I googled GCSE results and this is what came up. I wish this image was the reality of it. It's much less glamorous.
I woke up at 5am. Then at 5.15, then at 5.40, 6.10, half 6; continuing like this until 8am.
Bleary-eyed, I finally lurched out of my bed to make myself presentable for The Big Day: 'Results Day'. Ghastly words if I ever saw two. Used seperately they're inoffensive but together... perilous, nerve-wracking, life-ruining. Okay maybe not that last but they are a teenage fucking nightmare.
Once at South Ken, I predictably found a couple of mates at Costa's in Bute Street. As we were early birds, we then had to listen to each other's nervous musings. "I can't imagine opening that brown envelope", "Shit I'm so screwed, my parents are going to go mental" and a relentless flow of 'what-ifs'.
When I eventually opened that dreaded 'lope, well... 4 A's, 1 B and 3 C's. 1 A* including French that I'd done some years ago. "A bit shit, isnt' it?" was Mother's verdict, and yeah it is but not the worst bunch of marks I'd witnessed that day. Rather bof.
I received a text from my cousin who told me she was "so surprised!" that she'd got 4 A*'s and 8 A's. I replied "you cunt" and haven't heard from her since... Oopsy. It's just I knew my g-rents were going to relish this prime opportunity to compare and contrast, her perfection against my 'rebel without a cause' personality, as they see it. (This is exactly what happened by the way).
Olivia, Ali, Jack G, Yacine and I went out for a 'celebratory' (?) meal at Pizza Hut. Classy as ever. Cue a buffet of pizza slices and scoops of pasta, costing a whole of £7.99 (That's pretty pricey for me! I usually eat at Waga for 2 quid. Impossible yet true.). Then I argued with Jack G, a jumped-up twit that thinks way too much of himself. I flipped and shouted at him again when he stuck his McFlurry spoon in my hair. Everyone laughed and I was feeling a tad humourless after a crap morning so I stormed off. In classic Sienna-style. (I'm always storming off, it's a very annoying habit).
The day got progressively worse. Home at long last after a sweaty tube journey I woefully recalled that I did not have the front door key. Mother was attending the photoshoot for her book and the front locks had recently been changed whilst we were in France for a reason I didn't pay attention to. They had only cut one key for each flat. Bastards.
Of course I quickly dismissed the sensible idea of ringing, in turn, the bells of the other 3 flats to ask to be let in. As our house doesn't have a buzzer-inny-magiggy my neighbours would be obliged to clammer down the stairs to let in a distressed teenager they didn't know. I didn't want someone to go to that botheration. What if they were a couple having a romantic moment? Or had something on the stove that would burn as a result? Or, or, were on the loo?
No, instead I climbed into the garden. This sounds easy but it took a good 15-20 minutes and caused a sprained ankle. Moan, moan, yes I know. Anyway my plan to get in the flat didn't work out, I won't go into it, but I ended up laying on the balcony reading my book (Demon Barber, a collection of Lynn Barber interviews).
At some point, I get a phonecall from a Sylvia Young employee informing me there is a job available in a feature film called One Day with possibly a line in French and it stars Anne Hathaway and could I send a photo of myself looking about 14 years old within 10 minutes? My iPhone is being excruciatingly slow and I screamed and wailed as sending an email with a picture proved impossible.
[As I write this, I'm simultaneously watching Nikki screaming and wailing on Big Brother and I'm shamefully thinking it's a visual reenactment of this post.]
I rang Mother repeatedly until she answered on the 20-something-th time and, between sobs, instructed her to send a pic of me without make-up. (Later I discovered she'd sent one of me in, quite clearly, a prison cell. Typically, she thought this was hilarious.)
I had a booked appointment at my newly-come upon hairdressers in Willesden Green, Cutting Crew. Lawrence, whilst giving me the Rachel cut at my request, assured me he could count the GCSEs he passed on one hand and convinced me my results were fiiiine.
Mother joined me and we went for a Thai lunch that was dour.
That night, I got an email saying thanks for the new picture (I sent another when I got home) and that I'd got the part! My day presented at last a glimmer of a fortuitous event.
To be continued...