  The party is beginning (but I'm not there) - With thanks to Verdi for title inspiration. So here we are. On the cusp of my sixteenth birthday, young, male, provincial, and, quite frankly, somewhat bored. A state which is something of a prerequisite, I'm sure, for taking the time to set one of these fun emotion-pad things up.
Beginning, however, is slightly more difficult than first anticipated, so I begin with - La Vie de Moi - I, Solus Ad Victimam, aged fifteen years and eleven months, am the eldest child of three of an ordinary, British, lower middle class nuclear family, being born on the 17th August, 1988. I am the possessor of two younger siblings - a brother, thirteen, and a sister, eleven (ages approximate), a mother (recently emancipated and employed, a nurse in training), and a father, a project manager at our oh-so friendly nuclear power and waste reprocessing plant. We are, you see, a nuclear family in more ways than one. I am also soon to be the possessor of a set of G.C.S.E grades, which will leave me either delighted or deflated (and at the mercy of parents who are not angry, but "disappointed").
I live with my family, plus one large, overweight, pedigree, yellow eyed white persian named Arthur (and until recently, a transexual cockatiel [more on this later] and a psychotic hamster [this too]), not to mention four lemon goldfish (not lemon), named after the four horsemen on the apocalypse.
They have a castle, presumably containing all manner of aquatic horrors. But getting back to "ma vie", as opposed to "les vies des mes peches", I have a room in an end terrace, three story, late Victorian villa, with original fireplaces, ceramic rayburn, sauna and gym. That is, in more cosmopolitan terms, equivalent roughly to a Barrat home in Croydon or a colonial centreplan in New Jersey. I am fairly well travelled, but not quite well enough, and a day pupil at my local public (private, oxymoronically) school. I'm a Christian, a pianist, of sorts, a novice writer, and a metrosexual, as I am assured by more than one well meaning urban friend - a straight guy, well read, in touch with his emotions and this year's fashions.
Not too sure about the fashion part, my idea of chic being fascist black, brandless cotton concealing most of my body (woefully neglected in favour of intellectual pursuits - must start using treadmill while reading), but complimentary, anyway. At least until told that David Beckham epitomises this new, model breed of man. Eww. But here's the rub. My parents, clearly misconstruing my A-level choices (English, French, Latin and History), seem to have glorious mental images of self, bold, London barrister, defending the rights of the down at heel. Clearly, this is sentimentalist bollocks, not to mention counter productive - law is not something I am going to enter into. I'm not sure, quite yet, what I am going to do (possibly some civil service post requiring frequent travelling? Hmmm), but thus far, teaching, the Church, and journalism have all been rejected. Clearly, my petit bourgeois parents are not to be dissuaded from dreams of a son at the bar.
As the lovely Jen (best friend - more about her later), says - "it's your life". By which I mean, it's my life. Ma vie. La vie de moi. Ergo, it is my right to choose a career I enjoy, considering the amount of time one will spend on that career. But, apparently not. A conundrum, of which, if you are at all interested, I shall keep you informed. but here, dear readers, it is almost one in the morning, and this daylight savings (? ) Cinderella needs his sleep. And so, farewell - more will come on the life of this teenager soon. but don't feel you have to return. I'm not arsed. The bright day is done, and we are for the dark. Au revoir. 
