Monday February 7th 2005!!
I assume it hasn't escaped your notice that it has been well over a month since I have managed to get around to updating. It has to be said that all blame for this must be laid at the door of the Lush Forum. Never has soap been so interesting and engaging. I spend most of my time there, it is like a disease, seriously. Between that and my new friends from the the Forum and regular Trillian chattings with lots of different people I spend all my time on the computer playing and not enough telling you about it.
But enough is enough. Never before has an entire month gone past without me updating - let alone the first one of a new year - and I am missing being able to chat in an uninhibited way without getting up anybody's noses. They're a weird lot on that Forum (presumably, the same as every Forum in the known Webiverse) and it's very easy to offend them. I am getting quite good at tact and diplomacy, although my nickname is "Gobshite" at the moment.
In REAL life there have been several Bristol Forum events of late which have kept me busy and Mr Z with a dearth of home-cooked food. These have included -
Next week I am going "off-posse" (like in ski-ing where you ski the bits that aren't mapped) and going to a Forum meet at Bluewater, in Kent. It coincides nicely with visit to Maternal Gran, who, bless her, hasn't been out of the home since October due to Mother Hand's ongoing loopiness and inability to travel. Hence, I have managed to talk Kez into putting me up on Sunday night at her loverly pad in Orpington so I can get down to Hythe nice and early on Monday, and then pop into Bluewater on my way back to Bristol. Or something. I am a bit nervous venturing off-posse but I'm sure it will go well. Then on Tuesday we're doing another BBC meet so we can eat the Krispy Kremes I buy at Bluewater. I am starting to look suspiciously like aforementioned fried cake with all this eating we've been doing. But it is so lovely to finally have some friends that are local to me who aren't going to move anytime soon (surely they can't ALL move, anyway).
I've also been mad busy with work in January. Having two year 11 groups is nothing to be sniffed at when you've got to mark their mocks AND their coursework AND write their reports. AND chase the bloody coursework up. That's 46 mock exams, 46 long reports and 92 pieces of coursework. As well as that I've had to scrape the barrel of creativity to come up with a revision aid that everybody will find useful. I settled in the end for a couple of big circles of card, one with a window cut in it, paper-fastened together. Then we will write notes on the card underneath so that they can revise a little at a time. It involved about 30 quid's worth of card, but since the department have just purchased 4 brand new TVs, videos and DVD players, I think we can afford it. We started it today. Amazingly, it took the class 2 hours to cut three circles in card, divide each circle into 8 segments and label them in the appropriate way. I think I will invite a maths teacher to come and observe when I do it with my other group, since it involves angles and suchlike.
I have also been planning and teaching a rather excellent (although I say it myself) sequence of lessons on Dracula. The kids have been loving it, and it has involved watching bits of the Simpsons and looking at German and Romanian versions of disgusting stories about gypsies being cannibalised and so on. Not by Dracula - he wasn't a blood-sucking vampire. That's Bram Stoker for you. The whole unit is based on interpretations and why we think of Dracula as a vampire when, in fact, he was merely a tyrannical Romanian ruler in the 15th century.
So the parental complaint seemed a little off-topic.
I love getting these. The latest wasn't for me, but it was about the Dracula scheme of work.. It was along the lines of, "I am very concerned that my daughter is studying Dracula, as a strict Christian family we do not believe in the undead and do not feel this is a legitimate learning exercise, I want my daughter removed from her History lessons until this sequence of lessons is finished." I feel that if her daughter had listened, she would have realised that the whole point of the lessons is to point out that Dracula is NOT the undead and that he has just been the victim of a shameless smear campaign by Bram Stoker. Mike composed a scathing reply along those lines. I told him letting them watch Van Helsing wasn't a good idea though.
I am feeling fatter and fatter. I have tailed off going to the gym, every so often I get a twinge of last year's groin strain threatening to reappear, and it was so painful I am afraid to push it. I still go about 3 times a week, but I am much less dedicated about going during the week now. It's easier to sleep. I even skipped kick boxing last Friday and went to bed at 6.30pm instead. I slept for 15 hours though, so I must have needed it. I am nervous to go kick boxing too, because I keep getting hurt. Last time I went, I ended up sparring with this testosteroned newbie who booted me around the head so hard that I thought I was going to (a) chuck and (b) burst into tears, so I told him I wasn't fighting anymore and sat out the rest of the bout. I know that makes me a bit of a wuss, but I wasn't wearing headgear OR a mouthguard. Fighting inexperienced people is always the worst because they don't know how to keep it light. I need to keep going to the gym though because otherwise the kick boxing warm up is such a killer. I also have my old spare tyre back around my ribs and I am losing the definition I liked so much in my arms. I am determined to be thin enough by May to wear my old slinky red dress to the Year 11 ball, or my new black dress with the cherries on (would be even better but is a size 14 so I am not TOO set on that).
I have been to a couple of Spinning classes since Christmas but there's no denying it, I just hate them. I am doing dance sessions on Saturdays and I am still going to Body Combat on Sunday mornings. It's a funny old class, that. There is this older lady who goes, she doesn't seem to realise she's no longer a teenager. She punches like a bit of seakelp caught in a current - really weedy (groan) but also stupidly stylised. And when the tracks end she does this silly series of punches and jumps all of her own and then jogs off to the side to get a drink while we're all stood there. She wears a sweatband and full make up and has a pierced navel and dyed blonde hair. Perhaps she is one of the Grans from Fame. Then there's "HUH!"-man, who makes grunting noises in between the rest of us going "Kiya!" (or whatever it is we say, I only mime it anyway). The class is usually led by Shark-instructor, who has big scary teeth and a weeny crop top. I have much more respect for her since I saw her in my local Chinese takeaway. She makes us do silly shimmy-shimmies in time to the music when we should be roundhousing and stuff, it's a lot of fun. Last time I went she was ill though, and so was Bunny-instructor (she wears full make up and has long false nails) so it was taken by Hamster-instructor who needs little explanation. Hamster-instructor usually does the yoga stuff, and it was the day after that class that me old groin strain started playing up, so I fear I have something against her now.
Anyway, I expect I will get back into the swing of it soon. The kids at school will start commenting on how fat I am soon, that should help. It's bad enough already, I only have two pairs of work trousers left that fit - my "fat" work trousers are out because the flies won't stay done up due to belly bulge *blush* and I split the seam on my other "fat" work trousers, from the bottom of the zip to the crotch, before Christmas *double blush*. Fat fat fat fat fat fat fat. AND my Slimming World Consultant is leaving AGAIN. That's the second one who's left since I've been going to my local class. I am starting to feel rather disheartened. And FAT.
Wednesday April 27th
Arrrrrghhhhhh! Why is there a woman on Channel 5 doing secret filming of secondary schools? Does she not know she is supply and will not ever see children at their best?! I have counted no less than SIX violations of the teacher code in the past 10 minutes - she said, "Sssshhhh!"; she repeated a swear word used by a pupil; she allowed herself to be drawn into confrontation; she issued a class detention (aka "How to make even nice kids hate you"); she made empty threats....appalling. And at the end, she even has the cheek to suggest children are playing up because they're not intellectually stretched! FUCK OFF LADY!
Hmm, well, she does seem to be blaming the government and Ofsted for over-testing and micro-observation, so I suppose she's not laying blame at my door. That's what I get for watching Channel 5. I bet she tried to sell that to Channel 4, and they laughed her out of the door.
I'm feeling sheikhish. I haven't updated in caboodles of acres of oceans of time. I spend too long staring at the forum. I am also very busy plotting my world takeover via Ebay and building a sparkling career in education with numerous courses and extra-curricular activity. And I don't mean sleeping with senior management, either - that's reserved for certain ex-student teachers, no names being named though. In the past month alone I have devoted 2 weekends to school activities. That's why I haven't had time to update, well, that and coursework, and mentoring, and my mad tutor group. And my new friends, and my loopy family. It's 11 minutes to midnight, and I have 4 lessons, an observation and a meeting tomorrow. So you'll have to wait on the edge of your seats for my next juicy installment.
Sunday May 15th
I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer young. The song by the Corrs no longer applies to me. When tomorrow comes I can't do it all again - I had enough trouble doing it in the first place.
I have reached this conclusion because now I am 26, my hangover has kicked in. Years of hassle free drinking with no consequences are now but a bilious memory. I have woken up the next morning and had cause to utter the immortal line, "I am never drinking again". Last weekend Sian, Philippa, Cath and I went into Bristol for a night out. We had a fabby time, I took the piss out of Cath's love interest, we met a man who taught golf, had a bit of a dance, that sort of thing. At the end of the night we got chatting to a bouncer, he was only 20, bless him (see, how old am I?!) and had aspirations to be an actor. Because Sian's a drama teacher, we told him we could make big things happen for him. "Yes," I said, "she used to work for Alan" and nodded sagely. "What, Titchmarsh?" he asked. Actually I meant Parker, but I couldn't remember that at the time. We managed to talk him into giving us a lift home though. Mr Z had made us fried rice and had it all ready and waiting. I got halfway through and then had to run upstairs to the toilet, where I narrowly avoided being sick, but decided bed was the best option.
Why? Why did I go to bed? Why didn't I drink some water first, and finish my food? Sunday was a non-day for me. I woke up with no voice (that is what comes of giving up smoking but starting again just for one night and smoking 15 in the space of 6 hours - old, but not wise) and felt sick all morning, until I actually was sick. I was good for nothing for the whole day. I didn't think I'd drunk that much, but we calculated that in fact I had consumed the equivalent of 3 bottles of red wine, so that just goes to show I am crap at counting.
And yesterday, I almost repeated the whole thing, but in the comfort of my own home. My friend Ben came over for a study day, and we started drinking at 2pm, and didn't really stop. The afternoon passed in a drunken haze, and then his girlfriend Kirsty came over. I somehow managed to make a lasagne without burning myself - it was very tasty too - but then after dinner we got the cards out and played Ring of Fire again (see December) and when I woke up this morning, I didn't remember them leaving. The bathroom bin was by my bed so I assumed I must have spewed. Then when I went to the loo I noticed something at the bottom of it, so had to put my hand in and fished out....the lock for the door - the little bit you slide the bolt into, and its screws. It all came flooding back, how I had broken into the bathroom while Mr Z was in there. Apparently I shoved it with such force, that's where the lock landed.
I decided, since I was up, the gym was the best option. It'll make me feel better, I thought. 15 minutes in I realised that that's not always the case, as I bobbed biliously through the routine of jump kicks and hook punches. The worst bit was lying down for sit ups, I thought I was going to vomit in a little fountain up in the air and cover myself. In the end I just lay there and watched the ceiling spin lazily.
Too old, too old, too old. I think my immune system is packing up too - I had a cold last week and it was so bad I actually had to have a day off work. For a cold! I was so dizzy I couldn't stand up. How lame is that?! I am getting fatter and fatter. I've started to get more spots. It's all the stress I am under at school. And being older. At least my hair isn't falling out - that seems to be the trend among teachers at my school. Stress alopecia.
Wednesday June 22nd
I was in London for a day and a bit at the start of last week for my exam board standardisation. This year I had the dubious pleasure of staying in the Hotel Russell, a huge, Victorian, terracotta shaded right on Russell Square which I always thought would be olde world glamour inside and a lot of fun to stay at throughout my university days. In fact, it was a bit of a disappointment - they made me take a smoking room when I booked a non-smoking room (I am managing to stay off the fags quite well); and the meal took an hour and a half and it was only one course long. But it was comfortable and quite grand inside so not too disappointing.
Anyway, I picked up copies of the Evening Standard both days, for the quick crossword on the back, and the Victor Lewis-Smith TV column. They're the best parts of the paper. Lewis-Smith always makes me laugh and this Tuesday's was no exception, with a fantasy program line up for Taliban TV, including Koran-nation Street and Middle-Eastenders. I was just starting to think that I missed London and trying to figure out a way to move back there (this happens during most of my visits), when I was accosted by a beggar at Paddington whilst in the act of buying my train ticket home (how impolite! I was in the middle of speaking!) and then, whilst waiting for the train, I noticed a flea hopping around on my arm. Ergh. I was stupidly happy when the filthy white horse of Westbury hove into view on the way home, which is a sure sign that I am not pining for London too desperately.
Things I knew about Berlin this time last month -
What I knbow about Berlin now -
I had the incredible fortune to be invited on a trip to Berlin in half term, run by the German Foreign Office. It was all-espenses-paid, and even though I didn't originally get a place, they had a cancellation and rang me 4 days ahead of time to ask if I could make it. It really was absolutely AMAZING, I can't ever remember being so spoiled by people who have never met me. On mentioning this to our delectable tour guide, Daniel, he commented that teachers work very hard and need spoiling sometimes. I couldn't agree more. Between GCSE marking, A-level prep, planning for the new GCSE and Playscheme, I might have a chance to update my Diario at the end of August (shock); thanks to the Berlin trip, and the Cambridge weekend at the end of April, and the gifted and talented weekend afterwards, I feel like I haven't had a decent relaxi-time since Easter. I haven't. I won't have until August 20th. I've developed a nasty cough which I can't shake and am falling prone to such things as urine infections, and waking up in the mornings with toothache where I've been clenching my jaw in my sleep (the dentist says this is down to stress and advises more R&R, to which I replied, Har&Har).
But I digress. Some highlights of the Berlin trip...
The taxi driver trying to drop me off on Bismarckstrasse, among the sex shops, instead of Bismarckalee, among the homes of the rich and famous...an amazing 3 hour coach tour that refused to get boring...dinner in the open air by the Brandenburg gate, with sauerkraut and wine...blatantly fake wall from by Checkpoint Charlie...lunchtime lecture from a woman on textbooks that was so riveting I forgot to eat...lunch with the ex Ambassador and staff from the Foreign Office in a VERY exclusive restaurant...wandering the Topography of Terror with no knowledge of German...the New Palace, which has its bricks painted onto concrete (the King was impatient and a cheapskate) and the biggest homage to tack ever in its shell-and-seaweed-and-geode decorated ballroom, which you have to wander with massive slippers over your shoes, and a hall with amazing acoustics, and Martin, Head of Hums somewhere in London, warbling Amazing Grace in it...sticking my face in a massive ice cream following a dare from Matt and Rachel...the "grown ups" pooling all their coins on the last evening to buy us beers from the machine, giving me advice on having babies AND a career (I must look like I need it... a baby, yes, because THAT would make my life less stressful) and getting even more pissed than me...being taken to lunch on the first day by Martin and Daniel...ordering cocktails at the theatre table by the stage, the psychic approaching Matt in the audience with a torrent of German, him looking confused, groping around for a toothpick, saying "Ya" when Daniel whispered the psychic had guessed correctly, and the whole audience applauding, much to his surprise...The nodding woman, who agreed with everything - even the stuff in German that she didn't understand - who sshed us as if we were naughty school children (that was the whole group, not just the young uns) and took to tapping her pen against her glass by the end of the week - she also tried to butt into a conversation Matt and I were having, by saying, "If you can't entertain children you can't teach them - big pause as Matt and I ignored her, then, "I said, if you can't entertain children, then you can't teach them" - cue the tumbleweed; thankfully on the last night, she got really pissed and apologised for being so annoying, and Matt said, "That's OK, if you hadn't we couldn't have taken the piss out of you all week"...the visits to schools with bilingual streams, put us to shame...almost everybody we heard from saying, "You'll have to excuse me, my English isn't very good" and then proceeding to use words such as iconoclasm and paedagogy...missing my connecting flight and finding Matt and Lisa camped out in Amsterdam, delayed - they got their flight mind, and I had to stay overnight in the cardboard Hotel Ibis, although it did afford me the chance to finish Wuthering Heights...long chats about teaching with Matt, resulting in excellent new displays - chalk pens on the windows - and Rachel, and Lisa, and Daniel the tour guide, who listened to me rabbit on about Vlad the Impaler for nearly an hour whilst I waited for my airport taxi, and even managed to look interested...
I really could wax lyrical for hours, but my time is sadly up, as I have to mark 13 scripts before bedtime. I have taken to getting up at 6am to do 10 before school. I don't know what's happening to me. Although I was heartened to discover that I'm not too old to drink, as proved at the year 11 ball shortly after my last entry, when I drank myself stupid on a bottle of gin concealed in my handbag - drank myself so drunk, I followed a most unwise course of action involving pupils and the bar, swore in all my conversations with my pupils, attempted to get the weird satanist in one of my groups to ask out the actually-quite-nice goth in my other class, badgered the headmaster into taking my picture and then tried to smuggle 7 bags of crisps out of the venue, clutched to my chest, with 2 helium balloons attached to my bag. The pupils, and staff, were highly amused. It got worse - Rachel, the ICT teacher, who was in a bridesmaids dress and even more pissed than me, and I started to walk back to Sarah's but it was just too far, so we flagged down a taxi. The ride cost 3 quid. We managed to scrape together...2.60. "I've got 2p!!" yelled Rachel, in a muffled voice, her head in her bag. "It's alright, love," sighed the taxi driver, who should surely be canonised. Anyway, I woke up the next day a little tired, but otherwise fresh as a daisy. No being sick or anything. Yey me.
I wanted to mention this guy from Abingdon School for Boys, who was on the trip to Berlin and skived off for most of it, did his own thing, turned up for meals only, and as good as stuck two fingers up to our hosts who had so generously laid on just about everything they could for us. I guess I just did. Lazy freeloading fucker. And from a private school, too. I guess that says a lot for them.