The Diary of Anne Frank: Responding to Reading (scenes 4-5)

In the beginning of scene four, Anne has a nightmare that the Green Police are taking them away. Personally, I don’t blame her for having nightmares. With no recollection of what is going on outside, only the stories they are heard from Mr. Dussel, Miep and Mr. Kraler, she has any right to be scared. Mr. Dussel, her room mate, seems to think otherwise. He complains that they are going to find her and that something should be done about her. Her mother, on the other hand, tries to comfort her but Anne doesn’t want her; she wants her father. This shocked me a little, especially when she said to her father;

“I love you, Father. I don’t love anyone but you. You’re the only one that I love.”

and those last few lines made me feel really bad for her mother who is trying her best to keep Anne safe.

In my opinion, Anne’s mother is a decent, average lady, who does whatever she can to keep her family safe. Obviously, she appreciates Margot’s behaviour more than Anne’s, as Anne is a lot more outspoken than her elder sister, but she stills wishes for Anne’s love and friendship, and I feel bad for her that Anne “claims” she doesn’t love her as much as she loves her father.

At the end of the scene, Anne says that she wants to do so many things when she comes out of hiding; ride a bike, to laugh, to have new clothes… If I was hiding for that long, the first thing I’d want to do was to actually just be oustide in the light, after having been in the dark so long. I’d like to find my friends, to know that they were alright. I would want to go home, because after having been hiding so long I would’ve missed it.

In scene five, it is their Hanukah festival. There is a lot more joy and all of the residents in the house seem a lot more warmer and kinder toward one another, seeming to dispose of their bad feelings for each other. Anne made or got presents for everyone, which really seems to bring them together, and everyone is really thankful.

The lyrics of the Hanukah song they sing relate to the people hiding in a way because they can celebrate, because they’re still alive and well. Anne’s father, Mr. Frank, doesn’t want them to sing it because he thinks that it is not a good time to sing such a song, what with the war.

The Diary of Anne Frank: Responding to Reading (Scene 1-3)

After having read the beginning of the first scene, I was a little confused as to what was happening, but after reading a bit more, I began to understand that it was the future and that the rest of the story was set into the past, kept alive by the pages of Anne’s diary. Mr. Frank, Anne’s father, seems like a nobel sort of person, also noted in scene two as well as one, someone who seems like they would never have to hide:

“I never thought I’d live to see the day when a man like Mr. Frank would have to go into hiding

 (quoted by Mr. Kraler). Mr. Frank seems to be the one in charge, the one who is responsible or who feels responsible. He took in the Van Daan’s, another Jewish family so that they would have a chance to survive against the Nazi’s and the concentration camps.

To me, I thought Anne would be quiet and polite, but in the book she isn’t – whether it is the version or she was actually like that, I don’t know. But, my impression of Anne is a lively, talkative thirteen year old child. When you think about it, she is around my age, but she seems a lot younger, the way she acts. She seems to get on the adults nerves in the first few scenes.

Anne, Margot and Peter are the only children, though Anne is a lot younger than Peter and Margot. Margot never seems to be mentioned, but Peter and Anne are mentioned throughout. In the beginning, they don’t really seem to get along. Anne is eager to make friends, but Peter describes himself as a lone wolf and prefers to be left alone in his room, but as the story goes on, as well as their lives, they get used to each other.

When the Frank’s and the Van Daan’s went into hiding, they didn’t take a lot; a few clothes, Peter’s cat and that is about all that they mention. I can’t even begin what I would want to take if I had to go into hiding. I would probably want to bring my dog, but having a dog in such a small space and keeping it quiet would be really hard.

In scene three, Mr. Kraler declares that there is a Jewish man that needs to go into hiding, and asks if he can stay with them. Mr. Frank agrees that he can, despite that creating an even lower food ration and an even smaller space, but he still says yes. I think in my opinion it would be a bit awkward; the don’t even know this man and they already have to share the small space they live in and the food rations between two families, but what could Mr. Frank really say? He was a bit put on the spot, and he couldn’t really say no to someone who needed help, so I am a bit biased on whether letting this man in help stay with them was a good idea or not.

Mr. Dussel, the Jewish man who Mr. Kraler said needed help, brings news from the outisde that things have gotten a lot worse;

“Right here in Amsterdam every day hundreds of Jews disappear… They surround a block and search house by house. Children come home from school to find their parents gone. Hundreds are being deported… people that you and I know…”

I was really shocked when he said all this, because I know that it is all true; it’s not some sort of fictional story. This all happened in the war. Jews were deported off to concentration camps and no one knew where they went. The thing which upset me the most was when he said that children come home from school to find their parents gone, cause I could not even imagine what I’d do if that happened to me.




The Diary of Anne Frank: A First Impression

I have heard of Anne Frank before, and I know there is the diary and the story version of it, but I have never read it before. The version we are reading is the play version, where there is none stop talking and occasional directions for acting.

In my opinion, the layout sometimes confuses me, but it also helps picture it more clearly, unlike when you read a book and it is your imagination and your point of view about what they look like and how they act.

Of what I have read so far, Anne seems very talkative and lively, and that the residents she is housing with seem to get very frustrated with her. They think (for example, Mr. and Mrs. Van Daan) that she is rude and outspoken, and well as Mr. Dussell, the newcomer into their secret house hidden from the world.

I know the actual story of Anne Frank, and I know what happens to her, but I have never really read the details, and reading it now makes me feel so sad as I try to imagine what it must have been like for them. They could not talk above a whisper during the day, could not run water or use the toilet, or anything else that could’ve made noise, and they weren’t allowed outside the door. They lived in constant fear of being found, and they had to live with people they barely even knew. For me, I don’t think I could stand that.

The Other Side: Chapter Five

     After the baby-sitting failure, I knew I had to get off my back and do something. It was like in one of those British life insurance adverts… “One day I woke up and saw my life flashing right before my eyes, and I knew I had to get Tesco’s Life Insurance© before it was too late!” Except, my life wasn’t flashing before my eyes. More a case of my money flashing before my eyes and disappearing into somebody elses pocket as London’s shops had a dangerous affect on me.

    I sat on one of the boxes, flicking through The Daily Times. I actually hated newspapers. The pages weren’t even proper pages; they were just massive pieces of paper which someone had folded and compressed so tightly that it managed to stay in one piece as the local bike boy biked past on his rusty old red bike, wishing he had enough money from his paper rounds to get a new bike with proper gears. I’ll stop now, before I create a brand new story about poor old Josh and how the money from his paper rounds wasn’t enough to feed his starving family…

     Red pen in my mouth, I set about skimming the jobs pages. All of them seemed to require some past job experience, which made me flinch. The only jobs I had done was car washing, working at the till in a petrol station and being my parents dish-washer when the actual dish-washer broke down.

     “Ollie?” I called, my words coming out like a strangled cry as the red pen limited my ability of speech. “Have you seen anything you want for a job?”

     Since she was almost finished unpacking all the boxes, Olivia hadn’t left her room in almost two whole days. I fed her baked beans under the door, but they always managed to slop off the plate and onto the floor. But today, she emerged, dressed in her nice blue jeans, a brown, long-sleeved, button-up blouse and her hair tied neatly into a bun. She looked… clean. I mean, she had actually brushed her hair.

     I tilted my head and looked at her. “Where are you going?”

     She grabbed her handbag off the floor. “I’ve already got a job.”

     The pen fell to the floor and my jaw dropped open. “You what?!”

     “You heard me.” And with that she waved her manicured fingers – when did she get them manicured?! – and headed towards the door. I leaped up so fast the box gave way underneath me and I made a manly yell and I jumped for her legs and rugby-tackled her to the ground.

     “What is your problem, Simone?!”

     “Since when did you get a job?”

     Olivia sighed impatiently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I dared not tell her that her hair was now completely and utterly messed up. “Remember that day when you stayed in bed all day?”

     I looked up to the sky and remembered that day. It was actually three days ago – I had decided not to get up, not to get out of bed, not to eat breakfast or any sort of meal. Instead, I just lay in bed. I don’t know why I did – it’s not like I was going to achieve anything out of it – but now, when I meet someone and they ask me “Have you ever stayed in bed for one day?” I can jut out my chest proudly and tell the world that YES I have!

     “Well, I had nothing better to do,” Olivia continued. “So I went into town and saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of a pub. So I got myself as a waitress.”

     I blinked. “Oh.”

     We stood there, by the door, not saying anything, just occasionally nodding, like we both totally understood why we weren’t saying anything though truth be told, we didn’t. Then Olivia clapped her hands together and said, “Well, I’ll be off. I’ll be back at eight the latest.” And with that, she left.

     The flat felt very empty without her, and she left me in a state of confusion and no self-confidence in myself whatsoever. I considered kicking back and watching a few hours of our cable-less TV, but there was no point. I padded off to my room, feeling very distraught with myself, and I sat on the bed and wondered what to do with my life.

     Twenty-one. Living in London, I listed the facts of my life over in my head. Couch potato. Un-employed. Sister has a job. So, Simone. What are you going to do with your life?

     So I got up, got changed into some decent clothes and left for the underground.




     I have never been on the underground before. I have heard of it plenty of times, and seen it in movies. But it’s a lot scarier when you are actually there. It has a very distinct smell – but it almost is undescribable. It smells of the gum on the floor. It smells of the damp, concrete ground. It smells of the cold air and the enclosed walls. It just… smells.

     I fumbled with a handful of coins, jigging my hand up and down and listening to them click together. I stood in front of the ticket machine, staring at the instructions as if the instructions were in another language. A lady walked past – one of those really old, posh ones who wear a lot of flowery stuff and hats even when its snowing. “Press the button you want to go to, deary,” she croaked before shuffling off. I looked at a list of towns. They were all connected by a bunch of colourful lines; blue, pink, green, brown, black, grey… too many to count.

     There was a large arrow pointing to Oakwood. You are here, it read. Well, I know that, don’t I? I live here for goodness sake. Underneath that, in smaller print, it read What is your destination?

     I skimmed my finger over all the places to go. There were so many! My finger travelled down the blue line, in which Oakwood was located on, all the way down to a place called Russell Square. Huh. A square; that sounded intriguing. I pressed the button and a posh, recorded voice seeped through the metal speakers.

     “Please insert one pound and twenty pence.”

     What a rip off, I thought, but pushed the coins into the machine all the same. A ticket slid out of a small slit in the metal machine and I yanked it out before making my way to the station. High heels echoed and bounced off the domed hallway. I could hear a homeless guy playing his guitar somewhere further up. My hair bounced up and down as I hurried at a brief pace. Then I heard a train screech its way into the station and I began galloping, throwing myself through the doors just as it closed.


     I arrived in the center of Russell Square. It all looked… not medieval, but it just didn’t look so twenty-first century, if you know what I mean. It could’ve been raining whilst I was on the underground, because there were puddles leaking in the cracks in between the paving stones. I made my way across a street, dodging the cars that made that hissing noise that they do when the wheels pass through water. There were a few shops lined up along the opposite side of the street, so I made my way along them, looking into each window.

     When I was younger, I was such a tomboy, unlike Olivia. Olivia was pure girl, like her name I used to believe. She would wear pretty pink colours and flowery dresses, whereas I would wear big baggy shorts or jeans and out-of-shape clothes in muddy colours, and I would wear my hair in a low ponytail so you couldn’t see it very well. I hated shopping, getting my hair cut, wearing dresses or skirts – but now it was all different. I lived for shopping, getting my hair cut was a new adventure to me and skirts and dresses were stylish. But one thing I couldn’t do, was window shop. It was so hard; you saw the most gorgeous dress dressed up on a manikin, and you fall in love with it, standing in the reflection to see how it looks on you and then falling head over heels.

     But then, as I was walking past New Look, my ultimate favourite shop of all times, I saw a small notice in the corner of the window. Help wanted, it read, and my heart soared as I slammed into the door, desperate to get inside as if the sign was a mirage.

     “Are you still needing the Help Wanted?” I gushed as I rushed to the till. A lady around my age, if not younger or someone who looked younger, just stared at me for a few nanoseconds before pointing in a direction. “The manager is that way. He’ll sort you out.”

     I set about padding towards a small hallway where the changing rooms were, but I couldn’t see any room with the words MANAGER marked on it. I walked into the changing rooms, which were massive, and wondered around, my head in the clouds. Until I bumped into someone.

      Boxes scattered everywhere, opening and their contents falling onto the floor. I gasped, apologizing continuously and set about picking them up. The man I had bumped into grumbled angrily, and he stood up, brushing his tweed jumper and straightening his black,
thick framed glasses.
     “Who are you?” he said crossly, grabbing a numerous amount of boxes from my outstretched arms.
     “Um,” I stammered. “My name is Simone. I’m… I would like to apply for the job here.”
     The man set the boxes on the floor, and I took a good look at him. He had brown, curly hair which was short but seemed to erupt from his head. His glasses were thick and outlined the basis of his eyes, and the lenses seemed so overpowering, making his eyes magnify and look twice their size. He was around the same height as me, and he had a lot of acne marching across his forehead. He wore a uniform similar to the girl’s uniform at the cashier; a white collared shirt and black trousers, though the girl had a skirt instead of the long, ironed trousers that skimmed his black, polished shoes.
     “Yes.” He spoke in a voice that seemed high pitched and with a certain squeaky edge to it, as if it hadn’t yet broken in adolescence. I could imagine him being one of those boys being teased back in High School. “And I am the manager.” He straightened his name tag. Maximus.
     “Oh. Um. Hi! And I am so, so, so very sorry for bumping into you, it was totally my fault and I am so sorry…” I was about to go off on a huge rant of an apology, but he held up his hand simply and closed his eyes dramatically.
     “Come.” Maximus brushed past me. “To my office.”
     I followed him out of the changing rooms, and we took a right into what looked like a small toilet cubicle, though it was in fact the storeroom. We walked passed boxes stacked to the ceiling, and he placed the boxes he had picked up before we left on one of the shelves.
We carried on walking, the lights seeming to be getting dimmer, flickering on and off. Up ahead, I saw a desk with two chairs on either side.
     “Is this your office?” I asked cautiously, scared not to offend him in some way. All he did was nod and reply, “My other one is getting renovated.”
     We sat down on either side of the desk. I felt like I was in a prison, being questioned, or in the torture chamber, yet still being questioned. And in a way, I had part of it right; I was still being questioned.


     I sat on the train, eating my KFC takeaway and watching everyone stare at me and I tucked in to a box of Chicken Popcorn, a big grin on my face. And I was happy. Maximus had given me the job, I was going to be earning some money in a job I loved and he also said I had great sense in style. And all I was wearing was a long sleeved shirt and jeans. Which were now covered in chicken grease. But still… la, la, la, la, laaa!




Whenever I think about writing poetry, I always think of those days back in Kindergarten and we would all spend ages checking out the Doctor Seuss section and laughing at the rhymes.

When I think about my opinion on poetry, I think that it isn’t the worst thing in the world – I like free versing and also poems that don’t rhyme, though I prefer those types of poems (the non-rhyming ones) as a more sadder type.

I despise haiku’s – I don’t think they are beautiful and “music to the ear” at all. I think they are very difficult to write and I have never read a masterpiece-haiku ever before. I also don’t like alliteration poems, but more writing them than reading them.

Overall, I don’t mind poetry. I like writing poems, but it has it’s ups and downs.

Reflection on the Whole of Twelfth Night

1. How important is merry-making in society?  This was our central unit question — now that you’ve studied a very silly play, complete with heaps of merry-making, what do you think? Is merry-making important? How? When? Why?

I think that if life didn’t have merry-making, we would lead a very boring life. Wake up, have breakfast, go to work/school, eat more, come home, work a little more (on homework or other things) and eat for the last time before going to sleep. Not that we don’t do this anyway, but with merry-making, it makes our lives enjoyable. Three L’s in life – Live, Laugh, and Love; especially laugh. I think laughing and having fun even if you do look like a complete fool is one of the key ingredients of life and is something needed, like water.

Like in Twelfth Night, a twist in your daily routine is always fun, even if – at the time – it all seems confusing and frustrating. One day you’ll look back and laugh. Or maybe, if you look at it all a different angle, it will be funny at the time.

Of course, there are times you need to be serious, and there are places you can’t express your merry-making either, but that doesn’t include the whole of life itself. Don’t you agree?

2. What do you know now, at the end of our unit, that you didn’t before? Perhaps you now know a couple of lines of Shakespeare. Or maybe you’ve learned how to better speak in front of an audience. Or perhaps you now know how to work better in a group. Or you know that having fun really is the most important part of creating a play. Or you’ve learned that creativity requires long periods of time in order to “get into it.”  Whatever it is — please tell your readers what you’ve learned in our unit.

 I think I am now a lot more comfortable in front of an audience, and it helps especially if you are in a group with people you are closer friends with, because then you are not afraid to take control. I also do believe that having fun does help create a better play.

I also know now to be ready with an iPod that works, as we suffered many technical difficulties through the play, but we managed to get through it.




The Other Side: Chapter Four

     March the fifteenth – the boxes were practically all unpacked. All the boxes apart from Olivia’s room. I walked in, and I could barely see her at all. Boxes were piled one on top of the other, and I could just about make out her blond head bobbing up and down to some music.


     The blond head continued to bob.


     The music stopped and Olivia’s head disappeared, before emerging from behind the tower of boxes. “Yes?”

     “I’m making breakfast. Want some?”

     Olivia sniffed. “Depends what it is?”

     “Cheese on toast.”

     “For breakfast?”

     “We don’t have anything else…”

     Olivia sighed and disappeared again. Moments later the music came back on. “Cheese on toast is fine,” she replied over the music.

     I made my way through to the kitchen, which was only a few paces. The flat was nice, just incredibly small. You walked in, straight into the lounge which consisted of a sofa, a coffee table and a telly. There was then a small corridor which had two rooms one side; my room and Olivia’s room, which were both like box rooms and too small to do anything inside, and then across that was a small, cupboard like bathroom. The kitchen was on the other side, but that was intensely small.

     I shoved two pieces of white bread into the toaster and perched on top of the kitchen counter, inspecting my painted-blue battered fingernails, chewed and out of shape. I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them tightly. My feet were wrapped up in my pink fluffy socks, as the whether was still bitter and miserable.

     My thoughts were disturbed when I heard Olivia’s door open. She tripped over a box and stumbled out into the hall, holding her toe and cursing under her breath. She stood up straight and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door just as the toast popped up.

     I grabbed two plates from off the draining board and threw them on, covering them with a layer of thin, yellow cheese. I turned on the oven and placed the two plates on the top row, before sitting myself back on top of the counter.

     From the bathroom I heard a bang and Olivia shout angrily. Moments later she stormed out of the bathroom. “Don’t go in.”

     “Why not?”

     “Just don’t.”


     “The toilet doesn’t flush.”

     I groaned and switched off the oven, taking out the scolding hot plates and dropping them on the kitchen surface, nursing my burning hands before running them under cold water. “Breakfast is on the table.”

     Olivia emerged from her room again. “We don’t have a table.”

     I rolled my eyes. “Use your imagination.”

     She came and jumped up next to me. “I think we need money, Simone.”

     I looked at her. “Really? N’ah, we’re doing alright. We’ll survive.”

     Olivia gave me a sarcastic look. “Simone. The cheese is off. The bread we are eating is stale. We don’t have anything in the fridge. The toilet won’t flush.”

     I put down my cheese on toast. I knew there was something odd about the bitter tang I got from the cheese and the soggy, raw taste of the toast. “Well then we’ll go shopping.”


     “Jeez, Olivia, relax!” I leaned back on my hands, swinging my legs into the air before leaping of the kitchen counter and narrowly missing the wall – that’s how small the kitchen was. “We’ll get through it.”

     Olivia raised her eyebrows. “Whatever you say, sis.”




     I fell asleep that night at nine. There was nothing really to do these days – merely watch Olivia unpack, and make stale pieces of toast, just to throw out. My daily routine was getting kind of old – wake up, have a shower, wake Olivia up, attempt at making some sort of brunch, help Olivia unpack (but strangely, no matter how long we unpacked for, the number of boxes piled one on top of the other never seemed to decrease) and then order a takeaway for dinner before getting ready to sleep.

     I turned on the radiator as my room was freezing cold, but after about fifteen minutes it started to warm. I pulled on my trackies and my sweater and curled under the duvet, turning on the bedside light for a few minutes of late-night reading, before I was out cold.

     I was having a dream about camping out in the artic. I was sleeping in an orange tent, drinking hot coco from a frozen, metal mug. The glacial winds battered at the tents thin walls, making a pummeling sound that made the blood in my ears pump louder. The whistling of the storm outside didn’t help my need for sleep, it just kept me wide awake. I could feel the cold, wet snow underneath me through the slim tent-material I was supposed to call a floor.

     Suddenly, I was aware of the crunching snow of approaching footsteps. I hugged my knees to my chest and rested my chin on the rim of the metal cup, trying to make myself as invisible as possible. The footsteps grew louder, but they now sounded like heavy pounds on the ground, making the floor shudder. I closed my eyes and curled into a tiny ball, wishing they would go away and I was safe and warm and…


     In my dream, I opened my eyes. The tent flap of a door was blowing open, and I was facing the giant head of a polar bear. Its eyes were stealthy and steely, cold black. Its jaw was wide, bearing it jagged white teeth. It opened it mouth even wider and let out a loud roar…


     I woke up in real life, and Olivia was towering over my bed, her duvet wrapped around her. Her hair was sticking up all over the place and her forehead was creased into a frown.

     “Simone, why is it so freezing!”

     I gave her a questioning look, before turning on the light. At the same time, we both leaned over and touched the radiator. It was stone cold.

     “Did you pay the bill?”

     I looked away. Dammit, I thought.


     “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

     Olivia sat on the edge of my bed. “We need to get money. We need jobs!”

     I sat up, thinking. “I have an idea.”



     “Baby sitting? That’s is SO not going to work, Simone.”

     Olivia and I stood in the lobby of our block of flats. I was attempting to pin up a hand written notice on one of the letter boxes with a wad of Blu-Tak. My plan was to start off with the basic job – baby sitting.

     “It’ll work, Ollie, trust me.”

     A lady with three kids came out of the elevator, one in the push chair and two toddlers hanging onto it. “Talk of the devil…”

     The lady looked tired; late thirties I would’ve guessed. She walked past us, and then turned around and looked at the tacky notice I had put up. “Baby sitting?” she gushed. “Really?”

     Olivia and I looked at each other. “Um… yeah,” I said. “That’s me.”

     The lady breathed a sigh of relief and happiness. “Would it be too soon to hire you tonight?”

     I grinned and nudged Olivia discreetly. “No, not at all.”

     “I’ll pay you twenty per hour.”

     I gasped. “Twenty! That’s very generous, but-“

     Olivia stepped forward. “Twenty will be fine.”

     The lady beamed, tucking a piece of black hair behind her ear. “Great. I’m flat 24. See you at six?”

     “Sure. Six it is.”

     “I’m Leslie, by the way.”




     By six, I was standing outside flat 24. Olivia had refused to come – she was positive that baby sitting would be a failure, and that we should get real jobs, but I had persisted to go along anyway. I knocked, and almost nanoseconds later, Leslie opened the door. She was a lot more dressed up, but she still look flustered and tired. “Hello,” she said a little breathlessly. “Thanks again for coming on such short notice.”

     She opened the door and I stepped into an almost identical flat. The only difference was there was no floor space. It was completely covered in small toys and clothes, and other toddler accessories. I heard smash of broken glass, followed by a long, pitiful wail from the kitchen (the layout of Leslie’s flat was exactly the same to ours), and Leslie sighed frantically. “Millie, I told you not to play mummy’s wine glasses!” and she rushed off.

     A little boy, the one I had seen this morning hanging onto the pushchair, came up to me. He was carrying a baby girl, the one who was in the push chair, I presumed, over his shoulder. She was sound asleep, clothed in a white blanket. The little boy looked about four or five, and he had mousey brown hair, completely different to his mother’s. He tugged on my jeans and looked innocently up at me with baby blue eyes.

     “Hello,” I said, bending down and smiling. “What’s your name?”


     “Hello Marcus. I’m Simone.”

     Leslie came running back from the kitchen, a smaller child propped on her hip. The toddler looked a lot like Leslie – black hair, black eyes and a pale face, though her eyes were red, swollen and blotchy and she wiped her nose noisily on the back of her sleeve.

     “So,” Leslie said. “I see you’ve met Marcus. That’s his little sister, Andrea -” She nodded at the baby asleep over Marcus’ shoulder. “And this is Millie.” She lifted her hip so Millie bobbed up and down, still sniveling. Leslie put her on the floor next to her brother, before grabbing a sleek black purse and her keys.

     “I’m off,” she said, a smiling curving at the corners of her lips. “I’ll be back at twelve latest. Call me if you need anything, or if there is any trouble. My number is on the fridge.”

     And with that, she was gone.

     I was stood, awkwardly in the lounge. Marcus and Millie looked up at me, their eyes wide and eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Now what?” That’s when Millie opened her mouth and started shrieking.




     “I told you so.”

     I was sitting on the couch, massive bags circulating my eyes. My head was heavy, and I had the biggest headache in the world. Olivia was leaning over the back of the couch, triumphant.

     “They are younger than five years old…” I moaned.

     “I know,” she agreed.

     “And they wouldn’t stop screaming…”

     “I know, I could hear them.”

     “Millie dropped six plates…”

     “I know.”

     “And the baby woke up seventeen times…”

     “I know.”

     “And I didn’t know what to do when Marcus ran into the door and his tooth came out…”

     “I know.”

     “And there was blood everywhere…”

     “I know.”

     “And then Millie fainted.”

     “I know.”

     I turned around and looked at Olivia. “How do you know all this?”

     “Cause you’ve already told me a million times.”

     “Did I tell you that Leslie got in at three in the morning and she was stone drunk?”


     I groaned and threw my head back against the coach. “I only got ten pounds altogether because she had gone and spent it all, and I felt too bad to say anything.”

     Olivia just laughed. “Get a job, Simone. And don’t forget I told you so.”







Twelfth Night: Finalising

  • If you were commissioned to design and direct a production of Twelfth Night, where would you set it? What would your Illyria look like? What would be your take on each character? What costumes, music, and special effects would you want?
  • The whole of Twelfth Night should be based on a small island, also known as Illyria. In my opinion, Illyria has a coast all the way around it, with mountains and forests. There should be a small town, like the ones they have in olden day movies, and Olivia’s house should be set quite far away from the town, on one of the mountain sides.

    Sir Toby should be very fat, and very short, but Sir Andrew should be the opposite; very tall and skinny. They should all wear similar coloured clothing, apart from Feste, who should wear bright colours like yellow, red, blue, green, and he should wear a jesters hat the the curved shoes with bells on the end.

    Whenever there is a scene with Sir Toby or Feste in it, the music should be bright and mischievous, especially in the scene where they play a prank on Malvolio. With the scenes with Olivia, the music should be classical, as well as for Orsino.  


  • How would you get each character off the stage in 5.1? Think about where they are going and how they feel. Do they stop and shake hands with other characters? Do they slink off or run off? This will be the last time the audience sees them. What impressions do you want to leave?
  • Orsino should leave with the most dignity he has left, which isn’t a lot. Maybe you could see the tear stains under his eyes, but when he leaves, he should wipe his eyes and walk straight without looking back, but yelling curses and revenge over his shoulder.

    The newly wedded couples, Olivia and Sebastian, Viola and Orsino should leave altogether, linked arms and smiling happily, laughing.

    Sir Toby and Maria disappear in the last scene, but if I were directing this, there should be a glimpse of them eloping, but no one really watching, so maybe at the part where all is being revealed, they should disappear behind everyone into a carrige and drive away.

    Sir Andrew should leave, but no one should really care. Afterall, what he came for has been lost to another man, and he should be feeling pretty embarrased at the moment.

    The last person left on the stage is Feste, and he should sing a song, like in the movie, and it should end with him just speaking the last line instead of singing it, and that then curtains should close and that should be the end.


    Outside vs. Inside

    1. Look carefully at Antonio’s speech in 3.4.316-321.
    2. Paraphrase it (put into your own words).
    3. Comment on it.
    4. Give some of your own examples of what he is talking about. Use experiences you’ve had, seen, or heard about.

     In my opinion, this is what Antonio says:

    “Oh – so this is how your idol turns out to be in the end. You’re good features are shamed by your cruel personality. No one can be deformed but the unkind. Beautiful people are beautifully evil; an empty personality flourished by the devil.”

    Antonio believes that Sebastian has pretended to be something he’s not just to befriend Antonio to get something he wants. He is really disappointed with him, not knowing that this “man” he is talking to is in fact Sebastian’s twin sister, Viola.

    Parents do this a lot – but it is for a good cause. Your dad pretends to be Santa, and your mum pretends to be the tooth fairy, but after a while you learn that they aren’t true. But in a lot of movies, the main dilema is the main character is tricked into looking like a heartless person, upsetting all their friends, but in the end they figure out it was never them in the first place.


    Just a Joke

    Have you ever played a practical joke on someone, or been the victim of a practical joke? Write about your experience, making parallels between what happened to you and what’s happening to Malvolio.

     Imagine this; a dining room table, the ones that stretch out through the dining room, with four chair on either side of the edges – two at both ends and two on the sides. The chairs are wooden too, like the table, but have woven, ratten seats that you can replace by taking them out. Over the top of the seat is a cream white pillow over each chair.

    I was six at the time; not the best master mind. My best April Fool’s prank was putting a pillow over the door, so when the person walked through the door, the pillow would bounce (harmlessly) of his or her head. “Oh no,” my dad used to say. “Not again!” Now, at this age, I have just realized the irony in his voice as he said this every year.

    So that year, I planned to do something outrageous. Something hilarious. Nothing ordinary, like a whoopee cushion or pulling someone’s chair out from underneath them so that they fall down and everyone laughs at them. No – I wanted something someone would remember as one of the most funniest moments ever.

    We were sitting at the dinner table; sitting on the woven seats with the cushions over them, when my mum suddenly groaned. “Oh,” she whinged. “These blasted seats. They keep shifting.” She got up, removed the rattan, woven seat and adjusted it to fit back into place.

    Then, it hit me. Like a huge wave crashing against the shore, I suddenly had the best idea.

    The night after, I crept downstairs. It wasn’t midnight, because I was too little to stay up that late anyway, but no one was in the dining room. I carefully removed the ratten seating and hid it underneath the guinea-pig’s cage, before putting the pillow back over the empty frame. I stood back to admire my handi-work – it looked normal. Now all I had to do was wait.

    But nobody sat in that particular chair for at least two weeks. My dad would come home later, so the table would only be set for three, and no one would use that chair. I seemed to have forgotten all about it, until that day.

    I set the table for four before sitting down on my chair. My sister came in and sat down on her chair. My dad came in and sat down on his chair. My mum came in…

    And fell right through her chair and got stuck in the frame.


    Make a list of all the epithets that are used for characters in 2.5 (e.g. “rascally sheep-biter,” “overweening rogue”).

    Malvolio has been called: niggardly rascally sheep-bitter (Sir Toby, 2.5.4-5), overweening rogue (Sir Toby, 2.5.25), turkey-cock (Fabian, 2.5.26), scab (Sir toby, 2.5.61)

    Maria has been called: little villain (Sir Toby, 2.5.11), nobel gull-catcher (Fabian, 2.5.154)

    Sir Andrew has been called: foolish knight (Malvolio, 2.5.63-64)