place your bets

The scene is set thusly: in a drawing room possessed of the sort of stifling stateliness only truly achievable by the utterly grasping nouveau riche, an extended family unit only slightly more animated and less stuffed than the furnishings is arranged for maximum aesthetic value and minimum comfort. Grandma Li sits in state on stage left. On the right are arrayed three scrubbed remains of what were once three children. The topic of interrogation is the future. The older and younger children have already, respectively, indicated a desire to mature into an Unspeakable and a Fairy Princess, both received with approval.

Grandma Li (imagine the most disapproving tone you can, and you will still fall short): And you, young Xavier? What do you want to be when you grow up?
X - age 7: Indolent.

For this piece of accurate prediction, did our young hero get lauded as a seer? NO! He didn't even get praised for advanced vocabulary for his age. He got a clip around the ear and, after dinner, a surreptitious high-five and extra chocolate from his father.

But the point of this charming little snippet of theatre is to say:

Dear Professor Noodle,
My aspirations have not substantially altered.
Endless love,
The Dishon. X Bletchley

I'm already bored with this week.

However, Tiger fell in the marinade for the quail. I may actually never stop laughing about this.

Real estate. I feel edified! I feel illuminated! I feel that our chum Dingo isn't going to go for my dreamhouse with the cannon embankments and the secret passage from the guest loo to the wine cellar. Whatever.

Clearly there's only one way this month is actually going to be at all entertaining, and that's if we make it so. Hop to it, kids. I'm pulling my weight.

[Students only]
Now taking bets on:

1. First house to be evicted from its living quarters by its own disgruntled mess.
   
2. First member of each house to be publicly shanked by a roommate for squalor.
   
3. First resident to run out of socks (or other item) because s/he just keeps vanishing the dirty ones.
   
4. First person to be headbutted by Barber. You laugh now, but it's going to happen, just you wait.
   
5. First person to bring me a mojito.

As always, inquire for odds, and double or nothing option on pinpointing the timeframe.

Plus, I might as well open that perennial favourite for betting - first schoolyear hook-up! Come on folks, who's it going to be? Field's narrower, but will we all be too harrowed by domesticity? (Or, are we all waiting for impressionable fifth-years to seduce?) Lay money on one, both, or all three (or more) participants. Usual rules apply: no relationships that existed before the whistle blew on the Express, and at least one witness required. I'm not having another scam like the fiasco two years ago. All disputes settled by appeal to the nearest Professor, so behave.

Eight a.m. sharp?
Eight a.m.?
Eight?

I do not believe that hour exists any longer and it can kiss my watchable arse.

( Meet Tiger )

I wouldn't mind seeing Morgan Coote naked.

Let's run a scorecheck and placings, shall we?

Sparkplug "play with my nipple tassels" McCormack - 5
Augusten "pin my head on your dartboard" Marchbanks - -1 for foul play

POOR SHOWING THERE, MARCHBANKS. Get your act together. Sparkles McCocky, however - well-played! Even if that is the single tackiest piece of jewellery I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. I will wear it every day of our imprisonment and think fond, feathered thoughts of happier times.

Competitors: Sparkplug versus Morgan
Event: Nudity
Judged by: Vin Donlan (the world's ultimate objective arbiter)

Simple run - pick the winner. Bets start at even money each way; variable by demand; pitch me a stake and I'll do you a deal.

For the edification of Miss Pulaski and my own general amusement:

I say "mud or jelly", and you think...?

Is this standard girl behaviour, or a hitherto unrealised magical talent of my sister's: in the time it's taken me to (mostly) unpack my trunk, get my sleeping habits aligned to something more civilised, and remember how to make coffee for myself, she has all the neighbourhood boys on a string. At least three of them, maybe a fourth, but I can't quite figure out if he's interested or just stoned. It's possible neither can he.

I think one of them's a Muggle.

I'm viewing this more as a fascinating study in behavioural physics, but if anyone were inclined to speculate on which lucky contestant might win the "prize" (first) and/or which of these charming specimens is going to get thumped by Dad, Quen or myself, your owl knows the way to my window.



OK, I've almost remembered how to make coffee for myself.

That is revolting.

( Look at 'em go, look at 'em kick; makes you wonder how the other half live )