Thursday 10th July

If Diario be the food of Sal, write on....
It makes me very sad, writing this, because, after a long and enjoyable break in Crete, I came back to find my hosting had gone POP! (finally) and my whole website has disappeared into the ether, along with all my email access. Where do homeless emails go to die? That's where all mine are - all those sent to me during my absence, at any rate. Of course, everything is backed up - everything, that is, apart from my files from school which were in storage, including the 100+ reports that I was going to keep for next summer when I have to write three times that many.
Thus, I am sad. I write to alleviate my melancholy, without hope that anyone will read it. Useless Floridian idiots - the company who has repossessed Featureprice, my fugitive ex-hosts, apparently tried to seize all their equipment, including my "personal" computer - this would have meant that the cessation of my service would have been temporary, to the point that I may not even have noticed. But Featureprice refused them access. I feel that this is a suable offence, but since they're no longer a company they are presumably immune.

Wubya, what an absolute wankstain (tenuous link, but what the hell, let's just blame him for everything). I'm sorry, I rarely find it necessary to debase myself with name calling, but for crying out loud. "Oh, um, actually, we couldn't find any weapons, we were just scared." WOW! If I'd known that was such a good coverall defence I would have tipped off Tony Martin (the man jailed for shooting the burglar - and none of you liberals try telling me it wasn't justified because the guy was running away). On the plus side, it looks like the Parliamentary enquiry in this country managed to spark a similar process in the States (Old Hil Clinton on Radio 4 the other day expressed her admiration for the British system, saying that there was nothing similar in the States. Ask and thou shalt receive, Hil) and with any luck, as long as Donald Rumsfeld keeps his honest mouth shut, that will pull down the whole government. Ah me, such happy dreams.

I just caught "A Week in Politics" (well, some of it) and the African American Bonnie Greer was on chatting about Bush in Africa. What a horrible thought. "I'll get rid of AIDS," says Wubya. "Oi! You! Stop shagging! THAT'S the answer to your problems. Let's ignore the fact that (a) you're so poor that perhaps your best chance of survival is to have lots of children to support you and (b) if I turned my back on croneyism and deregulated the pharmaceutical industry so that the AIDS drugs could be generically produced for a fraction of the price thousands of you would survive longer and thousands of your children would be born without the disease, oh and (c) (and without trying to be crude) many of you live in poor villages and shanty towns and there's very little else to do at night. No no NO! Tha LAWD has spoken. Stop fornicating in the mud and thou shalt be SPAYRED! Oh Lordy Lordy, thou shalt be spayred, to spend your lives mining diamonds and gold and selling all your other precious resources to, God Bless it, the Land of the Free for a fraction of what it's worth. Oh, and supporting the aforementioned Promised Land in the UN, naturally."

It is honestly enough to make me spit. Don't go telling me that Saddam was a cruel and evil tyrant who needed to be stopped, because that's not the full story. Saddam was a cruel and evil tyrant WITH HUGE OIL RESERVES. Don't go telling me that the Americans HAD to go in and remove him. The Iraqis could have done it themselves, with some training and weapons, and kept their oil and had a chance of really making something of their country. Don't go telling me the Americans are lily white. Not when three kids dressed like characters from the Matrix can plan a mobile killing spree and arm themselves to the teeth. Not when the full record of treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo Bay will never be known (tell me, is that American soil? How convenient if not - Old Wubya could then say that the Geneva Convention has never been broken on American soil...hmm). Don't go telling me the Russians are killing hundreds every week in Chechnya - they're the losers, they're not choosing what makes history.

I am working myself up to a storm of righteous fury here. It's a damn shame that God only knows when I'll be able to post it. More American problems. Land of the Free, BAH.

Yes, I have been on holiday, and yes, it was fab. I have lots to say, many tales of roaches and an eccentric Irishman and hairpin bends and Mr Z being drunk. Also of my own festering misanthropy (holidays, especially to tourist spots, do not bring out my best side). However, I am inducting at the new school this week (regular readers may remember Kid A, the wannabe suicide bomber, who I met on my first day training at my new school - well, he sneaked off for a sly fag in the middle of the lesson this week while I was supervising in the library. Excellent start.) It's 12.20am now so our Cretan adventures will have to wait. I know I could just delete this and you'd never know, or reorder the pages, but, well, it wouldn't be quite honest. And we don't want to turn into Wubya now, do we.

Tuesday 15th July

Was it in Jane Eyre that we were reminded of the horror of rain the day before St Swithun's day? Or am I confusing, in the dark recesses of my mind, the text and the poetry I studied with grudging enjoyment for my GCSEs?
Well, whatever. It's St Swithun's day today, I am informed by my diary, and yesterday it didn't rain, so I think that means that it's not going to rain for the next 40 days. It's raining now, so that just goes to show that you shouldn't believe everything you read in 19th century fiction or poetry. It's only SPITTING, I should point out - in fact, for the benefit of those not sweltering in the unimaginable British heat tonight, we are experiencing a heatwave, with temperatures today in the high 80s - even, the mid 90s. I am reliably informed by the BBC weatherman that we have yet to break the 1990 record set in Gloucester (98F or 37C if you prefer)...but it damn sure feels like it. Unable to sleep last night I busied myself with opening a window in each upper floor room of the Z/Bunny Mansion and propping all the doors open in an effort to allow a through-breeze. A fine idea, scuppered by just one major problem - there was absolutely no breeze to speak of. I lay in the garden this afternoon sweating, in spite of a total lack of activity, and felt myself obliged to fall asleep on the sofa to avoid burning. Britain can't cope - rail lines between Bristol and Montpelier buckled in the heat, and the tarmac on the roads is approaching total liquidity. A pivotal server at Mr Z's school has expired. The heat's getting to everyone - 12 year olds running off with American marines and everything. People who love a bit of the sun and whinge about British summers have been saying, "Yes, I suppose it is lovely weather, if you like this sort of heat, tsk tsk."

Never fear, Britain. Mother Hand and I are going to deliver you from this monstrous heat. We're planning a barbecue for Thursday. And already the forecasts are depicting a lot more rainy clouds and temperatures in the teens. No, no, no need to thank me, it's my pleasure.

Now I'm just going to sit back and wait for the first person to say to me, "Well, that's it I suppose, summer's over for another year."

Going back to the 12 year old - and let's for a moment set aside my irritatin at the fact that, as soon as this prepubescent minx turns herself in she'll be welcomed back with open arms while her duped boyfriend is imprisoned and charged with paedophilia and abduction - truly, it is probably ghastly for the parents, but I am quite glad that it has happened now and not, say, about 7 years ago, when I was convincing Mother Hand to let me go to Bournemouth for the weekend with a man twice my age who I'd never personally met to attend a drunken bash with a bunch of other people I had never had fleshly contact with. Because in the current climate I probably would have found myself handcuffed to my bed (and not in a good way) and thus would not find myself sitting here now. I should of course stress that I am NOT talking about an Internet gathering, as 7 years ago this wasn't a widely available phenomenon outside of the universities. BBSs were altogether friendlier, smaller places, a calm mill pond to cut my teeth in before venturing into the big bad sea of Internet chatrooms (which, I should say, have never held much thrall for me, being full of people who say things like "d00d", "gr8" or even "gr8t" for the total idiots, and "kewl").

Ah, nostalgia. It's not as good as it used to be.

Nothing has happened. I have spent today lounging around, reading a bad novel and taking naps. I'd got another week of this! I am pretty bored though. And the boredom is tugging on me, reminding me of the massive reorganisiton required to get my files and books from the dining room up into the new purpose built study, complete with ample shelf space and a blue filing cabinet, that now occupies our back bedroom, courtesy of the Parents Z. It's an oasis of calm blue with hand sanded floorboards and a desk big enough to support two computers, a laser printer and as much paperwork as I care to burden myself with. It was like coming back to a different house. I thought I'd left a clean, if cluttered house behind, but I've had my eyes opened. It's spotless (well...ha ha...it was when we got back anyway). The light switches had been polished. The freezer had been defrosted. The fridge had been cleaned. UNDER the hob had been scrubbed free of debris. The cobwebs I was cultivating above my chair (six months old at the outside) were gone. My washing sat in neat, ironed piles on the dining table, socks paired and thongs suspiciously crease-free (shudder). And, in place of the half-carpeted nest of wires, bits of paper, empty diet coke bottles and dust bunnies sat this monument to what two weeks of elbow grease and dedication can achieve. I was gob smacked, to say the least. It was like Changing Rooms or something, only without the vast quantities of MDF and that smarmy Lawrence character. Just Father Z muttering about the electrics.

I would post pictures, but if you hadn't seen it before you wouldn't really appreciate it, I suspect.

Wednesday 23rd July

Hellooooo! I'm BACK! Thankfully - finally - back. In my new home. This host is based in the UK, which means that if they try and screw me over I can go down to their offices and demonstrate outside with a placard or something. At least I haven't had to change my site address this time or anything horrible like that (shudder).

You might have though, given that I have had nearly three weeks of basically leisure time since I returned from holiday, that I would have written an account of our adventures and got the pictures ready to post by now, but no. I might do it tonight, I should since I'm off to Portsmouth tomorrow for the annual sojourn on playscheme, and I'll be machineless, well almost. I have been promoted this year, as a last minute substitue for my very capable senior from the past 2 years, who finds she has taken on too much this summer and needs a break. So I am senior for the autism scheme now, in spite of the fact that the East Shore clan favoured one of their LSAs for the position. I would have been most upset to have been usurped. This is, however, fabulous news for me. I get my own team of six - four of whom worked with me last year - and a budget and a minibus driver, and I get to decide which country park we got to and all that good stuff. Of course I have ultimate responsibility for lots of kids who have no awareness of danger and so on, well, I'm sure it'll all be peachey. I have a good team! And a good brain, apparently.

The week after my holidays was induction at my new school, I mentioned Kid A sloping off for a sly fag during my supervision (little blighter, but he's not in either of my GCSE groups for September so that's something I suppose). Am finding myself slightly intimdated by the fact that EVERYBODY wants Ian, my Head of Department, to teach them for their GCSE. There are five full groups (out of six forms - testament to how popular Ian and the rest have made the subject) and I am taking two; Ian, Mike and Graham have one each. So there's a one in five chance of them getting Ian; the more vehement ones I *know* are in my group, and they have already threatened to quit if they don't get Ian.

I have been stocking up on lollies and stickers to attempt to bribe them into being nice to me, but I fear I have a rocky road ahead of me. I estimate that by Christmas they will give up being horrors, accept that they can't change and they can't drop, and learn to work with me, albeit grudgingly. So, I just have to survive until Christmas. 14 short weeks. Piece of...well yeah. (Swallow). In any case, I have no sixth form, no year seven (so no geography, yey!) and I am co-tutoring with a woman who got nominated for Teacher of the Year this year, so I am being given a fairly easy ride for my NQT year. Was slightly saddened about lack of sixth form for about five seconds until I realised how much work that has saved me and how grateful I will be by Christmas.

Met some of the other NQTs who were really nice, and all the other staff were very friendly, and some of them live near me which will be useful when Marvo the Mobster needs his MOT in the autumn (or, indeed, decides to skip his mortal coil). The whole week made me feel very at ease and positive about starting for real in September. We even had a session with a drama teacher on breathing, speaking loudly and body language. We all had to pretend to be a bad teacher and begin a lesson in our chosen style. Cathryn was nervous; Andy was laid-back; I was bitch. I was GOOD! I slammed into the room and yelled, "Right you maggots, stop pissing around, you're on my time now, let's try and not be as thick as we were last lesson..." My "class" (Cathryn, Andy and the drama teacher) were horrified - indeed, the drama teacher's mouth dropped open and I thought "Ooops, shouldn't have sworn" but luckily it was just play acting. Overheard her telling the assistant head about it in the staffroom afterwards though, hope I am not branded as the NQT who swears at pupils.

Graduated last week, what a palaver. Six of us turned up from the course and we managed to happily chat all the way through without being told off. Balancing that hat was a total nightmare and Linda F, head of the course, whose daughter I reduced to tears on my first placement and who had a go at me about it in front of all my course members in February, didn't even look at me when she read my name out, although she cracked a smile for everyone else. What a smee! It was a semi fun evening, nice to see people again, and I suppose I have to go to one graduation in my life, having skipped the first one. Mother Hand came, looking very proud, and Mr Z whistled loudly when they read my name out, bless. We had a celebratory barbecue the next night (that was the day it poured with rain - I did say that planning it would cause storms!) which was a good laugh. Then we had dinner out with the Parents Z on Saturday and went to Caroline's barbecue on Sunday, at which I managed to get VERY drunk, so as far as The Diet goes, it's been a bad week. Shame really, I lost four and a half pounds last week. Reckon I have gained five and a half this week.

Have become rather frustrated with it to be honest. I am trying to figure out what's going on. I haven't lost anything for a year now, well, a pound off a pound on sort of thing. But! I *have* dropped a dress size, so something's going on. Maybe it's the circuits and step. it's just frustrating to be paying every week and not really losing anything. I suppose that's my fault though. It's just hard to be motivated when all my clothes fit so well and I feel so healthy. I went to my blood pressure clinic today (throw back from when I had high BP at uni) and she said my cholesterol was "very, very healthy" and my blood pressure was normal. Well, at least I'm not dying. But I'm not a healthy weight. Bah. So much effort! And when I'm at target I'll only have to go out and buy myself MORE new clothes. Oh, such a chore.