The Purple Shirt and the Pasty Friend

I remember some guys in my Reg class and I were talking about the school's escape route for a terrorist attack. I'd always assumed that the place to go would be the big forest-clearing behind our P.E. block. One of us wanted to hide in the basement, in the drama department. Maybe that would have been the better option. I bet the smell of humans is far less distinct in a stuffy walk-in-might-be-haunted-which-is-actually-the-reason-I-didn't-hide-in-it-cupboard than in the middle of a shallow valley of nettles.

 I've always possessed a certain spring in my step when I have music encirling my brain but Monday morning I'd finally fixed my headphones - not to mention I'd met The Batch - so my bounciness was probably doubled with every riff and every power-chord. I remember reading an @fact that said when you're happy, you feel the rhythm of songs, but when you're sad, you understand the lyrics. Well, I perfectly understood Jon Bon Jovi's declaration that it felt somethin' like summertime and I was bloody happy that day.
 Have you ever felt so lucky that you feel guilty? Well, that was my general feeling halfway through computing class. The door swung open and Benedict, inexplicably clad in The Purple Shirt Of Sex, scanned the classroom in such a Sherlockian manner that I nearly fell out of my chair. I glanced at my fellow Cumberbitch, Fiona, whose complexion was in fact not-so-pale for a Scot, had gone a Highland shade of pale. Her eyes were wide like a frightened bunny, and I though of Bluebell from Baskervilles. I giggled slightly at that and caught his attention. He grinned at me then said something about passive observation to my teacher.
 He slid the chair out from my desk at the end of the row - I was my computer-chair at the time - and dragged it to the corner of the room between me and the door, resulting in him being less than a metre from me. God bless the Purple Shirt. I don't know if the teacher said anything ever again because any words he may have been directing at me were fenced out of my mind by Purple Shirt. I reckon he noticed me because he was getting all fidgety but trying to hide it - twiddling his right hand, which was obscured from me by his body - so I did my best to avert my gaze.
 I deserve a medal for that, by the way.

 Was that? Oh, shit! That was the shirt. Ben was here too! If I died, it'd only be people I knew that'd miss me (Twitter counts) but Benedict ... If he died it would devastate millions. Twitter might declare war on wherever these guys were from. Genuinely, right thenwanted nothing more than to curl up and tweet to Shaliza.