Today we walked bleedin' miles to the Girls Academy again and I really want to go there for Year 7. This will not involve gender reassignment because by then, it will be a mixed school, once they've added boy's toilets and stuff. First, we did breadmaking. This is something hardly anybody gets to do apart from the guy at the back of the Co-op and we all took it in turns to extrude some moist dough onto the work surface (if you spill some, you have to shout D'oh!) so that we could spell out 'Proud to be Pompey', a splendid post-Brexit sentiment. I was a P.
Then we made an LED torch with some cut-out squares and mini batteries and a hot glue gun and the decorative stickers, and once the hot glue has set (sniff here to check) you press it in the middle and it lights up! Of course, it would be bog all use in the abandoned wartime radio station tunnels under Portsdown Hill but that's why we bought those giant Chinese 100-LED torches.
Then we used them to spell out our names in Morse code, just like Lord Nelson did in World War 1, apparently. We found out that the SOS signal actually has no meaning, it just has a recognisable structure, people made up the Save Our Souls later.
Because the Academy is trying to drum up support and government funding, they told us that normally you have to pay £20 to apply for a place but if we take their special 350 meg USB drive cunningly hidden in a bracelet with adverts on, we could apply for free!
On the way home we stopped off at the big park by Kingston Lifer's Prison and played tag on the hilly bike paths. This was completely epic because we made it that the grass was hot lava and so you could only use the path network, like a giant game of 3-D Pac-man. We ran around so much after lunch I vomited all down my shirt and had to change into my PE shirt.
He told me to get ready for swimming 10 minutes before we needed to leave. Which is lucky, because I spent 10 minutes shouting about how he regularly performs unnatural acts with the seashell collection. Swimming was extra-tough with 18 lengths of breaststroke in a row and I got hurting leg syndrome. Jof thought my bread P was a snail.