For fuck’s sake. Today’s been an absolute masterclass in suffering.

Between Freddie’s incessant whinging over the Chemistry test results—like any of us actually give a toss whether he scraped a 98 or a 99—and the relentless, drill-sergeant-level ringing in my skull, I’m this close to staging a one-man riot. Freddie’s a decent enough bloke, I suppose, if you can tolerate the constant existential crises over a subject that’s basically just witchcraft with extra numbers. Christ, I don’t even know why I put up with him.

And now, after a full day in that glorified holding pen they insist is preparing us for adulthood, I get to cap it all off with an evening shift at the garage. Smashing.

Nothing quite like spending your formative years inhaling brake cleaner while your uncle—a man who communicates exclusively in grunts and passive aggression—critiques your spanner technique like it’s a GCSE practical. "No, not like that, you pillock"—ah, the sweet sound of mentorship.

Currently wedged into this bus seat like a sardine that’s given up on life, seriously contemplating whether the pavement would be softer.

The only thing stopping me from yeeting myself into oncoming traffic is the sweet, sweet sanctuary of my headphones. "Talkin’ The Hardest" blares through them—because, let’s be real, even three years on, Giggs is still the king of this shit. Hood’s up, eyes half-lidded, doing my best impression of a coma patient. Not that it stops the occasional wanker from trying to strike up a conversation.

Yes, Pete, I see you waving. No, I do not care about your FIFA Ultimate Team. Piss off.

Then, just as I’m achieving peak dissociation, the universe lobs me a moral dilemma in a school jumper. Girl gets on, maybe Year 12, gripping the pole like it’s the last stable thing in her universe while a pack of sixth-form lads re-enact Lord of the Flies in the back.

Right. Assessment:

Clearly pregnant (not just "had one too many Greggs"—I’ve got eyes)
Approximately zero chance anyone’s surrendering a seat
Every other passenger suddenly finds their shoelaces fascinating

I consider, for half a second, staying put. It's not my problem, is it? I've had a day that could curdle milk. My back's aching from the world's most ergonomically-hostile school chairs. And let's be real—no one's giving me a medal for this.

But then she stumbles again, and some knobhead in a tracksuit actually snickers, and suddenly I'm standing up before my brain's fully caught up.

"There ya go, darlin'," I grunt, peeling myself off the seat like a wet plaster. She gives me this look - half grateful, half suspicious - like I'm about to follow it up with "just kidding" and shove her into the aisle.

Christ, what kind of dickheads has she been dealing with that basic decency warrants that reaction?