Tuesday 10th August
It's no good looking at me like that. I couldn't be a student forever and keep writing reams of this. For a start it was getting unwieldy to look at on the framey archive page and I was considering having to do some of that fancy new stylie stuff to improve the appearance. Such cosmetics should not be the concern of the writer. That stuff should be taken care of by a web stylist or something, when I'm finally being discovered and being paid millions for writing every day. Then you'll get daily thrilling installments and the sort of intimate details of my life you could really do without knowing. I've got a wart on the back of my leg at the moment, for example.
I'm currently residing at Mother Hand's, back on playscheme again. This is the last year. It is. It really is. No, really. Really. I've been crowned head of the autism scheme this year and had the excellent SCIP training, so I'm doing three weeks. I did the first week and then had last week off, and just as I was getting used to not getting up to an alarm and sitting up until 3am reading Harry Potter, it was time to come back. I did appreciate my week off though, I have never actually spent my birthday in my house before, and this is the third one I've had since we've owned it. Yes, I turned 24 for the third time, finally in my own home. (For those bad at maths that means I am really 26, not 27 - you have to keep in mind that I did turn 24 once legitimately, you see). Anyway, I spent much of my week off
a) Lazing around reading Harry Potter - the school librarian leant me the entire series for the summer, and in spite of Ian's best efforts to confiscate them because "it shouldn't be allowed", I managed to read them all in 10 days, and 5 of those were playscheme days so that wasn't bad going. I've got to say, they were a good read, the humour just doesn't translate in the films, and the language in it is pretty high level. I remember reading books when I was a kid and keeping a list of words to look up in the dictionary - the Harry Potter series strikes me as being on a similar level.
b) Stripping wallpaper with a fantastic steamer device. Stripping wallpaper? BUY ONE. We were getting it off intact. We stripped the entire hall and stairs area in about 2 hours. Magic.
c) Cleaning. By the end of the week I was starting to get pissed off with the mess and clutter, so while Mr Z filled in the countless scrapes in our walls (King of DIY had stuffed a few with newspaper, and just left some of the others open; some interesting drillholes above the front door led to us practically having to replaster that bit....well, when I say us I mean Mr Z) I went on a mad spree. I actually [deep breath] actually....threw out all my old copies of magazines. I had the complete set for the past 3 years odd of a couple of titles. It was a wrench, I can tell you. But then, they'd been sitting around for a year and I hadn't touched them. I kept the issue which printed my letter, naturally. I swept under the bed. I polished my dressing table mirror. I even mopped the kitchen floor - I've only done that once since we moved in.
(See, I told you you'd end up hearing things you could do without knowing)
d) Eating Cantonese food and winding people up with Yul and Me'Julie in Derby. We had a lovely meal, and then Yul received a text from Sarah, a somewhat hyper ex-character from Cherrytree-enders. She expressed her wish that Mr Z and I were both well, which had us all flummoxed since none of us had told her we were there. Curious. We decided (this was after quite a lot of wine, as it was my birthday) that she must be in disguise and watching us from somewhere in the restaurant. Yul replied with text along the lines of, "they are both well, they are planning to marry next year after the birth of the twins. Sally is now head of year at Eton, while Mr Z is in talks with Bill Gates about a Microsoft office in Bristol." No reply. Not for a few days, anyway. Then Sarah rang me and asked me if I was really having twins. "No Sarah, he was teasing you," I replied. "Oh right," she said, "but you're still getting married, right?" "No Sarah, it was all a wind up...yes, the whole text..."
(Twins indeed! Haven't I already got my fair share of stretch marks?)
e) Screaming. Mr Z, Stu and I went to Alton Towers on Friday. I was most irritate by the fact that the entry had gone up by 10 quid in 3 years, to 28 pounds, and that they have the cheek to charge 3 quid for parking. Then I managed to get two tickets for 15 quid each from a Days Inn on the way there, which cheered me up a lot. We didn't have to queue too long for Air because it broke down shortly after we joined the queue and lots of people left the queue. It was more sedate than Nemesis...I think Nemesis still tops my list of all time fave rollercoaster, but Air was pretty good, as was their newest one, the Spinball Whizzer. We queued for over an hour and a half because it broke down twice (when I say broke down, I mean it tripped the failsafe - it wasn't dangerous or anything) but even though we were stuck queuing for so long we missed out on a second turn on Air and Nemesis, it was totally worth it. Think old-fashioned fairground rollercoaster a la Blackpool Mouse stylie crossed with the Waltzer and you're close. The cars spin on the spot as you're chucked about the tracks. It drew screams from all three of us, and we did at least have time to go on my old favourites, the Chairoplanes. The only slightly disconcerting thing was the annoying recordings. "Woo hooo! This ride is for spinning and whizzing, not eating or drinking, wooo hoooo!" By the end the guys had taken to doing blackly comic imitations.
It was quite depressing how commercial the whole place is, though. Since Air was sponsored by Cadbury's, chcolate is for sale everywhere in the park. Vending machines, kiosks within the queuing areas...and not Freddos or Tazes or things like that - we're talking mega bags of buttons, King Sized everything. The whole park screams, "Eat me! And become so obese you can no longer fit on our rides, and develop a heart condition so it's not safe to go on anything other than the swans!" Between that and the endless parade of KFC, Mcdonald's and Pizza Hut outlets, the place is one big coronary. And the Log Flume is no longer the log flume anymore, because it's sponsored by Imperial Leather so the logs are now baths and it's just "the Flume". The queue for that was even more unbearable than the woo-hooing, being an endless repetition of fake ducks quacking along to Disco Inferno. There were also lots of ducks floating around in the water, real and fake, and an old bloke fiddling around with their wiring (just the fake ones). The big yellow fake ones which weren't being fiddled with were floating around, apparently aimlessly, apart from one which seemed to be moving with a purpose. "Look at that duck," I indicated to to Stu, "it's moving around...that duck has definitely got an agenda" - this last said with great suspicion, whereupon Stu cracked up and pointed out the remote control station on the other side, surrounded by a group on kids.
The other irritating thing is the whole Privilege Pass, jump the queues thing. What a joke. How them and us is that - you have money, you don't have to queue. I suppose that's what we get for living in a capitalist nation.
(f) Listening to Shane McGowan, live. He was pissed. Surprisingly. I went with Roland Gump, a long-standing friend from playscheme who had just finished his degree with a 2:1 and landed an NQT job in a primary school in Scumhampton, but I won't hold it against him. Congrats, Roland. Anyway, much of Shane's links were slurred beyond recognition but he did come out with a gem of a oneliner before one particular song. "This song is at number nointeen in the Oirish charts," he rambled, "and it went straight in at number one in Scotland...but you bastards have never heard of it."
(g) Barbecuing stuff. For about three days. No, it wasn't a whole ox or anything - we decided to have a barbecue, invited lots of people and went out and spent about 100 quid on food and drink, as was our wont. Then lots of people texted to say they weren't coming. My summer barbecues are becoming legendary for their poor attendance. On the plus side, Sian attended which was good because she moved to Essex the next day and I really miss her. We got really drunk in the garden and I slagged off the neighbours for putting a gate onto our land and having their sprinklers on, only I was quite loud because I was drunk and they were sitting in their garden in their nightclothes because we were being loud and keeping them awake. I'm so, so tactful. On the negative side, we ate barbecue food for three days. Literally. Mr Z enjoyed the manly firemaking stuff though.
(h) Getting old. It's weird, saying that 26 is nearer to 30 than it is to 20. I mean, I know it's true and everything, and everybody says it, but it's not like you can go back to being 20 if you're closer to 20, is it? I am quite gutted that I'm like, old now. Jen was gutted when she turned 26, it's quite useful having a best mate who's a few months older because then you get to do a sort of dress rehearsal for your own birthday, but I did think her a bit melodramatic when she said the last time she looked she was 24 and she felt young but now she's 26 and feels old. Sorry Jen, I know what you mean now babe. I'm mourning my lost youth. Suddenly, I woke up and I was 26, and I'd got a house, and a shiny new car, and a long-term, serious boyfriend, and a career. What happened? It seems like only yesterday I was getting stupid drunk and breaking my phone.
Well...I suppose it was only last week.
That was about it for my week off. I was very ready for it, since scheme started two days after the end of school, whilst I was still recovering from the phone wrecking drunkeness that was the last day of term. The mega glass of wine before I went out, in hindsight, was perhaps not a good idea, but it was definitely worth it to see the look of foreboding on Ian's face when I joined the hardened drinkers in the pub around 5.30. "You haven't been in here since two, have you?" I asked, sounding like Mother Hand. "No!" he replied, "we've been to lots of other pubs first."
So, I drank steadily to catch up. I totally monopolised a conversation with the head of year nine on religion. I missed Ian doing an (apparently) erotic dance. I smashed a glass in the street (I didn't want it anymore, it seemed logical). I bought myself two drinks so I could get cash back, in spite of the fact that I had just got cash out of the hole in the wall. The barman gave me 15 quid cash, in spite of the fact I only asked for 10 (it went through as 15 but I don't know what happened). I fell off the stage at Delfter Krug trying to help tall PE teacher crowd surf. And - this was my crowning achievement, never before rivalled in the history of all my drunkeness - I decided in O'Neills that the very watered down, almost full glass of cider and soda (I know my limits, cos I'm getting old) I was nursing should accompany me to Delfter Krug, so I stashed it in my tall, leather, Kookai handbag. Upon arrival at Delfter Krug, I opened said handbag to retrieve my purse, to find it 3 inches deep in cider and soda, to the point where I had to pour it out in a steady stream. And my little phone was bob bob bobbing along, and it never worked again.
Sob.
Well, I was quite gutted until I found out that T Mobile were prepared to give me 50 quid towards an upgrade, and the Link wre going to give me 25, and I managed to get quite a snazzy little slidey Samsung with a camera on an upgrade for free. I had had that phone for nearly three years anyway. I took mine in with the old, "It just stopped working" line which was fine, except that I had to stand in the shop for about 20 minutes and it was quite warm, so by the time she looked it was all steamed up on the inside. "Hmmm," she said, "it looks like water damage." "Really? Wow, I have no idea how that happened..." I mumbled. I still got a 30 quid voucher for it, which was quite cool, although I was at a bit of a loose end with what to spend 30 quid on in the Link, until I realised I could spend it at Curry's. My old phone has become a brand new three-tier steamer, for cauliflower cooked to perfection.
I do love my little slidey phone, with the pictures and stuff. I was after the Motorola V600, which Sibling managed to get on an upgrade after six months just by threatening T Mobile. "I'll get it free if I go to Vodafone," he wheedled. "It'll be with you in 3-5 working days sir," I believe they replied. I don't have his balls though. Which is why I'm his sister, not his brother.
Well, I had better go to bed really. I'm having issues adapting on playscheme, to being head of autism. I'm getting paranoid that everybody hates me and thinks I'm doing a crap job. But the kids seem to be enjoying themselves, and we're going to the funfair on Thursday. We tried to go to Moors Valley yesterday - we drove for nearly an hour all the way into Dorset. It looked lovely - pony rides for 2 quid, a little steam train, ice creams, perfect. Until a parking attendant turned up and said we couldn't park in the disabled space for free because we didn't have a tax disc declaring us exempt, which meant we weren't disabled. He said this to Keith, who was at the same time trying to stop one of our kids accosting to strangers and trying to get them to rub his ears. I was not impressed, but eventually decided to go and fetch a ticket. It was £5 out of my £20 budget but we'd driven a long way. I took another Kid with me to get the ticket, explaining we needed a ticket for the train. "Twain! Ticket! Twain! Ticket!" he repeated brightly, fairly capering. Not the actions of a mainstream 13 year old, you might agree. I stood at the kiosk to buy the ticket (the ice cream stand wouldn't give me change for the meter, unhelpful bastards). The man smirked at me slightly. "You know how much it is?" he said. "Five pounds...look, we are a disabled group you know, we just don't own the actual minibus," I wheedled, in exasperation. "No free parking without the tax exempt sticker," he said in a satisfied manner, "and it's £12.50 for minibuses." "We're leaving," I replied shortly, and then flinched, expecting the lad I was with (who is bigger than me) to smack me up real good right then and there, the train ride denied him. "No twain," he said, resignedly. Phew.
TWELVE POUNDS FIFTY?! You HAVE to be kidding me. Moors Valley obviously don't want disabled visitors. They've basically said, if you're disabled you can't come and visit us unless you own your own vehicle. Absolute fucking disgrace, if you ask me. Please note -
Had to get that off my chest. Thanks.
Sunday 29th August
Who is it that decides things are lucky? I mean, I know some things are lucky on a personal basis, like the lucky pink knickers you managed to pull Wes Bentley in (current fave - American Beauty is enjoying a revival at our house) and that makes them lucky even though they ride right up your arse and you have to tuck your labia in to avoid chafing from the lace gusset (let no subject be taboo). I had a piece of hematite that was lucky because it came to all my exams with me and I never did very badly in any of them. But I mean, things that are generally lucky. Like the lucky rabbit's foot. Why is that lucky? Did one person, once, have a rabbit's foot that they decided was lucky on a personal basis, like my piece of hematite, and he told some bloke in the pub who decided to market the idea? If I told enough people about my lucky hematite, would that become the lucky stone? I don't get it.
Some things, on the other hand, are easy to understand. Like a bird crapping on you. "Ooohh that's lucky!" squawked everyone when it happened to me today (Mother Hand and Mr Z, breathlessly, through their tears of laughter), "you should buy a lottery ticket!" It's not lucky. A bird crapped on me. It had impeccable aim. It's not lucky when a bird craps on you, it's disgusting. People just tell you it's lucky to try and make you feel better.
I did buy a lottery ticket though. I haven't checked the numbers yet, which means technically I am a millionaire at the moment. But don't ask to borrow any money.
The decorating is going quite well. I had to nag Mr Z mercilessly to fill in the ridiculous number of holes in the walls so Mother Hand and I could paint, which wasn't very nice, but worked eventually. The hideous, dirty, peachy terracotta is almost gone. The numerous drill holes are filled. Even the ones where he'd drilled eight holes instead of one, right into the brick (we have a theory that the old owner killed his wife and buried her in the front garden, and that's why there's a big lump in the lawn - we decided today that before he killed her, he chased her around the house with a power drill aiming for her head, only he kept missing and drilling the wall by accident. Nothing else explains the random holes, some stuffed with newspaper, littering the walls. I'm at a stage now where I don't really want to decorate any of the other rooms because I'm so frightened of what we might find, and Mr Z has drafted in Father Z to handle the electrics because he's afraid of being killed). I went and bought some new wall lights yesterday from Homebase. I took Mother Hand with me to help me decide but she couldn't help so I bought both the kinds I liked, since there are two wall lights. They were quite pricey - 40 and 50 quid - but I didn't think anything of it cos I've never bought wall lights before, so I don't know how much they cost. The bill came in 5 quid under budget because she forgot to charge me for the light switches so I wasn't too bothered. Then we got them home and took one out of the box. There appeared to be a spare stem (the light looks like a bunch of tulips), so I reached down and pulled it out, only to realise it was a twin pack of lights. "It even says twin pack on the box!" chortled Mother Hand. She hadn't noticed. Neither had I. Nor had Mr Z. So now we have four wall lights, and only two spaces. No, I don't know if I'm going to take one pack back. Do you think they would notice if I took back one box with two different lights in it?