Whew!

Trudging to the school ground with my painfully heavy bag is a sad, sad way to start the day. Late as usual, I painstakingly make my way across the wet sand, after futilely arguing with two extra-dutiful volunteers, trying to make them let me in. I make a mental note to learn the art of flirting from one of my more experienced friends.

I quickly dodge our P.T. sir, who's capable of lifting me off my feet, 50-pound bag et al, and dumping me in the late comers line.

After making it to the huge mass of 11th graders, I quietly slink to the black of my line, hoping to escape the eyes of my ever-leering class teacher, always ready to make clean-cut comments about my lack of ribbons and humanly wearable socks.

Somehow, assembly is the only time when teachers decide to not keep the boys and girls 50 meters apart and draw one of Dumbledore's uncrossable lines to separate us. So, we're always talking, catching up with our guy pals, instead of dutifully reciting prayer after prayer.

Just as all of us are on the verge of getting sun stroke, we're rushed towards the school. But no, we dont get away that quick. We have to pass the 'inspection', which involves walking across the ever-dreaded 'ramp', with our oh-so-nice P.T. teacher checking our imperfections- hair, socks, ties, shoelace, and every other nonsensical thing possible.

The entry into the school building is a miraculous one, with only a few disciplinarians and escapists making it inside. Everyone else is caught up behind, for some reason or the other, possibly being screamed at for being late, or a zillion other illegal things, like blinking too much. I congratulate myself on being a good dodger, and, with a sigh of relief, enter my classroom.

Just four-hundred and fifty more assemblies to go.