Sunday 8th February

Oh my god. You would think that nobody in America had ever seen a breast before. So, it's alright for Christina Aguilera to frolic in a pelmet and thong in a flooded men's toilet while being spanked by a rapper, but Janet Jackson's boob accidentally falls out of her top live on the Superbowl halftime show and America recoils in horror and withdraws her Grammy invitation. You couldn't even see the nipple! The makers of ER panic about the episode about to air on the American networks and consider cutting a scene in which an elderly woman is being operated on and her breasts are on show. And now some opportunist Tennessee money-grabber has decided to sue Janet, Justin, MTV, CBS and Viacom for the serious injuries she suffered from seeing Janet's breast.

Newsflash, America. People have breasts. Mostly just women. On the continent they have breasts on display in television commercials! Your children are probably being emailed pictures of breasts, or desperately trying to find them on the net. Anybody attending Mardi Gras in a couple of weeks will see so many breasts they will be quite bored with them. It's not the end of the world. Stop punishing Janet Jackson. If you must punish someone, punish Justin Trousersnake. He's more irritating than she is. And he was the one that ripped off both parts of her top instead of just the outer layer.

VODKA - IT CAUSES MEMORY LOSS

I have finally made the link.
The evidence -
Exhibit A - aged 18. Vodka consumed along with bottles of Max white cider in a nightclub in Hertfordshire. I was sick out of the car window on the way home. I remember lying in the middle of our tiny bedsit with the duvet wrapped around me, but awoke to find myself in bed. Colin and Simon had to blackmail me into moving so they could unfold the sofa bed. I have absolutely no memory of this.
Exhibit B - aged 20. Vodka consumed in shots at Revolution in Bolton with the gang from Forest. I ended up doing the splits, in a skirt. I remember being in a taxi back to the Thug's, and various snatches of the following hours, but awoke to find myself naked in the spare room bed, my clothes strewn with his in a trail up the stairs, interspersed with empty cans of Boddington's, and his bed on the other side of the room. It looked like we'd had a lot of fun. But I cannot remember it.
Exhibit C - aged 23/24. In Ibiza, on the eve of my birthday. I mistook a plastic bag for a jelly fish and then passed out on the balcony. I woke up in a patch of bile. Jen had helpfully put me to bed in spite of my yelling at her to not touch me. Again, absolutely no recollection.
Exhibit D - aged 25. Yes, it has taken me seven long years to work out the vodka makes me lose my memory. Last night I attended the house party of a student teacher at school. I tried to stick to wine but he had this pear drop vodka and it was just so delicious...and then I started necking the toblerone stuff. I tried to do like you're told and have a glass of water between every alcoholic drink, but in hindsight I should have actually had water instead of wine, or the seriously alcoholic punch. To cut a long story short, I threw up on the balcony, then outside the front door where I started weeping on the shoulder of some unfortunate man who was probably just hoping to get laid (I have absolutely no idea what I was crying about), then on the bed in the downstairs chill out room, where I passed out. I have a vague recollection of waking up in the recovery position as a man tried to air the room out to get rid of the smell of sick. The next thing I knew it was 6am and a bunch of obnoxious wankers were making lewd comments at me and I was freezing and I still had my contact lenses in. I tried to get up to drive home but I was still too pissed so I passed out again until 9am and then drove home to wash the sick out of my hair. And my ears.

And the memory of how I got from the vomit stained bed to the sofa, in my pyjamas and wrapped in my sleeping bag, will be forever shrouded in mystery. I'd love to know what happened. But if I had to choose one memory to have back it would be the aged 20 one, that one was probably most exciting, and I don't think I want to know what people thought of me last night as I blew chunks all over the place. NOT my finest hour. I'm supposed to be an adult and not do these things anymore. I knew going would be a bad idea. I was deeply unimpressed with the idea of staying in a student house and I should have followed my gut instincts and not drunk and driven home. Then perhaps I wouldn't have felt deeply nauseous for the whole day. Note to self: lay off the vodka. You're too old to be waking up in a pool of your own vomit.

I've been hearing lovely things about myself this week, vis a vis my career. My Mentor Anne Louise told somebody within earshot of me this week that I must be run off my feet trying to look after my tutor group on my own (Kate's been off sick for nearly two weeks) but that anybody could be forgiven for forgetting that I'm an NQT because I'm so capable I appear to have been teaching for 50 years. Denise, my head of year, replied that I should try using Nivea, ha ha. Then yesterday at the party Sian told me that on a night out with the teaching assistants they couldn't say anything bad about me, in fact they were all raving about how wonderful I am. Impressive! I also had two lesson observations which went very well. I was really nervous when Ian observed me, much more than Anne Louise, maybe it's because he's the head of the department and will know if I am talking out of my arse. And I gave the prizes out to the year eight class who won the internet challenge. I didn't link it to this page because I'd rather not publicise the name of the school too much....it would be nice to protect my privacy for a little while longer. But before Christmas all my year eight classes did a play about the trial and exexcution of Charles I and I videoed them and put the videos on the web and people voted for their favourite. The activity was so well-received by everybody at the school that the headmaster has been raving about it to anyone who'll listen and I'm having to do some INSET training on it at the next Teacher Development Day. I don't really get why, especially since it was just something I came up with to give myself a break in the last week of term, but oh well.

But I digress. The winning class received a specially made certificate in a gold sprayed picture frame adorned with the word "Congratulations". The whole lot didn't cost me more than 12 quid but they did look quite snazzy, and the class were so impressed with them that they gave me a big round of applause and worked like trojans for the whole lesson. Awww, bless. Even the year 11s I forced to put the frames together with the certificates were jealous. They have also been complaining that I never do "Star Pupil of the Lesson" with them and they're missing out on the lollipops. So all those cynics that said lollipops were too childish for key stage four are wrong!

Last week wasn't all good. I took three pupils to an Aim Higher training day at Bath University on Thursday, but failed to do any of the necessary paperwork beforehand, so Colin, the person in charge of trips, descended on me full of righteous fury after my stuttering announcement at morning briefing, and I had to run around like a blue arsed fly filling in the forms and faking a letter home to parents while Denise went and did my register. Colin was practically apoplectic and pointed out that if anything bad had happened I might have ended up in prison. This was no comfort to me that afternoon when, after finishing our training day slightly early, we played on the jungle slides and climbing ropes in Victoria Park in Bath. I had horrifying visions of the kids falling off and breaking something and was terribly aware that I hadn't put "visit to playground" on my risk assessment. Thankfully nothing bad happened. It would have been typical, since we skived the last half an hour of school so we could go. It was totally worth it, the kids had a whale of a time, and all three of them want to go to Bath University when they leave school. They were so happy they even bought me a plant to say thanks. They were skulking in the fruit and veg aisle of the Tesco Metro where we'd stopped for drinks and told me to get lost. "Yeah Miss, we're looking at these onions!" enthused one of them, picking up a bulb of fennel. "OK," I replied, "I'll wait in the car" and walked off, biting back my other response which was to be "Don't steal anything." How uncharitable of me. We spent quite a lot of time driving around Bath almost lost, and saw a very odd man standing in a bus shelter-type place, which cracked the kids up because he shouldered his umbrella and tried to march after someone. That had them in hysterics for quite five minutes. I don't really understand the youth of today.

One more week until half term. Then sleep, sleep and more sleep. But no vodka.

Tuesday 10th February

Choice quote of the week, courtesy of Shameless (how gutted am I going to be when it finishes...)
The Scene: Frank, the alcoholic dad, is leaving the house of his girlfriend. His girlfriend's daughter is in tears. He's been shagging her, and she's just dumped Frank's son Lip because he broke things off with her and she thinks that's why.
Frank: "Awww love. Here you go, here's five quid. Get yourself an E or something."

Wednesday 11th February

Another contender for the "Useless Bastards" crown (Natwest haven't pissed me off for a long time now so I have sort of softened towards them a bit.)
I may or may not have said, but I used to work for Edexcel, the examination board. That's where I met Jen ("Is that your umbrella?" I said. "No!" she said, thereby sparking off a lifelong friendship). Well, their level of incompetence is pretty high. I mean, considering how important their task is, they're not particularly well-organised. You might have read about them in the papers (I tried to sell my story to the Sun, but never heard anything of it).

So, I decided to sell my soul this summer and mark exam papers for them to earn cash for carpets. I emailed them my application. I figured that was pretty foolproof; it was a word document, no chance of misreading my handwriting (not that you would anyway, I'm anally neat on paper), and surely easy enough to mail merge. Today, I received my acknowledgement in the post.

It was addressed to "Miss SG Handle"

Incompetent bastards!

Thursday February 12th

An unprecedented three entries in three days, ladies and gentlemen. Well, don't expect anymore until....well, probably next week, since it's half term. I feel like, when your electricity meter runs out of money and you have to stick on the emergency five quid until you can scrape together enough to top it up. I am running on my emergency power reserves. A pity my body does not recognise this fact like my conscious mind, and start shovelling on the fat cells. I'm up to a huge bottle of Berocca and a double-sized mug of black coffee (which has usually been on the pot in the staffroom overnight...mmm, spoon-dissolvingly tarlike) every morning, so I slump like shares in Enron by mid-morning. This morning I felt my energy levels drop so quickly I honestly thought I was going to throw up all over my year ten class, a la that alcoholic teacher on that program about alcoholics the other week (very disturbing). It seemed so unfair - the bitchy witch who usually sits in front of me making snidey comments and complaining when I tell her to stop talking wasn't even there. So I managed to hold my gorge. Maybe next time.

Between naps, not going to the gym and struggling to stay awake long enough to set the alarm, I had a chance to do some research on who's been looking at MY page. Mr Z discovered tonight that, in a search for bunnyland on Google, my page comes an amazing THIRD on the first page! That's almost like, famous. I looked at my hits and discovered some big peaks in January - a couple of weeks when I got twice as many hits as usual (and by the way, all you people who just come straight here without going through the frontpage, I hope you realise you have cost me over 10,000 hits over the past five years). So we did a little digging. Who am I kidding, Mr Z did a little digging. We discovered hits from links in Poland, Australian Google, AOL searches in New Zealand...and a blog. I shouldn't link to him, he didn't really link to me. Not in an obvious way, anyway. But it's another freaky coincidence that makes you realise just how wickle our wickle worldy wis.

So, the Illuminated Donkey guy had pinched a burro picture off my "Bunnies in Vegas" page and stuck it on his page, hyperlinked to me. It turned out he needed a burro pic, because he'd been in Vegas. Over New Year. Same as us...and not only that but he'd been at the Rio, on the Tuesday night, at the cheesy free Masquerade Ball parade. And we were at the Rio, on the Tuesday night, at the same parade. And I caught dice beads as he did, but instead of selflessly giving mine away (snaps to Ill. Donkey-guy) I wore mine. A child would have had to have prized them off of my cold, dead neck.

How strange that I could have been standing next to a total stranger from New Jersey, in a city 6000 miles from my home, who then finds my page at random whilst searching for a burros picture and then puts it on his page. It's almost like a blind man finding a black cat in a darkened room. Or something.

How hopelessly lethargic of me, I can't even be bothered to go and have a shower. I've been skiving off the gym so I am definitely not as clean as usual. I think I've been sub-consciously using the "skint" excuse (five quid to last me until pay day in two weeks!) even though I pay the membership upfront. Luckily my personal trainer finally deigned to produce his diary when I called him so hopefully he'll whip me into some kind of shape this weekend. Preferably a non-pilsbury dough bunny one.

Hmm. I suppose I should go and wash my hair. I need to feel as happy as possible for tomorrow, when I proof-read my year 11s Modern Ireland coursework and they tell me, again, that the Irish were really pissed off with Gerry Mandering in the 1960s because he was rigging the elections. Yes, I actually laughed out loud in front of the whole class when I read that, and then had to hastily make up some pathetic excuse to limit the upset I caused.

I would just like to say that Ian taught them about gerrymandering on the day I was away, so it's not my fault. Those who can, teach, and pass the buck.

Saturday February 14th

I note with amazement that Microsoft have just had to release an update for MS Word 2003 to replace some of the characters in the Bookshelf Symbol 7 font charmap. Here's why...

I wish I could tell you that this was not real, but in fact there are notices about the update on the Microsoft website, so evidently it's the true picture. Apparently the symbols came from their Japanese programmers. How scary is that?! I mean, I suppose it doesn't really mean anything. There could be any number of reasons why you'd want to insert a swastika or a Star of David into your work. I can't think of anybody who doesn't know what those symbols look like, but I suppose it's easier than trying to explain it. It must come in handy if you're David Irving writing another book about how the Holocaust is a myth.It's nice to know Microsoft tailor their software to such people. Appalling! They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Presumably they are.

Some opportunist has taken it upon themselves to make up and publish this fantastic picture of Miss Piggy in a Jacksonesque pose. Hopefully she won't lose out on going to a big awards ceremony too.

Who's the laziest teacher in Kingswood...the laziest teacher in Kingswood...the laziest teacher in Kingswood...hey Sally. It's 6pm, and I only just got up! It seems horrifying to think that I've been asleep/lazing in bed for all today's daylight hours. But it felt good. Mr Z brought me a mega Valentine's breakfast-in-bed (collective ahhh/vomit) which was really delicious and very enormous and really did me in, I had to go back to sleep after eating it. For seven hours. Tee hee.

Monday February 16th

No pictures today, I promise. I'm all pictured out. I've been reviewing the picture of myself and Mr Z which is currently adorning my entry on Friends Reunited, and trying to think of all the bitchy things people might be saying about it. Of course, that presupposes anybody has bothered to look, and that anybody would waste time thinking of bitchy things. I mustn't judge others by my own standards.

One's personal trainer has jilted one, at the body fat calculating scales no less. That must be the gym equivalent of the altar. The cad! He made an appointment with me for yesterday at 2pm, and so I turned up in my pigtails and Pompey shorts all ready for my body fat to be calculated and then reduced, only to discover that he defected to the new JJB Gym that's opened up some way from here and so has reneged. With my dosh. I didn't follow the advice of the kindly personal trainer who consoled me ("Do you work out anyway, then go home and ring him" - is he mad?!) and thundered home practising my best sarcastic vowels. Unfortunately only his voicemail received the full benefit of my dress rehearsals. I was fuming - he made the appointment for me after he'd handed in his notice, so he knew he'd not be able to keep it. Yes, isn't that right Peter Noone? PETER NOONE, PERSONAL TRAINER... Well, with my thousands of hits per week, he'll never work again. Not with gym bunnies anyway.

When I finally reached him today by ringing the JJB gym and being purposefully vague when they asked me who was calling, he told me he'd lost his phone (that old chestnut) and that the cheque was in the post. I am currently giving him the benefit of the doubt, since it didn't seem worth getting too hissy and going for the out-and-out slagging match. I have to keep on his best side anyway, since it appears Fitness First aren't about to do anything to help me. You'd think, since they're the ones who offered his services, they'd take some responsibility for it, but the receptionist seemed reluctant to make any promises about refunds or free personal training sessions with other trainers. I try to be understanding, really I do. But this will definitely affect one's personal training choices in the future.

Sigh. All that stuff about "building a relationship" and "trust" and so on were all bollocks, weren't they Peter Noone? And I believed it all. I've been so naive. I'm so ashamed.

Phleurgh.

Trusty old local authority classes will be there forever though, even if I do get a nasty rash on my knees from their mats, which must be cleaned as often as the ones at my old school (ie, there are skin cells there from octogenarians). I am considering taking in some antibacterial spray and a cloth, or my own mat, but that seems a bit pretentious (I don't want to make it too obvious that I once had a personal trainer, I might get stuck in a higher tax bracket or something), so I'll just put up with the rash, and place a call to environmental health if it gets any worse. Karen, Circuits Nazi, has such a thing for squats at the moment we're all getting sick of them. Jumping squats, travelling squats, sumo squats, squat leg raises, squat knee lifts, squat calf raises, static squats....I might end up with killer thigh muscles by April, it's true. But by the end of the third circuit the exercises were more along the lines of flailing squats, half-hearted squats and if-I-squat-once-more-my-thighs-are-going-to-burst squats. It's enough to make you wish for lunges, it really is.

Well, no, it really isn't. Really.

Following my two week skive from the gym, I plan to make up for the money I've lost on membership by going every day this week. Things got off to a cracking start today when I didn't go. But I have a schedule planned now, and if I stay at home the six sets of books, three sets of long reports and two sets of coursework which need my attention will eventually get the better of me. Marking, gym, marking, gym....it's a no-brainer. I'll be there punching it out in body combat with the best of them, followed by a long steam. Especially on Wednesday, before weigh in. Maybe I can steam off an extra pound or two.

I was tempted by this JJB gym thing when I took a cursory look at their website today. They've got a pool and they do cool-sounding classes like Crew, which is like Spinning, except on rowing machines. But I take it as a sign of my growing maturity that I know
1. I thought I'd love Spinning, but panted and wheezed through the first and last class I ever took and hobbled out unable to sit down without wincing. Crew is unlikely to be much different.
2. I can skive off Fitness First for two weeks, and I have to drive past it twice a day. I don't even know where this new gym is.
3. I know swimming's excellent exercise and I should do it more often. In fact, I should do it, full stop. But I don't like it. It bores me, and I don't like the smell of chlorine.
Thus, I shall not be seduced away. Not that I could be...I signed the 12-month contract. Derr...

Thursday February 19th

In my free copy of the Independent I snaffled from the gym today (no, they really do give them away - I didn't klept it) I happened to read a letter from one Mr Willis, regarding an article from yesterday on teachers' pay. I can't say I've read the whole article, because the Independent online wants to charge me a pound for the privilege of having 24 hour access in a truly capitalist fashion. Evidently the writer was pointing out that low teacher pay means a shortage of people being attracted to the profession and therefore a shortage of teaching talent in schools. I'm not going to comment on that, because I haven't read the whole thing and am therefore in no position to become paranoid and consider those comments a reflection on my skills in the classroom (am I a "poor-quality worker" or a "saint"? Apparently there is no middle ground).

But I will comment on what Mr Willis has to say. I'd almost write to the Independent about it but I suspect more people will read it if I voice my opinions here. Mr Willis seems to think that teachers have plenty of rest in the "almost one third of the year that is paid school holidays". Moreover, he precludes that greater responsilibility needs to be taken on in order to achieve a rise in pay. Finally, he points out that teachers receive a pension "funded by the taxpayer".
1. In this week of paid school holiday, I have had to mark six sets of exercise books and two dozen pieces of GCSE coursework, as well as writing 65 long reports - in which I have to find something good to say about every single year nine pupil I teach, which is no mean feat, I assure you. If I'd like to have a free weekend between now and April, I'm going to need to sit down this weekend and decide what I'm going to teach for the 120 odd lessons expected of me between now and the end of the term. And it's no good telling me that I only have to plan lessons for the four year groups, because expecting 9N-2 to do the same tasks as 9S-2 is frankly ridiculous.
So yes, thanks, Mr Willis, this week has been a wonderful "rest".
2. You need to take on more responsilities for greater pay, do you? In most other careers, eh? So experience doesn't count for anything?
And let us not forget that, as an NQT, I have trouble achieving responsibility for a one day trip in Enrichment week, let alone anything worth a point.
3. Last time I checked, Mr Willis, a sizeable chunk of my salary went for both income tax and my pension contribution. Since that makes me a taxpayer, and also someone contributing to their own pension, I think it's fair to assume I should get some of that back after a lifetime's service in the public sector. Especially since, as I'm 25 now, I have my doubts about the state pension being survivable on by the time I'm put out to pasture.

I'm not complaining about my pay. It's more money than I've ever earned before. I love also love my job, and people tell me I'm good at it. But some of the best teachers are those who've gone out and done other things first - different careers, foreign countries - and expecting these people to take a substantial pay cut so that they can pass their unique experiences and knowledge onto the next generation is unrealistic. Take, for example, the situation in IT. It is laughable to expect somebody with no more than their one-year PGCE to have the same skills as someone who has been an IT professional for over a decade. Who will get the job? The inexperienced teacher, of course. No school will toouch the ex-professional because he's demanding an extra two points to reflect his experience and they simply cannot afford him.

Friday February 20th

An update on that Vodka-causes-memory-loss thing. I wandered over to read my friend Bernie's Words last night, for the first time in a while. And I happened upon an entry in which he said he'd had a very amusing phone call. From me. And I was drunk. He knew this, because it was 1.20am, and I was singing.

It's all coming back to me now.

No, no, I mean I'm remembering .... that's not what I was singing. I was singing Allstar by Smashmouth because that song always reminds me of Bernie. I am having vague recollections of the conversation but it's always slightly disconcerting when somebody remembers something that has totally dropped out of your head. Go and read his version of my events, on 9th February. Awww, bless him. Friends are understanding when you're drunk. REAL friends are understanding when you're drunk and you ring them up in the middle of the night and ramble on drunkenly, ignoring all hints that perhaps it's a little late for catching up.

It made me feel slightly better when Sian told me at school afterwards that, almost right after I'd left (she ordered me to drink loads of water before getting into my car but I could only stomach half a glass. I might have looked pissed driving home, but that just had to do with the fact I was wearing my 3-and-a-half-inch peep toe steel stilettoes because my feet were so cold), she'd had to scrabble on the floor of Marcus's bedroom in a desperate attempt to find a plastic bag to throw up in. How she managed to bag Marcus's bed (Marcus wasn't in it) in a nice cosy bedroom while I slept on a cushionless sofa in a freezer with three northern wankers, I'll never know. But she is a bit older than me, perhaps these things come with experience.

Saturday February 21st

Half term is drawing to a depressingly swift conclusion, and all my fine plans about getting all my work done in the first three or four days have been chucked out of the window. Which is how I found myself writing reports at 3am this morning, and why I still have 13 left to write. I'm finding the last few a cinch though, since I have written standard reports for just about every type I teach - "bright but too quiet", "bright but too chatty", "not very bright but tries really hard", "not very bright and makes it obvious" - and so on. So the final few are just a matter of cobbling paragraphs together. Of course, I'm writing real personalised reports for those pupils who have endeared themselves to me by trying really hard, but I'm of the opinion that if they don't give a damn, I don't either.

At least my marking's done. My incredible slackness meant I had sets of books I hadn't looked at since November. Granted, they belonged to my most apathetic groups (that whole "if you don't care then neither do I" thing again), but the irritating thing is that there are pupils who have skipped every single piece of homework I have set over the past three months, and there's not really anything I can do about it, because it's my own fault for not adhering to the marking policy and checking their books every two weeks. I dread to think what my mentor would say if she knew. Perhaps I shouldn't really be writing this. But in my defence, the rest of my marking is up to date, which I think should score me major brownie points since I abhorr marking almost as much as chopped liver garnished with celery and HP sauce.

Mmmmm.....brownies.

I have yet to mark the GCSE coursework, but then I've only had it since October, they can't expect miracles.

This leaves only two items on my list of half term chores. 1, put together a 45 minute presentation on my Charles I play activity, explaining the technical wizadry behind it, with accompanying hand out. 2, medium term plan the lessons I'll be teaching for the next six weeks. Well, I suppose we need to add 3, mark the coursework, but I'm trying to blank that out. And I have to go back to school in, ooo, about 32 hours. Minus sleeping time, gym time, time spent on the phone with Mother Hand, time spent watching ER and time spent playing Zoo Tycoon, I've got about...

Check back in March, I might have some time free then.

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