Monday 13th January 2003!

Another new year. I can't believe that this year I am going to be 25. Some of my friends are already there (not counting the ones older than me, naturally). I'm sort of looking forward to the summer in spite of that, for a couple of reasons - firstly, it will be warm; secondly, my course will be over; thirdly, I'll be back chasing children on bouncy castles in Portsmouth; fourthly, with any luck Mr Z and I will take a romantic island hopping break in Greece; and finally, Stuart has come up trumps with three tickets for me, him and Kez to see Robbie Williams at Knebworth, three days prior to the big TWO FIVE day. With so much to look forward to, naturally the next six months will fly past with all the speed of a sizeable lead weight being dragged by an ant.

I've just realised, to my horror and shame, that in all the teaching kerfuffle I missed the diario's anniversary, back in November. I was thinking yesterday about how long it had been since I wrote anything, and how long I'd been keeping it overall. It's been over three years since my first little rant about the Blair Witch Project (still a shite film...sorry) and I dread to think how many words long the whole tome is now. I was pondering yesterday the wisdom of pouring more of my increasingly sparse free time into bumping up the word count, and considering whether anybody still reads it. I know I have my regulars, well, at least one of them, and I assume others pop in from time to time, but I hardly have the readership of a supermodel turned mother writing about how to deal with a child and still look chic at swank London parties and how yoga changed my life. Is it worth writing anymore? I thought to myself.

But then I had something of an epiphany. Who cares? I don't care! I don't care if you're not reading this. I'm not writing it for you. I'm writing it to remind me of what I did. I'm my biggest fan. I might care a little bit more about people reading today's entry, because I was so busy thinking about what to write that I neglected to stir the batch of mango chutney I had simmering on the stove, and it stuck to the bottom of my brand new preserving pan in a char grilled layer nearly an inch thick; it seems a waste of good chutney if I am the only person who reads this. But oh well. I shall continue to write, and when I am fantastically famous and have people to make chutney on my behalf, millions of people will log in every day to hang on my every word.

Deja vu...I seem to remember saying something similar before.

It's strange how some people don't seek success. I have mentioned before the website Absolutely Andy, a mixture of photographs of Derby and UK television adverts, which I visit regularly to grab any new commercials. I visited yesterday to find a big notice from the website's creator, explaining that the website had gotten "too popular" and that, for this reason, he was deleting the whole thing and using the space for something else. I was gobsmacked. "Too popular"?! Isn't popularity like wealth and skinniness - there can never be such a thing as too much? Where will I get my adverts now? I downloaded them all again, and backed them up just in case. That Corsa one with the cars playing hide and seek is an advertising classic, as are many of the others Andy features. Go and get them now, before it's too late.

Too popular...I dunno. Some people don't even know they're born. Some of us DREAM of being too popular! (Wavy dream lines)
"Dear Bunny Queen, PLEASE PLEASE write more on your diario, it has been a whole day since the last update and I don't know what to do without your words of wisdom!"
"Dear Bunny Queen, in light of your local celebrity status, we would like to invite you to switch on the Christmas lights, aided by the delectable Nicholas Cage, and Mr Z of course..."
"Dear Miss B Queen, Having reveiewed your sky high webstats we here at Megabucks Webhosting Ltd would like to offer you a million pounds to transfer your website over to our space, advertisement free..."
"Dear Aunty Sally, Help us! Cosmopolitan's favourite Irma Kurtz is retiring and we're in dire need of a new agony aunt, please say you will consider taking over, and writing a regular monthly column for us to boot..."
"And tonight's top story - following the mailing of a "Fluffy Moment" from Saddam Hussein to George Wubya Bush, the threat of military action has been averted. Miss Sally Hand, the creator of the "Fluffy Moment", has been nominated for a Nobel peace prize for her innovative service." One day, Bunny Queen, all this will be (in dreamland) yours...

Christmas and New Year were some good times. It was fantastic to have two weeks off, although I have to admit to being bored by Christmas day, and feeling guilty for spending an afternoon watching Oliver! even though I had no lesson plans to write. The term ended at school with no further major mishaps; I got a good write up and managed to get all my marking done (eventually), which meant I left on good terms, and with a number of Christmas cards addressed to "Miss Hand". I even got a big red leaving card with the outline of somebody's hand drawn on it from my form. Bless. There was only one teacher I would never teach with again, but I only had one of his classes to deal with so it wasn't too bad, although I hit a particular low point with him when he dismissed half the class 15 minutes early after I had categorically told them they would have to stay late. I avoided such problems in the next lesson by wangling it so that he taught and I acted as an LSA, which suited us both much better, although the girlie who I was working with had to be bribed with lollies to do any work at all and threatened to get me sacked when I put my hand on her shoulder.

My other crowning achievement was making the daughter of the head of my course cry. I recounted, in December, the moment when she sauntered over to me and made it known that she was the offspring of the woman who will be writing my reference at the end of the course; and I managed to make her weep uncontrollably by giving her a red "underachiever" sticker on her project, when most of her friends got yellow "average achiever" stickers. I tried to point out that, since she was predicted a higher level than almost everybody else, she had, in fact, got the same mark but a different sticker because I would have expected better things from her, but she was having none of it, and even snubbed my box of chocolates on the way out. Nevermind; the important thing is I didn't crack and mark her project up when she squinnied. And I'm a hero among all PGCE students at Bath Spa.

In spite of that little hiccough, I reached the end of the school year, and the huge drinking finale that marked it, alive and well. The people from my course who found themselves around Bath converged on a Bath pub on the Friday night and, since it was so near to Christmas, I broke my rule and quaffed cider all night, about nine pints of it, which resulted in me lying prostrate on the bathroom floorfor half an hour when we returned home, with my trousers round my knees. Mr Z decided it would be amusing to half undress me and then find a camera to take pictures; I was too drunk to be able to redress myself, but luckily he found no photographic equipment and so my moment of shame went unrecorded.

My two weeks off was fairly uneventful. I worked on Christmas Eve which was lots of fun, and then drank on New Year's Eve (naturally). My cat, Zig, aka Eyeliner, came to stay with us for the week. She's not very well, bless - she has a back problem which makes it painful for her to go to the loo, so she ends up constipated and is on medication. Mother Hand volunteered in the London homeless shelters again over Christmas and didn't like to leave her medicating to the friend she had in to feed them, so she arrived on our doorstep three days before Christmas, yowling and drenched in her own piss. She doesn't travel well, and Mother Hand had sedated her with double the vet-recommended dose, which meant we had a very stoned and unhappy cat on our hands. She'd scratched out half her claws trying to get out of the cat carrier, and was incapable of walking - her back legs moving independently of her front paws, she kept bumping into and falling off of things. Mr Z and I sat with her wrapped in a blanket like a mewing baby for a few hours, until her eyes had almost regained a look of normality, and then went out to watch the new Lord of the Rings flick. When we returned, she was feeling much better, and spent the rest of the week yowling for food or attention or an exit from the back door in her usual way. She got on here very well, so I think she might make a permanent addition to the Z household in the summer.

And so, with the end of the year my mind turned towards new year resolutions. I had such a fantastic year last year, it seems a shame to burden 2003 with yet further goals to aim for - surely I can have a year off? But no, one or two spring to mind.
Firstly, 2003 is the Year of the Target. I shall reach my Slimming World target through sheer determination and dogged devotion to aerobics classes. I shall turn a quarter of a century in a sophisticated and triumphant size 14 (at least).
Secondly, 2003 is the Year of Organisation. I shall attempt to be tidier and better organised in my professional life. I shall not leave articles and drafts of essays and bits of paper scattered around my computer (like they are at the moment) like so many pieces of chaff in the wind of teacher training. I shall write my lesson plans in advance. Or at least, I shall try.
Thirdly, 2003 is the Year of the Bedroom. As in, decorated bedroom, with a carpet and painted walls and co-ordinated furniture which isn't made of white MDF. Getting the whole house together in a year might be a bit of a tall order, so that is my minigoal (how very Life Coach of me).
Finally, 2003 is the Year of the Website. I shall put into practice more of the plans I have for this space. Honest.

I am sorry to report that Yul and Me'Julie are leaving the Cherry Tree. It's almost as bad as if the Mitchells were to leave Albert Square - they've become such an institution in the soap opera that is life at the pub. However, they were made an offer they couldn't refuse and are working out the month before moving on to greener pastures, and well we wish them. It will be nice to take the bunnies for a holiday there now and again. This also means that I am leaving, since I feel that different employers might not be so flexible with my working hours, and also because all the arseholes that are currently barred will come back and the soap opera will take on a distinctly more menacing tone. Current storylines include Chris and Jen as the Posh and Becks of Oldland; Sarah having an affair with both Yul and Mr Z (the Mr Z rumour started because Sarah once smoked a cigar in his presence, obviously proving they are at it like mad bunnies on viagra); the uncanny resemblance of Ian, the new barman, to Alfie Moon, the new pub manager in 'Enders; and that old chestnut - is Ivy a woman?

My own current topic for investigation is why on earth hasn't that idiot Venus (not his real name) been barred/maimed/put in a space capsule and shot into the sun yet? Venus is our friendly neighbourhood drug dealer. He's young and skinny with unfortunate buck teeth and an ugly tattoo on his neck, and he generally sports a bandana over one eye or a ridiculous Burberry beanie hat, mistakenly believing, I assume, that he comes off as "I'm a polite gent around town" rather than "I sell heroin to school children". He always has lots of mobile phones on him ("And plenty more at home if you wan'inny!"), targets the weak and deals (at least) soft drugs in the pub garden. He starts fights in which he uses Smirnoff Ice bottles as weapons and then wriggles out of it by saying it's not his fault and being filled with righteous indignation (although he probably couldn't even pronounce that, let alone spell it). Every time I see him I am reminded of the old saying, "If you were holding a gun in your hand, can you honestly say you wouldn't?" Actually, I can honestly say I wouldn't. I would pick an altogether slower and more painful way. However, that said, Venus's presence generally means that we are not gifted with visits from the unfriendly neighbourhood drug dealer, Clive, whose brothers come from the scarier parts of Bristol and carry guns.

This is all making my life sound somewhat more dangerous than it actually is. I've never spoken to either Venus or Clive; the closest I ever got to one of the fights was when I had to run from one end of the bar to the other to alert Yul that it was taking place, and Sibling Z stepped in to confiscate Mars's handy Smirnoff Ice bottle. They don't know who I am, but then I think I'd like to leave it that way. I like to retain my anonymity and just collect gossip on the fringes, like any nosey reporter worth her salt. This is why I have used the pseudonyms Venus and Clive. I'm not really worried though, I doubt either of them can read very well.

Tuesday 28th January 2003

I'm just about to apply for my first teaching position; I have the application form sitting next to me and I've just had a good read of the latest inspection report, and it all sounds good. It's a middle school, and it's a boarding school, and it's independent. This provokes something of a dilemma for me, because so many of my colleagues - and, indeed, my uber tutor - snub independent institutions. I wonder whether the fact that I was educated privately makes me a snob and that's why I lean towards the private sector. Others I know hear there are jobs going and sneer, "No way". So why don't I mind? After some reflection on this topic, I have decided I'm not a snob, and if I want to teach in an independent school then that's my lookout. Firstly, I'd just like to get my NQT year out of the way as quickly as possible, and will therefore apply for any jobs going. Secondly, I would much rather teach key stages two and three than key stage three and GCSE, because I think there's a lot more scope for learning pre GCSE. Thirdly, the class sizes will be smaller and therefore easier to control. It's all very well having principles, but I don't really care where I teach, as long as I am teaching somewhere.

It's all academic (groan) anyway, because the advert says that the ability to coach a sport will be an advantage. I was on the lacrosse team for a year, but my main sports at school were dancing (in night clubs) and running (after boys) which I don't think would go down very well. I doubt they'll want an NQT either, so it's doubtful I'll be employed. But I shall apply anyway, for the experience.

Yul and Me'Julie have departed for their new pub in Derby, amid much wailing and weeping and beating of chests in despair. And that was just Sarah. Wheeler turned up to work behind the bar for their leaving do in a sarong, having read my comment about him and Jen being the Posh and Becks of Oldland, which just goes further to confirm it (I still reckon he had Jen's knickers on underneath those fetching shorts). The party was extremely well attended and everybody had a very drunk and rowdy time. The people over the road complained about the noise and were treated to a selection of luminous white moons from the car park by some regulars (Mr Z included, until I went out and marched him back in). We left around 1am, Alfie Moon left at 3am and said there were still people around then. Presumably Dave the Rave, mooning inside the pub to make Sarah laugh.

An aside. It was brought to my attention recently that I have never mentioned Dave the Rave in any of my Cherry Tree soap opera episodes, which if a frightful oversight on my part since he's as much a part of the pub as the sign. He's usually to be found there at any time of any day and usually pissed on "apples" and muttering incoherently along the lines of "Love you a million what yow wicked". He particularly enjoys boogying with his shirt over his head and his arse hanging out; a more affable man would be hard to find (as long as you're not refusing to serve him or rubbing him up the wrong way) and he would do anything for anyone as long as they're honest. There are three particular Dave stories which stick in my mind. The first was early on in my time at the Tree. As I mentioned he fancies himself as something of a John Travolta and used to do a lot of his moves on the chairs. On this particular occasion nobody was paying him much attention so he decided to step up onto the tables. Sadly he placed his foot on the join between two. Both went flying, glasses, ashtrays and mobile phones scattered; one table remained in one piece while the other suffered a mortal blow from Dave's head. he stood up bleeding; "Time I gave up this drinking lark and took up bingo," he said. Secondly, on New Year's Eve, we were for some reason singing Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and he warbled, "OI! YOU! CHITTY CHITTY...WHAT YOW WICKIIIID!" Thirdly, he was responsible for one of the weirdest moments I've ever had there, on New Year's Day. He pulled Beeton into the toilets, looking concerned, and Beeton came out sniggering. He took Sarah outside and she came back in looking faintly amused. It seems he'd got lucky the night before and the lady in question had employed a rubber band as a sexual aid. It worked really well, so he said - all night, in fact. The only problem was, it was stuck. "It's turning blue!" whooped Sarah as she hunted for a pair of scissors. She brought the offending article back in and chucked it on the bar, and it was less than an inch across. A lesser man would have been embarrassed about it, but Dave is the sort of honest and open bloke who doesn't mind about things like that. A true, cider-soaked diamond. Apart from when he lets his friend drive him home drunk.

So anyway, following the Saturday night revelry, Sunday was decidedly more subdued, with only the closest of regulars howling along with Becks on his guitar. Yul sang "Your Song" and reduced several people to tears. I didn't cry; I don't really feel like they've gone anywhere. I mean, it's very sad that they've had to leave the Cherry Tree, especially since the poison dwarf Lisa is now taking over and the whole place is going to turn into a crack den, but I'm so happy for them about the new situation that it's hard to be that upset about their departure. They're that much closer to their dream this way. So don't think me heartless! I rarely cry in public anyway, even at funerals. And they will be missed, but greener pastures is greener pastures, innit? What yow wicked.