Confessions of a Teenage Cynic

September

September

The time had come. It was the dreaded last night before school resumes. The end of these extensive summer holidays gave you the same sort of disheartened feeling that you achieve before school or work resumes on a Monday morning, yet far more potent. I was languishing in the lounge, using it more than ever for its intended purpose, and lounging on the sofa, legs propped up on the armrest and head lolling around lethargically on several pillows. The misery of the grim situation had begun to dawn on me, and the good mood that the holiday had bought had evaporated as quickly as it had arrived at the end of term. Dad was also slouched in the leather armchair, slightly slumped as the gin and tonics of the day took their toll. His eyes were drooping and he stared blankly at the TV, trying to take in the innocuous information from one of his tedious programmes. He burped loudly, shattering the silence and lurched his body forwards with a look of surprise on his face, before returning to his original position.  

Mum chastised Dad for his disgusting behaviour and then declared him, 'a ragamuffin', before returning her gaze to her laptop on the desk and carried on searching for a way in which to somehow make it to Australia for under £400. She muttered moodily to herself when the realisation dawned that the flights alone were more than her budget. Dad failed to react to Mums scolding and continued his barely comprehensible stare at the television with an overly self-satisfied smile plastered across his face. 

Dads greying hair sat in waves on the back of his head and the receding at the front had been accelerated dramatically in recent years. Dad called this sort of ageing 'testosterone out of control' and deemed that is was all to do with how manly you were. However, minutes after uttering this he stubbed his toe on the corner of the couch, set off on a loud and high pitched swearing monologue which was, as usual, ignored by us all. In fact, it had little effect other than to remind us that he often talks bollocks with a varying degree of conviction. Mum however, with her straightened dark hair and constant scarf wearing, looked younger than her years and often lied to cover the fact up that she was nearing her fifties.  

I looked over at Dad with a look of mock disgust only to be met with a small snigger and a wink. Dad was under the impression that this was a 'man wink'. The old buffoon had mentioned this phenomenon to me only last week, announcing that he, 'had a secret so grand and volatile that it may well cause the downfall of the male race'. He then proceeded to indicate that the 'man wink' was a mutual agreement between men to keep schtum about the possibly marriage-wrecking and argument inducing incidents that occur. Dad had just used this 'universal knowledge' in the wrong situation for the sixth time since telling me about it, and seemed utterly unaware that Mum could see exactly what he was doing. 

Katie, my sister, and I sat on the other couch shaking our heads and being associated with such abnormality. At 16 years old, I was nearly as tall as my father and at 6 foot with fierce eyebrows and a stoic face; I was a borderline menacing sight. Katie was also tall for a girl at 5'6'' at was two years younger than me at 14. Whilst I looked my age, she had filled out early and to many it looked like we were twins. Needless to say, my friends were crude and overly eager to believe this shady rumour. 

As I sat there I began to reminisce about the tumultuous events of the summer that had just come to an abrupt end. It had been eventful, annoying and of course, full of embarrassing and outrageous events. Dad had managed to incur the wrath of the police. After picking up a pigtail on the way home from a rugby game, he had been driving in his usual erratic manner, fuming at the way in which his team had lost. Muttering and moaning to himself, in a voice just above the level of a drone, about the dipping quality in your modern athlete, he took a corner at such a speed that the back end kicked out. After a mild panic attack in the car, where his voice reached a new pitch, Dad assured me that it was all on purpose and back ends kicking out on a Ford was a perfectly normal event. He then went on to declare that he knew a manufacturer at the Ford factory and after drinking with him extensively one night they had had a lengthy discussion about the best way to take corners in a Ford. After a laborious argument with Mum, during which he seemed to ignore the flashing lights in his mirror, he concluded that they may have been talking about track driving. He then settled his now one way argument (as Mum had given up) by saying, 'If you can't drive like that on the road, then you have no business being on a track!'