, some of which I thought was almost constructive and quite reasonable, but for the most part, unfortunately, was just pure slander, along the lines of 'she doesn't know her subject!' and quite possibly 'She is literally retarded. 

After a few minutes of this, Mr. Glover turned to me and said 'Hey wait a minute - she could be on this bus.'  The words echoed in my head for a second.  They clanged sonourously against the sides of my skull, chiming with the sombre inevitability of death itself.  When this occurred, several things which had slowly sunk to the lower regions of my memory resurfaced simultaneously as whisps of wordplay, slander and imagination shrunk back to reveal them in all there sobering clarity.  These things were as follows:

The first was the sudden realisation of just how loudly me and my colleague had been unashamedly slandering our teacher, and how much excitement had gotten the better of us.

The second was that our seats, located just behind the top of the staircase, were probably the most audible seats on the upper deck to anyone who happened to be sitting on the chairs closest to the bottom of the stairwell. 

The third was that it was this very seat that Miss Davis, without fail, would claim for herself if she was ever upon the bus, and that indeed (this is perhaps truly a fourth thing, for it feels like an expereince in itself) it was this very seat that I had seen the said personage to be sat upon in the event of my boarding the vechile.

I looked at David Glover.  His innocent eyes were filled with doubt.  'She is', I said.

Sorry, I kind of slipped into a bit of Poe there, it was legitametly an accident.  Anyways, we were deeply screwed.  Obviously she didn't mention it, but she critisised our performance in every aspect, hyperbolising the minutest short coming on our part, whilst seeing it as entirely acceptable that half the class needed to have every last sentence of 'The Purloigned Letter' translated and spoon fed to them, either due to complete apathy, or just an unfortunate understanding of archaic english.  Still, we had said some nasty and unnecesary things, and you have no idea how good we made our homework that week, nor just how unbelievably far apart we managed to sit within the crammped walls of our classroom.  Still, we deserve everything we get really.  Miss Davis is a very good teacher, as are all teachers at Davenant, and it was incredibly rich of us to critisise her choice of homework task, when we hadn't actually done the homework, whereas she has studied the subject for a number of years.  (If you believe that to be some kind of disclaimer for the unlikely event of this getting into the schools hands, you may be partially right, but I don't really feel great about accidentally saying all those things to my teachers face.)

Gee, I got a bit poetic really.  That's a lot of words.  To coclude / move in that general direction, my house is full of builders, who are all tearing things apart becuase my dad is not motivated or specialised enough to tear things apart as well as they can.  And my kitten has been really, really cuddly lately.

Se ya round, hermaphrodites.