Shahid Mahdi

English 9
Ms. Flood

Descriptive Essay

Dear Nick,

I find that I'm already missing the raw, natural Swiss breeze. My
family and I concluded the ultimate stage of the moving
process earlier today, and I am writing from my new sanctuary-
the domain which shall "host" the rest of my adolescent years.
The room is quite spacious, but is currently cluttered with piles
of books and magazines alike- mainly sports editorials and
venerable copies of TIME & Economist issues, all of which are
yet to find their respective accommodation within my family's
third home. Opposite my bed, which seems to be shrinking
every day, is a wide, rectangular crystal-clear window which
overlooks the adjacent street, enabling myself to pointlessly
recline and count the number of buses that, despite their grand
size, don't cause too much of a noisy ruckus. Stacks of shoes,
all for different purposes, are neatly arranged-for now-
underneath the thin, snow-white bookshelf, which is packed to
the brim with a unruly combination of CDs, DVDs, and novels
that I've read, watched, and listened to at least thrice. Yet,
above the bookshelf, rests a signed Chelsea FC team ball from
our championship winning season, back in '05/06. You should
keep in mind that football (or "soccer"- don't fret, I'll have to
become familiar with that term too- is practically a religion
here. Seas of blue and red parade down streets on heated
derby day fixtures; the intensity is so great one can almost
smell it. Based on the die-hard fans' behaviour, however, it
usually reeks of sweat and alcohol. On that note, the world's
greatest team's merchandise is widespread within my domain.
Shirts from seasons past, match programmes and other
mementos of "Blue Days Out" are safe in a dusty, deteriorating
shoebox half my age. I know, not very creative. Or secure.
As one walks into my room they are seemingly nudged by
the oblong frame of my bathroom. Sure enough, having this
feature within the actual room may not be an essential, but I
decided that as a growing teenager, I wouldn't be able to cope
with the dramatic hairdryer mishaps and the torturous mirror-
hogging antics of my sister.

Beneath my wooden, lustrous antique desk are where my

footballs (or soccerballs -there it is again) are kept. I have the
World Cup Final ball for this summer's tournament- y'know, the
one you and I would drool over, but never managed to obtain
as the proximate adidas store was across Lac Leman. Anyhow,
my cousin had a harebrained scheme to take free-kicks along
Victoria Palace Gardens- the one park that had a panoramic
view of the river Thames. So, there was my cousin, looking
around and taking a shootout stance as if he was Mr. Clint
Eastwood himself. He ran up and released one hell of a shot.
I'm fairly confident that would've broken my other arm, had I
attempted to save it. As if I needed another one of those. The
ball gracefully glided into the expanse of the Thames, and, had
it not fatefully been low tide that day, I would be squandering
another £30 withdrawal from my hard-earned pocket money.
My cousin and I, feeling like Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid
(I really am sticking to this Western movie theme, aren't I),
voyaged down into the foul Thames and traversed the stinky
beach to retrieve the ball. Alas, we were successful. The only
issue now is how to convince the Korean neighbours next door-
whom were taking a leisurely stroll that day- that my cousin
and I weren't, ahem, excreting in the river. Judging on the odor
of the emerald river that day, it didn't need any more of that
substance.

So, back to the house. Downstairs, the living room epitomises

"modern" to a strangely high degree- in other words, my
mother's "interior designer/architect" mindset was in full force
as we refurbished the house. The fact that we own chairs that
are made of glass and plastic strings should say enough. Vast,
newly installed mirrors not only give the appearance of a larger
room, but also makes my family and I think twice about going
into the kitchen for a midnight snack. An abundance of artwork
decorates the living room, as does the glossy, unused Yamaha
piano in the corner. This item serves as part of the furniture
rather than a musical instrument. Daunting yet stylish lights at
the rear of the room stand tall as bodyguards, and finally, our
smooth, suave, black sofas give the area a James Bond twist.

Moving on, I should stop ranting & rambling on about my

house, albeit one of my many talents.
Based on experience navigating through my new second home-
The American School in London- is no easy feat. Between the
immense library, arguably the school's most famous attribute,
and the duo of gyms, A.S.L. truly is an imposing place despite
its urban location. Underneath the creamy façade lies even
more, including a newly renovated theatre with a capacity of
around four hundred. Despite this, one still finds him/herself
feeling uncomfortable and confined, as there is not a lot of
space to recline and stretch one's legs. As a result, we're forced
to "break the rules" and sit in a casual, elevated position,
placing the soles onto the thin, fine cut wooden ledge that
separates each tier. However, this is frowned upon. The
complex itself is arranged in a straightforward, logic fashion,
with color-coded staircases and various non-reflective metallic
signs to reassure anxious parents as to whether they're
heading towards high school or lower school. The commons, in
which hundreds of students satiate themselves, lacks a decor
and can bring a depressing vibe on a rainy day. The only signs
of color are draped across the chairs, and more than half the
time our rears are placed on those. Nostalgic photos of those
before us who have graduated embellish the area, locking in 12
years worth of memories within a lunch room. I couldn't afford
to forget the astounding presence of computers. I'm surprised
the myriad of thin, insect-like wires aren't sticking out of the
walls. A staircase could surely be made of those alone.
Anyhow, I must run along and scrub off that stain from the
Thames, and do my best not to visualise what it once was a
part of.

Take Care Bro,

Shahid Mahdi