Sunday 23rd May

Things kids say...
"At the time of the British Empire, there were no teenagers..."
"What is offal?" "When something's really, really bad."
"What do Christians think of divorce?" "Well, what do you think of divorce?"
You can tell it's exam season. I'm almost looking forward to marking my quota of exam papers this summer for the Hellhole, I expect there'll be some great one liners in that.

I had to go to a moderation meeting in London for them a couple of weeks ago. I was planning to mark some books and get a headstart on my reports, but then I found out Ben was on the same moderation meeting, and we'd both been booked into the Holiday Inn, so we went out and got bladdered instead at the pubs I used to frequent in my university days. We were walking through the university precinct when this woman approached us...
Woman: Are you with that bunch of kids that's running around? Are you?
Me: (thinks) Err...do I look 12?
Me: No...
Woman: Well, I've called the police now, they'll get what's coming to them
Ben and Me: (exchange looks, walk on)
A little while later...we spot a group of kids
Me: Oh, look, that must be those kids that person was asking us about
Ben: You mean that policeman? The one THAT POLICEMAN was asking us about?
Kids: OH YEEEEEEEEAHHHHH! (in that sarcy teenaged way)
Me: (snort) Don't you just love it when kids say that to you at school? "OH YEEEEEEEEAHH MISS, OH YEEEEEEAHH!" (cackle)
Ben: I don't think they know how silly they sound
Both of us: (chorus) OH YEEEEEEEEEAHHH!
Kids: (look perplexed) OH....OH.....OH YEEEEEEEEEEAHHHH! er...

Poor stupid kids. Anyway, we drank heavily until the hotel late bar shut, and then had to get up at 8.30am to have breakfast and check out. Ben had to get paracetemol but I felt fine, although I expected to feel rougher as the day went on, and for the first hour it didn't bode well, as we had a lecture from a very boring woman who spoke in a slow monotone. Luckily it picked up when we were given the papers to mark, and although it makes me sound like a geek, I had a really enjoyable day and felt like I learnt loads. They treated us really well, as well. Expensive hotel, meal allowance, lovely lunch, gallons of mineral water, travel expenses paid...and the train cost over 40 quid. A far cry from my days as a processing assistant when we had to beg and plead for five minutes off to watch the eclipse.

Anyway, after the meeting I had dinner at the excellent Wagamama with Bernie, who's had a hair cut which looks very different, but really suits him. As usual I walked away feeling like I'd talked far too much about me - I think the 20 minute monologue about my house was the icing on the cake - but Bernie seemed to enjoy himself anyway and it was really god to see him. Then I went to see Kerrie and we got through three bottles of wine and talked for 8 hours solidly, which was about par for the course. That was the main reason why I applied to mark for the Hellhole, rather than one of the other boards, so I'd have weekend meetings in London and not somewhere where I don't know anyone.

London can be a funny old place for me. I visited twice last month, firstly for the Vitality Show with Nadia, and then to see Zoe. The first time I stayed with Sibling in his palatial Notting Hill flat (the jammy git - it's a sublet housing association place and it's spitting distance from Portobello Market) and had dinner with Mother Hand at Wagamama in Kensington, and then lunch with Justine at Wagamama in Russell Square (fit in Wagamama as often as possible being my motto). When I got home I said to Mr Z, "Can we move to London?" "I knew you were going to ask me that!" he said. I really missed the place and started thinking of ways it would be possible for me to move back. But then, two weeks later, I went to visit Zoe in Croyden, which involved a night out in the suburb itself, and put me off London completely. It was like Kingswood, only even more small town. Granted, it's within easy distance of London, but crumbs! Yuck, is all I can say. I suppose it doesn't prove that I dislike London, just that I don't like Croyden. Croydon. Whatever.

Something else I forgot to mention in my long sabbatical (read: lazy period) was my visit from Ofsted. They came to school as part of their look at provision for special needs in Wiltshire and were supposed to wath four classes, but only saw two in the end, one of them being mine. I was more than a little apprehensive, not least because two weeks before, with the year eight class in question, the following conversation had taken place, on a Friday afternoon when everyone was tired..
Cheryl: (yes, her, the tarty dancer) What's question 2 say miss?
Me: (sigh) Question 2...you've been working on this for 20 minutes and you're on question 2...oh well...
Ant: Can you read me question 11 please miss? (it was a particularly bad quality OHT)
Cheryl: You're on question 11? You boffin!
Ant: Er, no, I can actually READ...
Me: (thinks) good on ya son!
Cheryl: Oh WHAT?! Are you saying I can't read? Well why don't you just go and buy some trousers that actuall fit and don't come up to your armpits for once?
Me: (exasperated and wanting to defende the underdog) Oh Cheryl, why don't you just go and get your roots done?!
Whole class falls silent.
Cheryl: (gasping) Well actually...ACTUALLY...it really hurt me last time, actually, so I'm not going to get it done again.

And for the rest of the lesson, I had to put up with Cheryl and Kylie making snidey comments at my expense. I could have kicked myself for stooping to their level. I had an awful weekend worrying about what might happen if she told her mum. But luckily nothing came of it, and then I talked to some other teachers about it and it seems everyone's said something a little too presonal on occasion. Cheryl's since dyed her hair a nasty shade of aubergine. Now, every time she plays me up in class I just say, "Nice hair!" to which she can never think of any reply beyond, "Look in the mirror!" which has little effect because I never make any effort with my appearance just to go to school.

So this was the class that the Ofsted inspector was watching, with Ben in the back row piping up "Get your roots done Cheryl!" every five minutes. Joy. I spent five hours the Sunday before putting together resources for a lesson on the opium wars. We did loads of activities including, "Who wants to eb Lin Tse-hsu?", based on the Millionaire format, which they all loved. I test-taught the lesson to another class the day before. When the guy turned up, I even had a whole poly pocket of resources for Sarah, who's the LSA who works with the most difficult person in the group. This bo only ever stays for half the lesson and usually, when Sarah takes him out, I hastily point to a few bits in the book and leave her to it. But not on this day, oh no. I was on fire. And at the end, the inspector approached me. "Thanks so much, that was excellent!" he enthused. "I really enjoyed it. But you must be exhausted! So much of it came from you. You should set them book work perhaps, it would allow you more time to relax."

I was well chuffed. That was the only feedback I got because I missed the lunch (I didn't read my sheet properly), but it was lovely to hear it. And considering I give them bookwork most of the time, I felt I almost had carte blanche to do that. Although it's been noted. Phil tutors one of the groups I teach, and she said on Friday that their opinion of me is that I started off strong but have tailed off as the year has progressed. I fear this is true. I can get away with a lot more now, and I do. I'm getting tired, too, and lazy. I'm behind on marking and my planning's minimal. I really need to pull my finger out and start working a bit harder, but it's hard to find motivation so late in the term. After half term, my year eights and nines are both going to be doing an independent research project so that will mean even less work for me, although I do want to give them some structure and I want something from the year eights at the end of it - a poster and an oral, perhaps.

Listen to me, babbling about school. I'm really lucky to have a job that I enjoy so much, I think.

Saturday 22nd May

Excuse my croaky typing. I don't think I mentioned, but I've given up smoking. Well, sort of. I've decided that I'm only allowed to smoke when I'm drinking. So, gone are the fags on the way to work, and the ones in the back garden when I'm bored, and the ones in the free periods of my miserable days. But then, the morning after the night before, I'm huskier than Mariella Frostrup swallowing cheese graters. Today is no exception. I think it's a combination of the 19 cigarettes and shouting to my friends over the music.

We had a girls night out in Bristol last night, me and some girls from work. Mr Z is away for his annual skittles trip so I decided I'd go out and have a couple of drinks, but behave sensibly so I could enjoy my weekend alone. Ha, ha....ha. I was a bit apprehensive, as Mr Z had been more "be careful" than normal, telling me to keep my drinks covered, and then I went to kick boxing (which was awful, I haven't been for two weeks) and we spent half of the session doing self defence techniques. I felt as though it was a premonition. But it wasn't borne out. We had a fabulous time. We started of at a Tapas bar, where Sian and I shared a bottle of wine while George and Phil had something to eat, and Liz sensily stuck to the diet coke. Then we moved on to the Pitcher and Piano where Sian and I split another bottle of wine and I started to lose feeling in my nose and rabbit my life story to everyone who was listening...oh dear. There was a weird man there who kept farting in a very smelly way and I started to worry that he was going to try and drug my drink but I was being paranoid. Drink does that to me. After we'd walked Liz back to her car and Sian had fumbled for about 5 minutes over how much money to give her for the parking, the four remaining die hards moved on to Corn Street, in search of a late drink, it now being nearly midnight.

I'd had a notion to go to Reflex, an 80s club I'd heard great things about, but Claire, the student teacher, had said previously that you have to go early if you want to get in. However, on the way up we were approached by three men...
Man 1: Scuse me, scuse me....
Everyone but me: (carries on walking)
Man 2: (heads them off at the pass)
Man 1: (to me) how would you like to go to a club with us and we'll pay for you to get in and we'll buy you a drink?
Me: Errr...
Me: (thinks) What are the three ways we learnt of getting out of a headlock again?
Man 1: We're not weirdoes! We're not!
Me: (raises one eyebrow)
Man 1: It's just that we want to go to Reflex, but they're only letting couples in
Me: Ooo! Reflex! I wanted to go there anyway...I'll go and ask my friends
Man 1: Cool, cool, Big Sal's gonna sort it all out...
Me: (Stare) .... Thanks! (walk off)
Man 1: (to Man 3) Oh shit I didn't mean....

He then spent the rest of the night saying that he only called me that because I'm about 6 foot (in the 4 inch heels I was wearing) and people call him Big Mark because he's so tall and he didn't mean....poor thing, he was quite sweet about it really. I wasn't that bothered. People calling me big or fat or anything nowadays has little effect because I just think about what I used to look like.

Anyway, we decided to accompany them to Reflex, but the bouncers there remembered the blokes and wouldn't let any of us in, which pissed George off no end. "Why can't we come in?" she questioned. "Because I said so," said the bouncer. "Grrrrrr!" said George, "that makes me so angry!" I think I started spouting on about her never having been out in Portsmouth, and that bouncers in Portsmouth are all like that and you get used to it, although in hindsight I don't really know what I was on about. Anyway, we went to Revolution with these blokes, which was my second choice of bar, and they bought us shots and drinks and all sorts, in fact I managed to get really drunk and only spent 20 quid for the whole night, which wasn't bad considering the bottle of wine I bought was nearly 13. There was a girl chucking up in the toilets upstairs, who was a bit upset. "I never throw up! Never!" she moaned. "Don't worry, I throw up all the time," I reassured her. "I don't know you in about an hour then," said George, delicately picking her way across the vomit-coated floor. "It's not really my fault, I did take a really huge exam two days ago," conceded the girl. "There you go, it could have been worse! You could have shagged a minger!" I said. "Nah...I left him at home!" she replied and we all descended into loud drunken cackling. Or maybe that was just me again.

We continued to drink in Revolution until they chucked us out and then we moved on to another bar where we had a bit of a dance. Phil and Sian managed to score with Mans 1 and 2 (Mark and "Craig David - Bo Selecta" respectively) while Man 3 (Ben) sat with George and I. "Drew the short straw with us, didn't he!" I laughed with George, since we're both attached, and then I accidentally tipped my Smirnoff Black Ice all over him. Oops. He didn't seem overly bothered though, and went and bought George a lolly. Phil wandered over, her chin looking a bit raw, and shortly thereafter the bouncers started kicking us out. We waited outside, watching Sian and Mark eating each other's faces through the window - they were the last ones inside. When they came out there was a big drunken fumble over phone numbers and this little Spanish weasally type man came up and started trying to sell the blokes some weed. Then the bouncer came out. "How stupid are you!" he said, but in a jovial way. "Selling in front of a plate glass window, and right under a CCTV camera...how much are you going to give me for the tape?" I surreptitiously crept off in the other direction, and then went across the road and sat in a doorway. How long I was there for, I don't know, cos my phone went dead, but Mark and Sian continued canoodling and George and Phil chatted up a black Frenchman who took their fancy. By the end "Craig" and Ben had come and crammed onto the step either side of me and were rubbing my chilly arms and then a taxi arrived and we all went home.

Although.... we were lucky to get home, because the taxi driver was terrifying. He nearly clipped a car by cutting the corner when he turned off Broadmead, and ran every red light between Old Market and Kingswood, and drove much too fast, and topped it all off by telling me about all the accidents and near misses he'd had in the past two weeks. Eep. I was grateful to get out, even though he dropped us in the town centre and we had to walk the rest of the way. Sian and I sat up chatting until 5am and then finally crawled into bed. We both slept in until about 2pm, thus topping off a perfect evening. Hic.