Long Leave

aaannd breathe…it’s Long Leave at last!

-Long Leave? What the hell is that?

 Well, it’s our special name for half-term.

-Then call it half-term like everyone else you posh tit! 

But we already call our terms ‘halves’, so if we called half-term ‘half-term’ it might get confusing.

-That’s really dumb! 

Yeah, I know.

-Why call terms ‘halves’ anyway? 

Apparently a long time ago there were only two terms per year so each one was one half of a school year.

-So why aren’t they called ‘thirds’ now?

 I don’t know - it would make more sense wouldn’t it?

-Course it would you idiot! 

Alright mate, chill out.

I’ve never actually had a conversation like this, but still, it shows that Eton’s lingo can be problematic at the best of times. It’s okay once you get used to it, but in some situations it can prove a nightmare. How, for instance, do I tell my mum about my successful start to term? Do I say ‘it’s been a good first half of half’, accurate but clunky, or give way to mainstream jargon and tell her ‘it’s been a good first half of term’? First world problems…

Anyway, the point is that I've greatly enjoyed C block so far. There have been ups (House Shout, good EWs, scoring goals in footy) as well as downs (the shampoo debacle, Runty generally), but mostly ups. It’s been a lot of fun, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all shattered. Granted, we may not be out fighting African civil wars like some teenagers our age, but over the past six and a half weeks we’ve had only eight days without lessons, countless EWs to tackle, competitive sport and music trials, and the daily grind of living next to that person we don’t actually like. It’s time for a rest.

Everyone has their own way of relaxing. Some people go off on holiday, which seems plain greedy given the summer's only just over. Others take advantage of season tickets and go to watch their football or rugby teams play. The rest, (including me) stay at home and do absolutely nothing.

Not literally of course, but not anything that requires too much mental or physical strain. One of my favourite ways to unwind is to take my dog on a walk near our house. We head down this deserted, hidden pathway which leads to a cluster of semi-derelict houses. One of these fantastic red-brick buildings has a large apple tree in the middle of its garden, and whilst my dog is busy urinating over everything nearby, I like to pick up stones and hurl them at the tree, seeing how many apples I can knock down. 

I was doing this the other day, and had chalked up three direct hits in five minutes, including a rare double bull’s-eye. I was just about to consider becoming a modern day William Tell when I heard a rustling of leaves from the direction of the path. Looking up, I saw advancing towards me the figure of a fat, angry-looking man, who I could only assume was the owner of the apple tree. 

Panicking, I let go of the stone in my hand and put into action the first escape plan that came to mind. Picking up my dog, I hurled him over the fence of the garden opposite, and with the help of a well-placed tree stump, just about clambered over myself. 

I tore my jeans in the process, but I was grateful for my slim build because by this point the man had come chasing after me, with cries of ‘Oi! Come back here!’and threats to call the police. I ignored him and stumbled haphazardly through the overgrown garden in front of me, eventually reaching the safety of the main road. It was a close shave, but instead of feeling sorry for the damage caused, I'm probably more upset about the death of such a fun activity.

However, before you now think I’m scratching my head and wondering what to do, it turns out I have an upcoming engagement to keep myself busy. It involves a meeting with that rarest of species in Eton and Windsor – a female human being. This girl, whose name shall be The Princess, looks in every way like a blue-blooded highness - blonde hair, green eyes and a lovely smile. Is she is a real princess? No, I'm afraid not, nor is she my actual girlfriend (though I'm working on it).

To give some background to this (non-)romance of mine, I first met The Princess about four months ago, when I ventured into a pub with a friend and group of his mates to celebrate the end of GCSEs. Given that I go to boarding school, the only people I knew there were my friend and a girl I once met at a jumble sale, a situation which proved disastrous as I ended up stranded at a table with three geeky boys, who not only failed to include me in their conversation but could only talk about their chemistry exam. 

It was a nightmare, and I was praying for something or someone to come save me. Astonishingly, no sooner had I said an Ave Marias then a miracle duly arrived, not in the form of my companions dropping down dead, but in a girl, a very pretty girl approaching our table and asking if she could join us. Stunned by my swift reversal in fortune, I spluttered a ‘no, not at all… come sit down here’, which came out like an order rather than a cool approval, but one which she luckily obeyed.

With the nerds engrossed in their periodic table, we spent the next hour chatting about me, her and life generally. She was interested in my opinions and laughed at my jokes, and in a state of lightheadedness I asked for her number. She gave it to me, and since then we have kept in contact via text and Whatsapp. 

Is it love? I don’t know, but all I can say is that I want to be with her. ‘Ask her out then’, you’re probably thinking. I could do, but it's not as simple as that. It feels premature for a start - because she was away for most of the summer we’ve only been able to catch up a few times, and it's always been with other friends. As a result she doesn’t really know me that well yet, and I fear that by asking her out now she'll say something like ‘let’s keep hanging out for the moment’ and write me off as desperate. But at the same time, I worry that if I don’t move in soon I'll end up in the dreaded ‘friend-zone’, which I’m told is like the seventh circle of hell. Even worse, someone else might swoop in.

What to do? Just go for it and ask her out this Saturday? But even that might not be possible, since the it's likely she'll bring a friend along to our Starbucks visit. And how exactly would I put it to her – ‘do you fancy doing something when I get back in seven weeks’ time, and in the meantime can you ignore all the handsome, local boys hitting on you?’ Not the most attractive proposition.

Whatever I end up doing, I admit to making one big mistake already. It wasn't anything I said to The Princess, but consisted in me revealing all my feelings to Runty. I knew nothing good could come of it, and unsurprisingly the first thing he demanded was to see a photo (‘preferably bikini’), which he critiqued with the comment 'looks like she’s got Ebola’. Then contradicting himself, he asked if I had any nude pics, and when I said I didn't he advised me to request a naked Snapchat immediately. 

‘But she’s not that kind of girl’ I protested weakly.

‘Trust me mate, they’re all the same’

Despite his casual sexism, I can’t deny that Runty is a genuine player whose experience might prove helpful. But if I follow his advice too carefully I could end up like a cheap Russell Brand.

If only girls were as simple as stones and apple trees.