I got up at half six this morning so I could find out what my brother got for his A Levels- how incredibly supportive and noble of me. He did really well and got the place he wanted at the uni he wanted. But while I am obviously very Happy and Pleased for my brother, I keep thinking of all the teens out there who got up this morning all excited and then discovered they hadn't got the right grades to go to university. Doesn't it break your heart?
I know it is ridiculous, but I can't stop thinking about all these poor Imaginary Underacheivers. I am actually crying a little bit now, thinking about how one of them has to tell her mum, and her mum is all excited and thinks her little girl is going to uni, but she hasn't got the right grades and all that hard work was for nothing, NOTHING and all her friends are going out celebrating tonight and her mum wants to take her out for a Congratulations Meal but in a minute or two she is going to have to break the news to her mum...
'Oh God, stop, stop!' I hear you cry, 'It's too much, it's TOO MUCH!! I CAN'T COPE WITH SUCH TRAGEDY!'
Ok, I'll stop. I must stop, or I will start crying again for all my Imaginary Underacheivers and their bitter disappointment. There is nothing worse than when someone is disappointed. I am so glad my brother got good grades- I would not have coped well with him being disappointed.
But he got what he wanted and he's going to the uni he wanted so it's all ok! I feel like I should give him some advice about Univeristy Life, but I'm not sure that I have any good advice to give on the subject- the only thing I learnt from my three years in Liverpool was how to put my hair in rollers.
My nana gave him some good advice though: "Don't do drugs, make lots of friends and don't get drunk. I worked in a pub for years and it put me off for life. I seen grown women shitting themselves..."
That is actually what she said. But then she also said "You don't know your luck 'til yer hat falls off." which I swear she has made up, but she insists that it is a Real Thing That People In Liverpool Say.
Me and my brother stayed in Liverpool for three days, which was just enough time to eat three roast dinners and to catch up with my friend Anna from uni and Amy, my friend from Paris. It was weird seeing Amy back in England, I kept expecting drunk, aggressive French men to jump out as us from behind the purple wheely bins. (They didn't.) Amy still hasn't found a job in Liverpool and in a really selfish way I hope she doesn't, because she said that if she hasn't got a job by Christmas she'll come back to Paris!
It was nice to see my little scouse brothers, but the youngest one didn't recognise me at first- he said "Herro! Who you?"
It's funny, because now I've worked as an au pair for a year, my brain kept slipping back into Childcare Mode and, after the relatively strict parenting of Paris, I was a little bit shocked that my little brothers were still awake past midnight, eating biscuits and watching very unsuitable things on the TV. At one point my dad came in all smiley and said "I just did some fire breathing for Conan* and he loved it!"
So basically Conan, who has just turned three, saw my dad apparently drinking lighter fluid, setting a stick on fire, then holding the burning stick close to his face, then spitting on the fire and breathing like a dragon, and all this without getting harmed... I might be Shit Au Pair but even I know that this isn't a very good example to set for your toddler.
My dad wanted me to have a go at 'fire breathing' and I was very tempted... There was a point at uni when I was convinced I was going to get really good at it and perform at festivals. I asked my dad to teach me but then one day I realised that if I started gargling with lighter fluid and spitting at fire very close to my face; I might not burn my face off, but I would definitely be increasing the probability.
So. I stayed away from the fire. After all, it's IBIZA in ten days, and I can't sunbathe with no skin.
I asked my dad what he thought about the recent 'riots' and he agreed that they were rubbish. He went on and on about the original Toxteth riots:
"We burnt down the club where all the magistrates went..."
He went on and on about how back then they had a cause because all the police in Liverpool were bent. I kept quiet during this little speech because I know for a fact that when the Toxteth Riots kicked off, he was on a camping trip, in Devon.
I know this because once, someone who found out how who my dad was, went "He's a legend blah blah I heard he started the Toxteth riots". I told my dad and obviously he was Well Chuffed. I told my mum and she burst out laughing and told me about the camping trip. She said him and his dodgy mate went to Devon and killed a sheep and ate it.
Does anyone else's dad kill sheep and set fire to their breath?
I don't know why I have gone on and on about my dad. Perhaps I have 'daddy issues', although doesn't that normally apply to rich girls who feel abandoned by their dads because they spent half their childhoods on a yaht in the Bahamas?
Anyway, my dad is questonable but my mum's all right: today we walked into that buzzy cosmopolitan New Mills and there is a Boots and a 'coffee shop' run by Christians that does nice cake so I guess it's all not bad.
I can't believe there is only ten days left until Ibiza! I am obvioulsy very, very excited, but I am also a bit sad because it means going back to Paris and I am a bit nervous about the job now... I forsee many blog posts with the words 'Shit Au Pair' in them...
*My brother's name is not Conan; but I am trying to keep my Top Secret Identity a secret and Conan is one of the excellent names that my dad suggested and thankfully had rejected.