A Life in the Day of Zulfqar Ali! Essay

Most people’s nightmares never come true. Mine do, every school morning. I see teachers that aren’t there to teach, but to terrorise. On one side of their desk I see a volcano of homework and on the other I see a mountain of cold blue papers, which they use to punish the young innocent victims, just so they can get a thrill out of it.

Just as the school day in my nightmares is about to end, there’s a magnificent burst of light. It’s like I’m being rewarded in surviving for my long and tiring day at school. However to my utter disappointment my mum waltzes in and swings open my curtains and shouts, “You’ll be late, it’s already eight o’ clock!” This is when the real test begins.

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Whatever I do I can never wake up before eight o’ clock, no matter what time I sleep the night before.

I’ve got two sisters who go to school and I’m always the last one to get up and manage to ready.

I usually end up doing everything in a hurry. I run down the squeaky stairs, have a wash, grab a Jammie Dodger before I finish off the homework that I started the night before and have to hand in this morning.

By now it’ll probably be about eight-forty. I’ll open the door, step out and just as I’m about to close it my mum yells out, “Don’t slam the door!”

I run down the driveway and on to Taverners Road, where I’ll have to wait at least a minute before I would be able to cross the busy traffic-jammed road.

When I finally do get on to the other side, I usually see a Porsche Boxster speeding past the traffic lights, roaring out 220 bhp, which makes me start dreaming about the day I’ll own one of those.

My ambition is to have seven cars, one for each day of the week. My dream cars would be a Porsche Boxster, Audi TT, Ferrari 360 Modena, 550 Maranello, 456M GTA, BMW M5 and a Mitsubishi Shogun.

The next thing I know I’m walking down Queens Gardens and I can’t remember walking along Dogsthorpe Road.

At the front gates is normally a group of teachers looking for their next victim. They’re rubbing their hands together looking forward to the day ahead with an enormous grin on their evil faces.

Then suddenly I get the vibes that they’re staring at me. I quickly put my brain into gear and start to think what I’ve done so I could make an original excuse. Now I’m about ten steps away from them and I still haven’t thought of what I’ve supposed to have done wrong. Now I’m about two baby steps away and suddenly I notice that there aren’t any other pupils around. I’m late!! I rapidly start to think of a excuse, but too late!!

I put my hands over my ears just as the teacher thunderously bellows out, “You’re late!!!!”

I start saying the first things that come into my sleepy head and it’s usually something like this, ‘Sorry, ******* accident, late me wake, I hurt ####chase dog.’ Eventually I just give up and surrender and put my hand out for the detention slip.

Of course not all teachers are born to be evil. Some of the best teachers in the school are Mr. Schartz, Mr. Ward and Ms. Miles.

I’ve always wanted to know where teachers have come from, are they humans? If they are humans why would they want to become teachers? My life-long challenge is to answer all these questions and many more.

I can’t really say much about school apart from it’s so boring and I can’t remember hardly any thing that happens all day and five days a week. The only times that I have a bit of fun is at break and lunch times, when we’ll play a game of football or cricket.

At the end of the long day my brand new pen has run out, because of all the work that we have to do.

On the way back I walk lazily along the tatty old roads and normally take about forty minutes to go home when it should really only take about fifteen minutes.

When I eventually do get back home I can’t be bothered slamming the door, so I leave it wide open.

I can’t be troubled to change my clothes and just sit there playing on my playstation trying to complete the game I started six months ago.

However all this soon changes if my two-year-old nephew comes. He pulls me from the scruff of my neck and drags me outside. You’re probably thinking how a two-year old can pull me up and make me go outside, when no one else in the world can achieve this. He has very strong persuasive powers that make it possible for him to have anything and everything that he wants, including using me as a punch bag. We usually go in the garden and play football until his hearts content. The session usually finishes off with him knocking me flat out.

In the evening I go and surf the Internet, E-mail a few friends, play some games and research some boring homework, or maybe I’ll just carry on with the games.

Now I’ll go to my friend’s house a few blocks away and get his brother to give us a lift to a take-away, only five minutes walk away.

I go to bed at about ten-thirty, but can never get to sleep until really late. Then I wake up and my nightmare starts all over again!


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