I write this week’s column with a deep anger nestled in my veins. This anger can only be sourced from one group of children – the pests that are Year Eights.
Annoying, immature and so very noisy, I find they are even worse than the Year Sevens. Of course I’m only speaking about a portion of this year as I’m sure that the minority of them are very lovely, but they’re unfortunately let down by the others.
They scream, they climb around buses like monkeys, throw pens about like they have some sort of degree in archery and the level of immaturity is unreal. Just because you have moved away from being the youngest of the school does not give you the right to go around thinking you own the place. Newsflash – you don’t.
Facebook friend requests from any unruly devil spawned from that year will be immediately declined and that isn’t an opportunity for you to keep adding me, thinking that I must’ve accidently declined. The Instagram spamming of likes from them is both unnecessary and needy – give it up. Some of them even have the very nerve to start talking about you to their friends when you’re right behind their yapping voices.
I am sick to death of hearing them, seeing them and feeling obliged to speak back to them. Surely we weren’t this tedious when we were that young… were we?