Sometimes I think that my parents should be more stereotypical as divorcees. Maybe they should have a big fight, or maybe they should have a petty argument that last for four months, or have a big old court battle.

Joining them and see how cordial they behave toward each other, or how mum chide dad, as if they’re still married, is disconcerting.

There are apparently a lot of papers to sign again, and both me and mum need to sign them. In nine months I’m eighteen, and I get control of whatever my parents have saved for me during my life.

To prevent me from clearing out the accounts and heading for a life of luxury and hedonism for three months before the money runs out, I have to authorise my dad to keep in control of it after my eighteenth birthday. I already did this before, but apparently I must now do it again. And now I have.

He’ll continue to apportion the little allowances I get, and dole it out regularly over each month until they run out or until I’m finished with University. But, to do that, there’s apparently a lot of permissions and slips and authorisations that need to be given – so that’s what I’ve been doing today. Paperwork.

Now I’m sitting in a library for the first time in ages because I’ve not ever actually been in the library at home. Isn’t that strange for a book-worm like me? But I have to wait for Mark to come and fetch me, and I didn’t feel like heading back to the cottage with my parents, so they just left me here to wander about these streets and these houses.


I know I did all right on the tests, I know I did, so my increasing nerves – two days left – until I receive the results are irrational, but I still feel the nerves tingling, and my mind keep turning to disaster scenarios.

Mark is more cool than I am. “There’s only two ways, you’re right or you’re wrong. I know I was right.” So he’s offered to flee with me to South America if I have to make a fast escape from enraged parents. That’s before he calls me silly, and rolls his eyes.

He thinks my nerves are funny, the bastard. He’ll have to sleep on the couch, I think. Yes, that’s suitable punishment for rolling his eyes and making fun of my existential irrational wangsting about my grades.

But on the other hand, he’s more twee than I am these days. In two days it’s also our one year anniversary. Why did my wangsting coincide with that? What possible evil person chose that date for releasing the test results? Hopefully it will not mean that in the future, when I lay on the therapist’s couch, I won’t have a conflicted trauma about this date.


I have read a book that makes me write too bloody formal now. When I read a book that I think is great, it colours the way I write, so since I’ve now read “Millicent Min, Girl Genius” which has a quite formal voice, I find myself – with gritted teeth – having written this entire blog post in the same kind of form.