Okay, after a while, Saan rediscovered poi. With the help of her dad's visa card, whoohoo! So she's spent her Saturday night figuring out how to order a set of poi with a tutorial DVD, which colors she wanted (in the end, she let her far grass-stain-wiser mom decide on those) and nearly ordered the wrong set. Somehow, she did manage to get the right order in, filling in all the spaces she thought was neccesary (only forgot her phone number and had to redo the whole thing) and figuring out which number went where on the visa card form. So, if all goes well, Saan will be learning how to poi properly in this and two weeks. Well, Monday and two weeks. With a set of rainbow-colored, length-adjustable, softer-than-tennis-balls, removable-tail-possessing poi!
Why did Saan go back to her poi-sites? Because she's got parental permission to leave the school during lunch. Seeing she's an asocial new kid whose friends are in a school where you don't get to go out until next year, she needs a portable thing to do, preferably doable in the city park, if she's alone. Poi seemed just the right speed for that. Unless the mailman eats her delivery, she shouldn't get bored too quickly.
She'll make sure to keep you updated!
PS: If there's some poi-spinners out there near Aarschot, all help pulling this off will be appreciated.
After a rather sleepless night, Saan woke up about half an hour earlier than she probably will on Monday, got ready for school in an hour and had about an hour and half to kill before she had to be in school. She woke her brother up, chased him into his clothes and through breakfast and started on her way to school. Half an hour later, her brother saw someone he knew at the school gate and Saan slipped in already.
After a quick look around, Saan went to ask where she had to be, seeing there was no class list hung out. She learned she'd be called to the gym hall and there hear which class she was in. Getting out her binder, she spent the next ten minutes doodling until the bell went. She also noticed a pair of twins she knew from primary school had noticed her, acknowledged them, but neither made a move to talk. Long story short, she didn't wanna. She ended up in a double class (Two classes, one class teacher, two helping class teachers) and got referred to (and watched as) the new student for the rest of the day. Twenty-three names to put a face to. So far, she knows three students by name. Their main class teacher explained the basics, and since she didn't need the time table of Mathemathics-Science, Saan spent some time finishing her doodle, inking it with her fountain pen.
At about eleven AM she got pulled out of the classroom for a tour of the school and the two assistent class teachers took over. Two familiar faces popped up, and she learned a way to orient herself in the school (Block-Floor-Room). When she returned, a few boys (mus ask their names sometimes) asked if she wanted to play cards with them. Asocial nutcase that she is, she didn't knew the game and asking if they could explain didn't occur to her until someone else had helped them form a group of four. She also forgot to ask anyone for their email. She fled from the classroom and school as soon as it was noon, partly because she was hungry and part because no one likes to be the new kid on the first day of school.
After a rather hurried day, on which I had planned a post (honest!) I get tricked into watching TV with the little sis. Still no red paper, brother's walking me to my new school in the morning, butterflies are starting to go crazy in my belly, schoolyear's not even there and already my mom's drowning herself in schoolwork and wee li'll Saan gets told that if she isn't in bed by half past ten, there'll be grave consequences (read: restrictions) concerning things like reading (she's probably one of the few children alive for who a threat consists of 'no literature for one week'), television, computer and other hobbies. So, planning on writing a full report about her first schoolday tomorrow afternoon, Saan signs off for the day with the hopeful promise of two posts the next day. PS: Someone remind me to chuck the brother out of bed at a quarter past eight.
Saan has been spending her day collecting all writing utensils she'll be needing the day after tomorrow, wresting her pen case's zippers closed, decorating the books she's already covered in red paper, running out of red paper, retrieving her orange folder that her mom gave her a few days ago, finding the last block of checkered paper in her book case, finding an unbutchered, plastic, thin binder for the block of checkered paper and trying to remember where she put her graphical calculator. She found it in her school bag, together with her fleece gloves which she's been looking for for the past three months. Now all that's left to do is put everything in her schoolbag, not to forget she doesn't need lunch on her first school day and be jittery about her first day in a new school. Oh, and find some inspiration by tomorrow evening.
Saan's last school year sucked and it was mainly her Maths teacher's fault. When he explained something in class, it was in the same undecipherable slang as the textbook was. If you asked if he'd explain further, he'd repeat everything he said in the same ununderstandable way, louder every time, until he at last made off with either 'if you don't get it now, you never will' or 'just do it'. If you made a rather stupid mistake, you got a hateful comment and the entire class laughed at you. Kids who disturbed class got yelled at up to the point that everyone felt threatened. Every new term got started with a speech on how practically no one in Saan's lesson pack would go on to the 'next' level, the harder pack with an hour more of mathemathics, and he made sure you felt as though failing for his subject would ruin your entire school career and you'd end up post man or cashier in a supermarket. He handed out his corrected tests in class, openly saying it so all could hear if you had failed it, had done a bad job or something equally negative. People who'd gotten good grades got a faint, mumbled 'good'. Next, he'd make everyone say clearly what their grades were, and he filled them in in his book only after he'd handed them out. About three quarters of the twenty-five students had bad grades for his tests and Saan knew that every other teacher, including her mother who taught Maths also, could perfectly fill those grades in at home. By the end of the first term, Saan was near tears every time she left the Maths classroom and she'd be hysterical if she'd have a test the next day. She barely passed on her Christmas exam. The next term, she had failed horribly on her all her class tests and her exam was exactly 50 percent.
Of course, when she got her report card for the Easter holidays, she read she had sixty-nine percent. Turns out someone hadn't gotten his or her points because they'd been put one place lower. That's what Saan heard the day after her Easter holidays, a bit more than ten weeks away from the final exam. The official correction didn't come until mid-May. The principal of Saan's grade (in Belgium; two years of school; first grade is first and second year, second grade is third and fourth year, third grade is fifth and sixth year) wasn't informed by him. Neither was the school's head principal. Saan's class teacher had gone to complain the day of handing out the report cards, but the principal (of the grade) told Saan's mom when she came to ask for more information that he hadn't heard a thing about it. The Maths teacher himself had been unavailable on the day of handing out the report cards because he had gone to Rome with the sixth-years. The exams could not be looked into. Saan's mom got promised there'd be help for the students with less good grades. Up until this day, two days before the next school year, neither Saan or her mother have heard anything from the school. Saan's mom had to find an off-school teacher for help for the exams that were four weeks away and everything went well with that teacher. Her only mistakes were mistakes in actually calculating out the whole thing, but she had the actual theory down and at the end of the lesson felt confident. The day before the exam, a day after Saan had gotten her last help-lesson, Saan had Maths, with a last speech on how probably no one would pass. Saan failed the exam with three percent below fifty. The only thing keeping her year-round average on fifty were the three and half percent she'd been over it with Christmas. Saan got an attest A, meaning she could do whatever she liked the next year. This school year, Saan is in another school, away from all her friends because the idea that her last Maths teacher may or may not be her next one is enough to render her depressed.
Yesterday, Saan went to pick up her books for the new school year. She is going to follow the next pack up when it comes to Mathemathics. The only difference with her old school is that she now will receive it in a class of six students from her own class, instead of twenty-five from all other classes. When she saw she had three books for Mathemathics alone, her self-confidence took a nose dive. She had nightmares last night and she does not want to start this new school year at all.
Should her old Maths teacher read this, she hopes he goes right back to Rome during the next school year and stays there (or gets left behind), so his next students can at least have one last term with a better teacher. Worse is hardly possible.
Today there is no reasonably long post due to problems with Saan electricity that cause the rooter/modem to drop out at the most inconvenient times. This note was posted after the rooter dropped away for the umpteenth time and she's hoping the internet will hold until it's safely stored on the world wide web. She'll confiscate her brother's screwdrivers and tell him to keep away from the electricty cupboard.
According to dictionary.com, puberty is: 1) a noun 2) the period of age at which a person is first cabable of sexual reproduction of offspring, in common law presumed to be 14 years in the male and 12 years in the female.
Nature, however, tends to change things as soon as we find a definition. Puberty is, most commonly, the period of age where kids realise that they'll get hair in the oddest places, don't fit in anywhere and will someday crave sex. Optional with that last bit is that they realise which sex they want to have sex with, which isn't neccesarily the sex their parents want them to have sex with. Should that last bit occur, then there is the mind-numbing period of fear of becoming an outcast in their own family.
Puberty is basically Nature's way of preparing you for life as an adult through scaring the living daylights out of your unprepared soul. The most effective way to achieve this seems to be a total rebuild of your body as you know it. It's not about sex, or being fourteen or twelve or having the biggest penis or breasts or even about realising how bad your armpits can really smell. It's about learning that life can't have it your way and figuring out how to cope with that. It's about screaming that you hate your parents when they're mad that you made a bad test and then, a few hours later, crawl to them with your tail between your legs when there's a spider hogging the toilet. It's about perfecting the art of bribing and blackmailing siblings into seeing what you want them to see, things like you coming home on time or you not having eaten the last pack of chips meant for the visitors later on.
Puberty is Nature's way of showing you every humiliating bodily function you possess. The ones you didn't understand or know about, anyway. Nowadays, school tries to prepare you through sexual education and they usually fail miserably. Things like PMS do not get described in sentences such as 'You might experience some mild discomfort and a few emotional ups and downs'. Words cannot describe the mind-bending agony that menstruating is to some girls, it cannot describe the bouts of blind fury that borders on DPMS the first few years. Sexual education does tell kids to use a condom. They do not tell kids where to get them, apart from the fact that the gossipy lady at the pharmancy or the supermarket where the person you have a crush on (or any vaguely blood-related person, such as your aunt) works at is a definite option. Sexual education does not teach kids that if you forget about buying condoms, and still want to use them, you might have to go ask your younger sister, who got two from her sex ed. class, for some.
During sexual orientation, things get polished up and compared to other things until you just know all adults are squeamish little prudes who never were sixteen and in the dire need of a boy- or girlfriend. 'Sex is like a runner's race; you can't start until your competitor has arrived next to you'. The problem is that, when you're sixteen, everyone's already five miles off, running their sneakers off, and you're lying flat on your face in the dirt because your shoe lace got caught on the starter's block.
The dictionary makes puberty sound like five minutes taken from your birthday. Pop into the city hall, get this little card saying you can reproduce and presto!, over, let's get on with life. Puberty starts around ten for a girl (and only a girl's time will be described here, because the writer of these little vignettes of complete irrelevance is in fact female), when she first notices she's got fluff on her legs and it's dark and pricky and she doesn't like it. Next comes the fluff 'down there' and that swell that everyone insists will one day be a shapely bosom. At that time, it looks to you as though your chest is infected: it's swollen and it itches and that's about all you can tell. And as all that body hair grows in that your least favorite places, and your very own natural scent invents itself, those two oversized insect bites grow to the point where it's something. You're just not sure what it is. Right about then, when your face is a moon landscape of zits that go down to that wee little hollow between two nipples that try so valiantly to keep upright and you don't like anything at all about your looks because your mom won't allow you a razor and some magical anti-pustules cream, you get taken shopping for a very first bra. Shapeless, cloth contraptions to be strapped around your chest that aren't comfortable unless they're too big. (By the time you're starting to fool yourself into believing you've got breasts, your choices will itch their way off your body until you drag your mother down to a lingerie store and fit half the possible bras to come out with the most comfortable and expensive piece of underwear they had in the store. It being a bland towards disgusting color is a definite possibility.)
A few months after that first bra, in most girls' cases, you'll experience either nothing or the most spine-bowing pain you have ever felt in your life, a constant beat like a monstertruck riding around in your body, somewhere between the groin and the navel, for one or two solid weeks. Then you notice that the yellow-whitish sludge in your panties has turned a most distressing brown (probably five minutes before an important test or thirty seconds before lunch break ends). Around that time you will either feel as though you've got too little social skills or your friends don't know you at all. You'll then promptly, in the adrenaline rush of getting in class on time or filling out the test reasonably well, forget all about what you have sort of recognised to be your first menstruation until the shops are about to close. That's about the time you hesistatingly tell your mom and she rushes to the store (with or without you) to get a pack of tampons. Murphy's law dictates that all things 'mini' and 'light' have mysteriously disappeared and you'll get stuck with something you're sure is too high for you. By the morning, you're pretty sure you need something higher. Should you have opted for regular, off-the-rack, no-frill tampons, you'll discover the joys of trying to get the damn things in. Half-dried blood does not make for a comfortable or suitable lubricant. Also, the commercials lie: full or badly inserted tampons press or even hurt. There is no such thing as the best way to begin or end puberty. The best part of it all is that it's not over just yet.
Just when you think the worst part is past, you get proven wrong. Your spots will rise and fall on the natural rythm of your menstrual cycle and, for about the first two years, that thing is about as stable as nytroglycerin in a roller coaster. Prepare for visions of absurd impregnation or even sterilisation when you skip one month of bleeding and for visions of internal bleeding and emergency rooms when you're bleeding to bleedin' early. Like Saan wrote here before, it's Nature's way of making you wet yourself in fear. Some other possible discomforts may be realising how exactly you experience sexual arousal and its very unique scent halfway through your science exam, being caught wearing a less than fashionable bra to all the hip Snoopies and flower prints in the girls' locker room, not having your breasts even out in size for quite some time, cutting yourself in the leg while shaving on the hottest day of the year, when long trousers are not an option, waxing and going to the doctor's to get your first strip of girl-pills. If you're having too much pain during that time of the month, it's even more fun; The Risk of Endometrosis dictates that you should get a stronger shot of hormones to try and keep possible wandering endometrium where it should stay. If your doctor is starting to get older, she probably won't check for the needed compounds in other medicine of the same productor, even if it's possible that you can get all you need for half the price.
Why, you may ask? Because puberty is Nature's way of showing you what adult life will be like, when making you pay taxes is not yet an option.
Hell is best described as wet, pounding rain in the middle of summer, with only short breaks between downpours, as though the air itself has to catch its breath. When it's unleashing the violence of Belgian summers upon the earth, it's understandable. Only tourists and idiots go outside and don't bring rain coats when they're surrounded by the beer-drinking, chocolate-eating people that is more commonly known as the Belgians.
Cesar, some old dead Roman guy, thought they were very brave for surviving many months travelling away from the center of civilization. Then again, that was in the beginning of his series of books. By the end, people who lived like them were ignorant, stupid and insane. You can check if you like. Centers of civilizations move. Rome, Bruges, New York, Tokyo, China. Whatever the place, the Belgians stuck to their habits and kept far away from it. When it moved to their own country, the ordinary, house-garden-kitchen Belgian didn't have to learn French starting their tenth September, so they didn't understand shit about civilization either back then. The up side of it all is that they don't care about this civilization that seems to have taken a disliking to the meteorological bout of PMS that is summer in Belgium. People come for the pretty buildings, the candy, the booze, sometimes even the pretty trees and squirrels and caves that go drip-drip down south, but they rarely come for the weather. Belgium is one of those few countries where stores can sell light-weight rain coats with removable fleece lining in mid-July as their main article without risking bankruptcy.
Most Belgian kids don't mind the weather. If it's sunny, they grab their three-hundred euro K-way (usually a beaten-up, mud-smeared, ratty thing that's been more than worth its money. Or was new the day before) and go outside to play. Climb a tree, ride a bike, rollerblade down a hill with a 15% sign next to it, go to the pool. If it rains, they either come inside, go home or enter the nearest pub. As soon as you leave the sixth grade, no one looks at you funny when you order a beer.
When it pours, Belgian kids stay inside. Unlike most tourists or kids below five, they don't buy the 'it'll pass in a minute' line any longer. As soon as they enter the age where school becomes and obligation, they learn to judge rain. If you get called indoors during school hours, then there's the tiny problem of a threatening flood, usually on either a Thursday or Friday afternoon, hereby ruining the entire weekend by having all the cool parties being called off. If your hand gets bruised when you hold it under the spray, you should wish you hadn't pulled on those jeans this morning and will walk home with the front of it wet to your skin and the back dry as can be. If you're not sure your hand is getting wet, it'll pass in a minute, unless you say so, and you don't even bother to go stand in a dry spot.
When it pours, they don't get anything from the store, they don't go check the mail, they don't put out the garbage, if any going outside is concerned, they pretend it was never asked of them. No one likes pneumonia during their summer holiday, not even the Belgians. So Belgian kids, when it rains, stay indoors. Play computer games, watch dvds and cable, make cookies and forget to clean up the kitchen, some (like Saan) are desperate enough to learn how to do embroidery. They don't honestly resent the weather. They only resent that most Belgian mothers see it as a chance to make their children do indoor chores.
Saan's mission of the day: vacuum the house and deflate the gigantic inflatable matress that had been lying in the middle of the living room for the past week. Hopeful when she found the vacuum cleaner already upstairs, Saan went to look for the head piece, only to find that her brother had effectively put a stop to Saan's planned activity it by dismantling the steel tube. You can only play computer games for so long before you go looking for more interesting things to do. Saan's brother likes to see things in as many bits as they go without breaking, often with the result of something getting wrecked beyond belief. Released from hoovering duty, Storm decided to go deflate the mattress. Opening the valve wasn't enough. The air pump then decided to be difficult, unless you switched it on. Saan's first attempt for greeted with an order to put a stop to the racket so people could watch the news. Doing it without electricity was doable, with a little help from a little sister. Saan held the pump sort of in place, so the pin at the end would keep the inside part of the vavle open for the air to come out and her little sister, Eve, had fun rolling around, stomping, kicking and jumping on the blue monstrosity until it was about halfway empty. Then both girls got chased off with the accusation that they were destroying the high-quality, vinyl behemoth and that their father would do the rest before anyone got hurt. With that happy note, Saan returned to her pc-puttering, on the beat of the drumming rain outside.
After rereading one of her favorite webcomics for an entire day, Saan stumbled across one she'd forgotten about. When a girl doing a nifty trick with flags described what she was doing as 'poi', Saan got curious. So, turning to her good friend Mr. Internet, she started her search. After thirty minutes of filtering and trying different search terms, Saan finally found a link to a few web sites with instructions. The Home of Poi came with the most basic of courses, so Saan decided to try these. After a brief shower, she set to work. Put on clothes. Down to the basement, search, don't find. Up to her parents bedroom, search, no results. Answer the phone, ask where the tennis balls should be, go back down. Find them where she was sure to have looked once already. Take two upstairs, take a pair of siccors, look for the string, find none. Go back downstairs, find the string, take it upstairs. Figure out how to tie it around the balls. Success! Covering them with deceptively soft-looking material, Saan went outside and tried to spin them in two equal circles. They tangled. Saan tried again. *Woosh, woosh, woosh, OW!* Saan got hit in the shin. Third try. One circle, two circle, three circle,... Saan soon found out why most pictures had either fabric poi or poi with wide leather handles. String was never meant to be used in high friction contact sport, or so Saan discovered the hard way. Experimenting a bit with the several grip, Saan hit herself on the mound of towel keeping her wet hair from her neck, the shin, the hip, the other shin, respectively. After nearly amputating a few fingers, Saan went back inside. Doing a bit more research on the movement, she decided to try and make a different kind of poi.
(Shall be hopefully continued someday)
To give an idea what a Saan DIY-with string! looks like, the picture's an example. Meet the Gaara-puppet draft. Another infamous Saan-project that will hopefully be finished someday. ...Yeah, the gun's a toy.
One hot, sweaty August day, Saan and family left for Germany, to the most remote and isolated area available in the twenty-first century Eifel. The only reason it has its own fire department is because it's too far off from every other place with one. So, when all was said and done, and Saan was settled into her room and fed, Nan snuck in. Joy in the late evening. Most kids Nan's age were fast asleep by then. Nan, true to Murphy's law, always seemed to stay awake at the most inopportune moments and then promptly decided she wanted to be entertained. Even Saan was getting ready for bed. Having her laptop blasting songs into the mosquito-infected night and completely forgetting about her youngest female cousin in the room, Saan whipped out her strip of anti-conception pills. Filling her glass at the bath-corner's tap, Nan took hold of the strip. "Whatcha need these fo~ r?" came the singsong that only those completely oblivious as to how the babies get INTO mommy's belly seem to be able to manage. Saan blinked. And noticed the shiny pink underside of what Nan was holding. "Ah... Uhm..." "Are you sick?" pouted the nine-year old creature that Mother Nature had decided fit to be anyone's cousin. Saan's theory was that it was done on a bachelorette party, on a dare, after a less than healthy amount of alcohol. "Uh... No. I just have a... headache." Searching stare from the four-foot tall runt. "No, you don't," came the certain reply. Having found a plausible explanation that wouldn't get her into trouble, Saan stuck to it. "Yes, I do," she insisted. "Then why are you playing music?" "It's not because I achtually have a headache, it's because I might have one. Special pills, you see." "Mommy says you can't take pills if nothing's wrong. It's bad for you," tsked the little girl. Saan was not impressed with the inch of flesh being waved at her. "These pills you have to take to make sure you don't get one. Awfully bad headaches. They make me all grumpy when they come," she deadpanned. Nan thought about that for a while. "Even grumpier than usual?" she asked at last. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" Saan gritted out. "Mommy's downstairs with Daddy, they're playing cards and drinking wine with Werner. She won't be up until late," smiled Nan sweetly. "Can you be grumpier than usual?" she repeated. Saan glared. "How about I don't take my pill and I show you just how grumpy I can get when I don't, hmm?" Nan blinked a few times. "You don't have to." "I will if you don't go to bed and sleep," threatened Saan. "Why won't you tell me what the pills are for?" "For making sure I don't maul little cousins who don't want to go to sleep when it's way past their bed time." "Liar," accused Nan. Having been taught that you're not wrong if you don't admit to it, Saan held her foot down. "Don't make me get out of this chair," she said. Nan stuck out her tongue. Saan got up from her position behind the pc. Nan ran to her bed, squealing.
Having cleared that problem, Saan took her pill and returned to her typing.
After hearing her little sister whine about it all weekend and then hearing two cousins join in, Saan was volunteered for taking her sister and three cousins to the movies. The sun was shining, they had two hours time to get there... Nothing could go wrong. That is, until they loaded the screen for aunt into the car and the sister complained about it squashing her shoes and having no room to sit and it wasn't faaaaaaair. And pulled up for bread. And money. And had to actually feed the munchkins before going to the car. And then realised that, with the screen, the three additional people had very little room to spare in the car. And that Nan (two months older than the boy later referred to as Mini) wanted to go with us but wasn't allowed. But apart from that, nothing was raining on the kids' parade.
Our first real problem came in the shape of Saan's youngest cousin, hereafter referred to as 'The mini' or 'Mini'; a hyperactive, nine-year old, male, chauvinist pig who somehow got allowed to follow martial arts courses. How any instructor accepted the kid was still a mystery to Saan, but that's got nothing to do with today's story. So, after wrestling the kid to the car's trunk with his sister, they were off to the station. Saan's mother, the driver of the day, would drive on to the aunt who owned the screen, drop it off and go home. Leaving Saan with the horrors in the shape of four miniature monsters. Mini dragged her down the station stairs on her unstable shoes and nearly dragged her down. Starting from there, the mini got trapped between his sister and Saan. Kicking and screaming ensued. Checked for any run over cousins after crossing the single busiest street that one can cross in this particular city without seeing a traffic light. Needless to say, it has a rather notorious repuation. One of a tripled mortality rate in comparison to the rest of the city. They passed three kids younger than the mini who were making less of a fuss. Things got better in the movie complex.
"Which cue to do you choose?" asked Saan. "Doesn't matter," said Eldest Cousin of The Pack of Midgets #1. Saan went to the cue. "But there's less people," pointed out Mini's sister, Eldest Cousin #2. Saan went to the other cue. "'Kay, I'll be needing the student cards before we get there." What ensued was indescribable. Cell phones. Pieces of paper. Change. Miniature Plushies. Tampons. More keychains than a bunch of kids with only two keys each need. Dangly cell phone things. The first student card to join Saan's and ten crumpled euros to sponsor the trip. More change. Candy wrappers. Foldable hair brush. Mangled photograph that apparently had been gone for a while. Biro. Chewed out pencil. Scented notepad with three crumpled papers. Second student card. Our turn, by then.
"Hi, three students, two kids. Pirate Movie, next showing. Here are the cards." Saan shoves the three cards under the glass, they get inspected and shoved back. Ditzy intern gives us all a once over, focusing on Eldest Cousin #1. Note here that said girl is thirteen, looks it and acts it. "You're all under eighteen, are you?" she asked. "Yeah, we're all under." The intern taps away on her keyboard. "Thirty-five euros," she says us, bestowing us with a look that says she hates her job and is doing it for the money. Saan gives up her forty euros and gets five back. Saan lets go of Mini, mini storms off. The four girls give chase up to the page-reader where Mini is scowling at a decidedly happier intern. "Oh! Oh! Oh! I wanna do this! I wanna do this!" squealed Mini's sister. Saan gives up the paper, Mini's sister gives it to the second intern, Saan (who is sponsoring the trip with money of her mother and will have to report back to said mother with physical proof of her mission expenses to keep the familial peace), never sees it again. Oh, well. On to the snack stand.
Saan takes all cousins to the second cashier, who's just opening his place. Only three people in front of us. Mini disappears to the free PSP2s and proceeds to kick a guy older than Saan's virtual ass.
"Okay, so we want popcorn-right?-and a large coca cola-right?-and...Anything else?" Saan asked. "Yeah. One mega-sized popcorn, cola and a smaller popcorn," said Eldest Cousin #1. "I'm not sure, that's a lot of popcorn, girlie. Are you gonna eat it all?" "Well, you're here now." "I don't eat popcorn." "Oh." "One large popcorn. One large cola," glared Saan. "If you want more, how about--Oi, where's your bro?" "Still there," chirped Eldest Cousin #2. "Okay."
Our mass of female activity moved to the counter. "Hi, one large sugared popcorn menu with cola and a bag of potato chips, salt, please." Guy shoves a tub of popcorn onto the counter. "What was that drink ya wanted?" he asked fuzzily. You could've found the fur on his voice in the back of your fridge. On a sandwich you forgot about a few weeks back, to be precise. "Coca cola." Guy shoved a cup on the grid of the soda bar thing. "And that chips?" "Salt. Natural. Are you okay?" "Muh." Guy shoved drink and chips onto the counter and demanded nine euros and half. Saan shoved the popcorn into her sister's arms, the drink into mini's sis and the other one got the chips.
"Where's the mini? He was there just a minute ago!" squeaked Saan after paying. Mini popped up from behind a pillar. Saan, now seriously pissed, picked up the mini and dragged him trough the door marked with a seven. The two eldest cousins sat down, the mini got shoved into the seat next to them and Saan and sister followed. Saan chose the seat next to the stairs. It made for an easier escape route. After seven minutes of whining, ten minutes of brainwashing through commercials, another ten through trailers, the film began, the highlight of the day that they'd all been waiting for. An hour and half of sheer silence. Heavenly. Only six screams.
After wrapping everyone back into their respective coats and sweaters as the credirs rolled by, they exited. No one had to pee, despite having just consumed a large amount of carbonated, chemical color and taste. The window showed us a flooding rain. Ah, summer in Belgium. Like a bunch of cheap tourists, they were caught without coats. Or, in Saan's case caught without a coat with a hood attatched to shield her from the downpour. The cousins would catch a bus at the station. Saan would catch a train. But first, they had to get there. Across a square with stones that turned slick as ice with the slightest hint of rain, after a street with no chance on shelter until the station.
"Three. Two. One. Go!"
Like a bunch of madmen, the five stormed down the street, coming to a spectacular halt at the square, next to its first pub. The four cousins proceeded to the bus stops. Saan moved at a slower rate, preferring not to fall on her face in a city she'd probably have to find a university in. At this slower rate, she noticed a underground parking lot. The station's underground parking lot. Taking the stairs down, Storm felt the cool, dry air hit her at the clothes. Her new shoes were leaking. Her pants were soaked to the underwear. Her cell phone was nearly swimming.
And until this hour, she still does not know how much worse her cousins were off, who, unlike her, had dressed in jeans instead of quick-dry canvas trousers.
Hi, this is Saan speaking indirectly about herself, as she's planning to do for the rest of this blog's history. After lots of late-night musings, overdoses on sugar, PMS and watching YouTube, she made this blog. She'll be trying to add one message each day, concerning her daily or past adventures, with a few 'twists' (read: 'Wanderings from the actual happenings, such as changing of names of direct relatives, friends, acquaintances and outright lying about what happened, though it'll vaguely resemble the actual situation. Hopefully, anyway.') and a hopefully humorous note to add to the story that's being told. Leave a message if you find room for improvement. Or want to motivate her to watch the sparks fly.
About the author: Saan is the sixteen year old semi-fictional author and heroine of the short stories or sketches you'll find on this webblog. She claims no ownership of any copyrighted or trademarked anythings you'll find in this blog. She only claims ownership of her life, these writings, her own twisted image of how the English/French/(possibly any other) language should look like in writing and a transparent fountain pen with a tiny dog drawn on it. At the moment of writing this, she's preparing to go to her fifth of six years of secondary school and her summer holiday is coming to an end. She'll be going to a new school on the first of September. In the faint hopes to keep in touch her not always online-statussed friends (and give new ones a faint idea of what to prepare for), she started this blog. According to her oldest best friend, she needs to get off her lazy ass and find a sport. She agrees. Suggestions are welcome. Pain(t) ball and $nowboarding has been vetoed already. Her other best friend says she needs a diary to keep her own and family's plans for the next few months in, which she also agrees to. But she sadly enough hasn't the budget to buy one. Donations received through or because of this site go against this site's ToS. I'll ask one for Christmas or something.
About what you'll find here: In here, you'll find sort of daily (Saan has at the moment of writing this message no record whatsoever of long-lasting persistence) short stories of what happened that day, or the week before, or a few years ago or yesterday, but didn't make the site because she had too much homework/her cat peed on the pc/she wasn't near a computer with internet access/she forgot/... Or just scripts (the stories with just the said things of the day's subject) or Saan's opinion or musings on... whatever. Should she be really uninspired, you'll get a drawing, sketch, game of hangman, doodle, attempt at her own pure fiction or something else from her 'doodle map' which will undoubtedly sprout once more from her map with empty pages actually meant for tests and taking notes. In other words, this blog's contents are depending on the unstable occurence that is life.
That's all for now! Saan hopes you'll enjoy this blog and all things you find in it. Any mentionings of Saan's real name in comments shall be deleted, together with the comment around it as soon as Saan notices it. The one who Saan posted this for, knows she means HER. (Yes, YOU!)
Neen, uw blog moet niet dagelijks worden bijgewerkt. Het is gewoon zoals je het zélf wenst. Indien je geen tijd hebt om dit dagelijks te doen, maar bvb. enkele keren per week, is dit ook goed. Het is op jouw eigen tempo, met andere woorden: vele keren per dag mag dus ook zeker en vast, 1 keer per week ook.
Er hangt geen echte verplichting aan de regelmaat. Enkel is het zo hoe regelmatiger je het blog bijwerkt, hoe meer je bezoekers zullen terugkomen en hoe meer bezoekers je krijgt uiteraard.
Het maken van een blog en het onderhouden is eenvoudig. Hier wordt uitgelegd hoe u dit dient te doen.
Als eerste dient u een blog aan te maken- dit kan sinds 2023 niet meer.
Op die pagina dient u enkele gegevens in te geven. Dit duurt nog geen minuut om dit in te geven. Druk vervolgens op "Volgende pagina".
Nu is uw blog bijna aangemaakt. Ga nu naar uw e-mail en wacht totdat u van Bloggen.be een e-mailtje heeft ontvangen. In dat e-mailtje dient u op het unieke internetadres te klikken.
