Friday 5th December
Since I had my childhood collection of CDs stolen when Mother Hand moved house a few years ago, I have been delighted to find that ebay has a number of them for sale at bargain prices on their auction pages; I wonder if perhaps some of them might even be my original CDs, but I suppose there's no way of knowing. Anyway, I was fortunate enough today to be able to purchase a copy of that anthem, "Ooh! Stick You!" by Daphne and Celeste. I originally owned a copy at university, but it seems to have disappeared and it's not readily available on WinMX. I will not hang my head in shame at such a purchase. The comedy value made it twice the song U.G.L.Y. was, although that's the one everybody remembers. Luckily, U.G.L.Y. is still around along with classics by Atomic Kitten, B*Witched and Vanilla (No way no way! Ma na ma naaaa!) so my cheese levels are in no danger of being depleted.
But I digress. So, I found this CD on ebay being sold by a chap along with a number of other teeny bopper CDs, the like of which would make most people hang their heads in shame, or at the very least use a false ebay name and be very unassuming.
Not this guy. This guy is a nazi of ebay. I'm not sure how long that link will last so I will put some of his choicest phrases here.
I do not accept any other payment schemes which includes paypal. Please bear this in mind before bidding.
I do not accept cash payments from the UK.
ALL payments are sent at your own risk - I cannot and will not be held responsible if your payment goes missing in transit.
Newsflash, E-Hitler. It's a Daphne and Celeste CD single. It's on sale for £1.50 plus postage. It's not Venus de Milo.
Luckily I use Mr Z's login and he's got some positive feedback. His log in ends in the word techie, which I accidentally typed as teachie today. Am considering making my own login with such a word.
Ebay is quite cool really. I managed to buy a Venetian mirror for the hall a couple of weeks back, from a lady in Weston Super Mare. Then it was just a case of nipping over there in my shiny car and collecting it. Ben even took me for a bag of chips on the seafront, coo! So now I have a beautiful, baroque mirror and a scrappy nasty wall the colour of rotten peaches to hang it on. Hmmm. I feel the same way I did when I bought lots of red pots and candles and silver candle stands from Ikea last month. As if I have made a pointless purchase. We've been working on the bedroom for 18 months now, and the paper is still peeling, and the only wall I've painted is streaky, and there's no carpet. Although all the furniture is in there and I ordered a 400 quid pair of curtains from John Lewis. I am doing finishing touches on a room before it's finished. It's supposed to spur me onto finishing, or at least into nagging Mr Z to finishing, but actually it just clutters up the airing cupboard and gathers dust. Sigh.
Speaking of Mr Z, I had a bit of a giggle at his expense last weekend. Arriving home on a dark and wet Sunday evening from the tumble drying shop, I realised his car was missing and reasoned that he must have just popped down the shop. So I switched everything off and lay in wait in my Ka. Shortly afterwards he arrived home, and jauntily swished from the Nova, sashaying around it and past my bonnet, at which point I hit the horn.
Oh how I laughed. And ran. A few more stunts like that and I'll have the mortgage paid off for me.
Awww, but I'd be lonely.
I think the shock has had a long term effect on his brain though, since he has seemed a little confused today. Last night, I showered about 10pm and then crawled into bed to warm up again. And fell asleep. Deeply. This, in spite of the fact that I had a lesson to plan, a worksheet to complete and my lunch to make. The next thing I knew, Mr Z was bouncing into the bedroom and it was a quarter to one. In a panic, I leapt out of bed, cooked some pasta and downloaded some stuff off the internet about euthanasia. When I returned, he was awake enough to speak to me, but I was tired enough to fall asleep almost immediately, awaking refreshed at a quarter to seven. I dress and bent down to nip his nose by way of goodbye, at which point he mutter, "Have you finished your work? Are you coming to bed now?"
Awwww, bless.
"Yes, I finished my work about 6 hours ago. It's 7am, now I have to go to work!" I replied. "Eh?" he said, and then, "ZzzzzzzZZzZzZZZZzzzzzzzzzz".
Only 20 days until Christmas! I've nearly finished all my Christmas shopping. It's been made very easy this year because I'm hardly buying anyone anything. The most difficult part will be buying for the Secret Santa at work. I've got a woman who I have never met. Apparently she picks up the litter in the playground; I am tempted to buy her a pair of specs and a bin bag because, frankly, there's more litter in the playground than there is in a landfill most days. After every break and lunch, flocks of seagulls circle overhead and swoop in for the choicest morsels of pie and cookie which are strewn across the tarmac. And you just know that when the night draws in and the seagulls flit off back to sea, the rats come out...
Well, she does make an effort, it's true. But it's a mammoth task. And I don't think 4 quid is enough money for a present to reward such herculean efforts. So I'll probably just buy her some soap.
Scary signs that some of the kids are starting to know me quite well. We've been doing the development of vaccines in year 10 recently, which has involved me doing a lot of story boarding (slightly more interesting than endless notes, although some of the swottier kids whinge like they're being worked in a mill) and a lot of drawing of stick men, chickens and sheep. The chickens were the worst. I did, it's true, get an A for my GCSE Art, but what most people don't realise is that it was a Ceramics course. My chickens looked like pigeons with crowns on. The only thing that made them recognisable as chickens was the fact that I drew some of them with speech bubbles saying, "Cluck". Anyway, at some point towards the end of the tale, half the chickens snuff it, victims of chicken cholera. I drew these chickens as roast chickens, rather than just upside down chickens. "Miss, those chickens are much better!" piped up one girl from the back of the class.
"That's because they're food," responded Mark, a bright but lazy boy, and I at the same time.
I had fan mail! I forgot to say! It's really old now. But anyway, fan mail is fan mail. Yey fan mail! Send more!
Dear Sally
Much to my amazement have just spent an hour or two reading your diaries, which I fell into due to some quake in the Google continuum. That doesn't cover all of them I guess but a fair number of extracts... just wanted to say well done, they are very good fun! Also you seem to have a certain knack for casual stream of consciousness writing, maybe you should try fictionalising them, or writing sketches? Not that I'm an expert you understand, but you can entertain...
... and I have diaries going back to 1977, sadly not quite so detailed as yours (eg "good day - chips for dinner" - well its important when you're 11)... so doubt I'll ever get round to typing them up.
Keep it up and good luck
Yours
Rupert
*Caper* fan mail! Writing professionally!! I'm practically living the dream, man.
Wednesday 10th December
Why does everything these days have to be so LARGE? I ponder, as I munch my way through an unusually large packet of salt and vinegar crisps, which I purchased in the Spar shortly after my weekly weigh in (yes, I still go, no, I don't want to talk about it). It's labelled with "Big Eat! 50% MORE than a standard bag!"
Why is that good? Crisps are not the sort of staple foodstuff people actually eat on their own to slay their hunger, are they? Surely they're meant to be part of a balanced lunch? Not a huge, salty, fatty meal? I looked for a normal sized bag, in vain. Normal sized bags are no longer avilable - unless you buy them six at a time in the supermarket. Which rather defeats the object of buying small bags in the first place, if you have no willpower.
Obviously, if you have willpower, there's no need for you to buy the multipack of regular sized bags in the first place, since you will buy the giant bag, eat until you are satisfied, and then throw the rest in the bin. If you are NOT to sort to do this (I'm going to claim that this is because I hate to see food wasted, and while there is some truth in that I fear it is not my primary reason for scoffing 55g of crisps when 37g would have been quite sufficient) then buying a multipack of regular bags is WORSE, because you'll just end up eating three bags.
It's not just crisps. Giant Rolos. Giant Smarties. Supersized meals - 30p for three extra sticks of fried reformed potato and a dribble more water in your coke-flavoured syrup. I read that the average meal these days is 400% larger than it was in the 1950s. 400%! I should try quartering the size of my meals, in that case, then I'd be reporting mega success in my diet instead of just trundling on at the same weight for 18 months, going neither up nor down.
But 25% of the size, sheesh....I won't be able to write Diario anymore. I'll have eaten my keyboard.
I feel that the e-bay nazi has had the last laugh. He emailed me today with further instructions following the dispatch of my cheque. They were fairly normal, he just wants to know that the CD arrives alright. But it was the final line - "I hope that you enjoy the wonderful sounds of Daphne & Celeste" - which really made me feel as though he was sniggering at me slightly, while I wasn't looking. Touche, e-bay nazi.
I witnessed yesterday, during school assembly, something which very nearly made me vomit in horror. It was a very good asembly, conducted by one of the year eight groups which I teach, on the MOBO awards. However, the assembly pretty much consisted of three of the boys reading lengthy passages they had downloaded off of the Internet, then another one standing up and saying "And-now-Cheryl-and-Kylie-are-going-to-perform-a-dance/song-from-music-of-the-black-origin". And perform they did. Cheryl and Kylie (not their real names, of course) are what you might call old before their time. They are the only 12 year olds I see sneaking off round the back of the tennis courts for a fag at breaktime (god, that pisses me off - if staff aren't allowed to smoke on site then why should the kids get away with it?) They wear eyeliner all the way around their eyes in the typical teen fashion (badly applied, train track stylie). In a late night discussion with another teacher about which year eights were sexually active, their names came up. And having witnessed the assembly, I don't think we were wrong.
Kylie stalked to the centre of the stage, wearing low slung black trousers and a ballet style top which cut away above her solar plexus to reveal a wealth of bared midriff with what looked like (and you must bear in mind I was right at the back and trying not to make it look like I was staring) a sparkling belly button ring. She was swiftly followed by Cheryl, who was wearing baby pink jogging bottoms, a sheer baby pink camisole top and a black bra that did more for her pubescent bust than scaffolding does for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. They proceeded to dance half heartedly to Misteeq's "Scandalous". When I say half heartedly, I mean they didn't really go for it; they were good but obviously nervous about performing a dance in front of 175 of their peers in what amounted to their pyjamas.
Good grief, how old am I?
Anyway. The dance seemed to last for hours. It was mainly composed of leg lifts, butt shimmies, belly wobbles and a move that involved both girls bending over from the waist and sweeping from side to side. Thus fuelling the wet dreams and jerk off fantasies of every boy in year eight for the next six months. At least. I was dumbfounded. Snaps to them for having the guts to stand up and do it, but holy moley...there's a time and a place. Spearmint Rhino on nappy night, perhaps. But year eight assembly on a freezing Tuesday morning, no.
Apparently there were boys in the crowd unable to look away from their hands. I know how they felt. I felt as though I was committing a crime just watching them. And while I do think it's unusual and very wrong to take a sexual interest in children, I can see how it happens. All it takes is a man in his 20s to sleep with one of those girls - who might not necessarily say no - and he's risking prison, dubbed as a nonce, sex offender's register, having his car torched by mad people from Portsmouth, the works. The headline "12 year old child raped by 25 year old pervert" might be the same as "12 year old falls in love with a man twice her age, settles into a relationship with him and marries him and they live happily ever after" - but the latter is not quite as grabby, granted.
One of my GCSE pupils has been in a sexually active relationship with her much older boyfriend since she was 12. It's not that unusual, I suppose. It makes me laugh that many of the 15 and 16 year olds are more prudish about sex than I am. They think the age of consent should be maintained at 16 and that children younger should NOT be having sex. I was of a similar opinion. But it's happening, and it's nobody else's decision. I was watching Kylie and Cherly and thinking that, if I'd been at school with them, I would have wanted to be them, all cool in their outfits and their make up with their choreographed numbers and their boyfriends. But really now, now that I'm really me and not waiting to grow up into me, they seem a little sad. I confiscated a letter Cheryl was writing to her boyfriend in my lesson the other day. It said something like "Is it true you were giving other girls your number? Because if you were, that's OK, I don't mind. Love Cheryl x x"...
....actually, I tell a lie. It said something like "Izzit true u was givin uvver girlz ur fone #? Coz if u woz 'sOK, I don't mind." But I had to translate it, since I can barely read teen-text speak myself and I read it everyday. "King Charles woz v bad cos he put taxes on stuff like ur shoes n that was well gay, he was tight man"...
...Reading that made me feel sad. "Is it true you were giving other girls your number? Cos if it was I'm going to cut your balls off with a spoon, fry them up and make you eat them, just like that man in Germany." Scary, yes. But slightly less pathetic. I think having sex takes away girls' umph. Their mojo. Sex gives boys mojo. But they steal it from the girls.
Did you hear about that case in Germany? Very strange. A man searches for someone to cannibalise on the internet. First he comes across an Italian who wants to be nail-gunned to the floor and whipped to death, but rejects him on the groun that "that's a bit weird". Erm...pot, kettle... Then he's offered a small boy. Human veal. But he gets served up in a Russian orthodox Christmas feast, apparently, so it's back to the drawing board for our hungry caterpillar. He has several men round to eat, but they chicken out and he ends up having beers and pizza with them and watching sports. Typical male pastimes, yes. The man was typical in every way. Until he invited a man round, dosed him with sleeping pills and schnapps, cut his penis off, fried it up and shared it as a meal, then stabbed the man, butchered him, buried the bones in the garden and ate 44lbs of the flesh in various styles. German stew, German barbecue, German pot roast...
Of course, the problem the Germans have now is, what can they charge him with? Cannibalism is legal in Germany. The man who now lies in the stomach, freezer and garden of the accused (apparently his soul is still around, "I could feel his presence more strongly with every bite" is the claim) was fully consenting all the way through, from a lucid and conscious state to a drugged up, drunken and castrated one. Is he guilty of a crime? Other than being, well, weird? Now he's fulfilled his cannibalistic desires, is he a threat to society? Apparently he was had the idea since childhood and is satisfied that now, aged 42, he has quelled it. It's euthanasia, I suppose. "Please kill me and eat me!" "Wait a minute...that's euthanasia...that's a crime! I can eat you, that's not. But assisted suicide? Woah, way too risky mann, entschuldigung, nein can do."
We can all learn a lesson from this. If you ever run a country, make cannibalism illegal.
Finally, I watched the BBC program Bodysnatchers tonight, after hearing all manner of disgusting tales of leeches in noses and fish in urinary tracts and worms living in all parts of the body from various people at school, staff and pupils alike. Tonight's episode was not that horrible, since it was about micrscopic parasites - bacteria, viruses, and the like. They covered West Nile feaver, Ebola, TB and SARS amongst other things, and I taped it for my Medicine Through Time class next Thursday after the staff party when I am still a bit pissed and certainly in no fit state to be teaching, because they also had a slot about a couple from New Mexico who went to New York, came down with what they thought were bad colds and were told that, in fact, they had Plague.
"Doctor, can you give me something for this flu? I feel so ill.
"Sorry Madam, you have Plague. Yes, that's right, Black Death. The scourge of Europe from the 14th century onwards."
One shouldn't laugh really, but come ON! "You've got Plague. PLAGUE!"
Jokes aside, her husband had to have his feet amputated because of gangrene caused by the Black Death. It must have come as a bit of a shock, to think you've got a bad cold and have someone tell you you're actually infected with the disease which wiped out over half the population of Britain in 1348 (I'm not a history teacher for nothing). (But actually, it might have been 1349. I'm not good with dates).
I feel a new cliche coming on. Instead of, "If you've got a head ache, she's got a brain tumour" being used to describe those constantly trying to gain one-up-manship, we should now begin to say, "If you've got a cold, she's got the Plague."
Monday 15th December
I'm going out on a limb here. I love Radio 4. I know that's a bit unusual, considering I am under the age of 40. But I do. It's my little bit of culture on the drive home from school. Where else can you rely on such quality programming as the history of the zebra crossing, or everything you ever wanted to know about the full stop? The best part of Radio 4 is at 3.30pm every day, when they have somebody read a short story for fifteen minutes. Sometimes they do serialisations, but I prefer the stand alone stories. As somebody who has to do a lot of reading every day to ungrateful children doing their best impressions of brick walls/animals at the zoo, it's a rare treat to be read to. So I always try and make it to my car for the 3.30pm story. Like Jackanory, for grown ups. Because sometimes they even (gasp!) swear!! Yes! In the middle of the afternoon! On the BBC! I find it a bit irritating that I might have parental complaints for saying words like crap and piss in my classroom, but that Radio 4 can get away with the word fuck in a "cultural" context. But I still love them cos they read to me.
But I continue to draw the line at the Archers.
Had an email from Yul and Me'Julie this week that stirred the pathos in me. Seems he's most miserable now he is no longer a minor celbrity star of "The Cherry Tree". He should realise that "The Cherry Tree" has gone the way of Crossroads now, with its very own slapper landlady and its yobbish patrons. Those really in the know are drinking at the Highwayman these days. When I go in there, I'm usually the youngest one around. These are people who appreciate a good bit of Radio 4 of an afternoon. Yul and Me'Julie popped in a couple of weeks ago, and we went to visit them at the end of October, only I was going through one of my "I'm far too busy to update my Diario" phases and failed to mention it. We had a fab time although I got very hammered. Luckily I wasn't sick. Mr Z nearly set off the alarms coming back in after a final cigar of the evening. And that was it, really. It's a shame they are not closer. Yul and Me'Julie, I think you should put in a takeover bid for the Tennis Court, round the corner. But not before I come and stay with you and then go to Alton Towers for the day.
I'm getting neck ache. Following the fantastic shiny redness of my hair after my last experiment with Lush's henna, I have decided to prep myself for the party season by repeating the trick. Jen did hers at the weekend, and her hair has come out luciously soft and shiny, but the same sort of brown as before, which leaves me wondering if I didn't use a red one by accident last time. I am rather hoping I did, beause, although I love the red colour, I didn't realise it was permanent, and I was rather missing the fluffy mud effect. So, I'm sitting here with about three pounds of brown goo on my head, which has been wrapped in clingfilm and then a towel, and smells like turkish delight, but also perhaps a little bit of moss. As I slathered it into my hair, I asked the same question I asked as I attended my second circuits class in a row this evening, as my gluteus maximus screamed out for a little R&R - "Why on earth am I doing this AGAIN?"
I think I'd better go and lie down.