I had a math test on Friday. I considered running away with the circus and traveling the world, all unkempt hair and acrobatics and striped performing tents. I would be math and Ms Partridge* free. I was cheered a bit by the pretty little idea and off I went to school.

I think I failed the test.

Addy Baird: Oh, Hayley. I bombed a math test today. Like, really god awful. 68 percent. Say something that will make me feel better.

Me: Addy, I lie not: on my math test last week I got a 67 percent. Us English kids just don't work well with trite numbers, but at least we can commiserate eloquently.

Addy Baird: Hey, that made me smile. Thank you, baby.

Me: Keep your head up, pretty thing. Math is for squares.

Math is my antagonist. I beat petty numbers into submission with utter lack of charm, and usually end up with the wrong answer. With negatives and positives and sin and cosine, I find myself hopelessly uninterested. Un-passionate may more accurately define. Lead Einstein and his E= MC^2 far away from me.

*Ms Partridge: pre-calculus teacher and bane of my existence, bears striking resemblance to Mrs Tweedy from Chicken Run, often tells me to quit talking or put away my book, finds a grotesque happiness in watching highschooler's sweat and squirm under a burdensome math load, glares at me as if she would like to chop of my head and bake me into a pot pie.

Busy, busy, busy.