Yesterday we did so much stop-motion photography we needed to have double-double maths to make up for it. But instead of a mind-churning 4 hours of tests and algebraic conundra, we played Sumdog. Or is it Sundog.
In Sundog you amass breakfast items to make buildings to defend your plate. Baps are useless but sausages are poisonous and the eggs turn into frying pans that shoot eggs and the ketchup is issued as a blaster-weapon that shoots globules of glistening tomato extract. All this is to defend against a ravenous Chihuahua in a top hat on a rocket-propelled skateboard, I don't know why you're having trouble with this concept, it seemed perfectly alright once the mushrooms had taken effect.
Anyway, the overnight thunderstorms had washed the streets clean but the weather gods were obviously going for an extra rinse and wax because it kept going and we had to have PE upstairs in the music room where we had sit-up competitions.
At home he advised me to use my 1 hour of screen-time well and not leave myself short of snack-time or screen-less after swimming. I agreed and promptly signed onto my X-Box for 1 hour straight after school and only had time for a boiled egg and a banana before swimming. I pigged it and said look, I've got enough time, render unto me the holy hobnobs (chocolatey, oaty, crunchy biscuit delight) but he said no, you're on a diet, have the crisps in the car and that's it until suppertime. I huffed and I puffed and chucked stuff a bit and said after swimming I'm running away from home, then I'll be happy, for you are an arsehole that's starving me to death.
I have this ability to temporarily have fun during swimming but then revert to my previous sulk (like factory settings) but when Jof let me off having to go and vote in the referendum I was happy once more. The country is poking a big stick into the cloying anthill of politics-by-default, but I played Lego instead.
Speaking of rain, I expect the Scout campsite is mildly damp now, lucky I can swim. The kit list includes "Camp knife" so I took the double-bladed SAS-style knife that a certain family member purchased mail-order in 1985, only to be promptly confiscated by the housemaster. I practised whittling.
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