While listening to the radio this morning, I chanced to hear a song called “Last to Know” by that delightful young lady, Pink. This piece of what I loosely call music contained the following lyrics:

Why was I the last to know that you
Weren't coming to my show?
You coulda called up to say "good luck."
You coulda called me back you stupid f***
Why was I the last to know?

First date, we ate sushi and
It went well, I was funny and
You said I was a cutie.
That's the last thing I heard from you.
I left tickets at the door for you.
I had to tell my mom that there was
No more room.
You didn't show, that was so uncool.
You coulda called me back.

If you can, disregard the bad language and lack of eloquence for a moment. Now, I would have thought the most sure-fire way the ‘feisty' songtress could put off a potential love interest would be to subject them to her music for any prolonged period of time, such as a concert. This was clearly the deluded girl’s mistake. Furthermore, the individual in question would be forced to collect the tickets himself, thus acknowledging both a desire to attend the performance and a close personal connection to the indicated entertainer- tantamount to mental illness. I suggest that Ms. Pink accept the situation and move on. Pain is, in her own insightful words, “painful.”

Off to see THE Passion of THE Christ tonight. I shall reveal my opinion shortly. Sainsbury’s have quite run out of Jacob’s Seaweed Flavour Thai Bites. My disappointment was tangible.

I find myself shocked and saddened by the drivel that passes for entertainment in the world of children’s’ television these days. I switched on my TV this afternoon and found myself confronted with the most inane rubbish I have ever had to endure while consuming a low-fat sweet and sour chicken meal. The first beguilement I had the misfortune to come across was a programme entitled “Bamzooki”, in which teams of little-known celebrities and various overconfident youngsters design assorted computer animated creatures, or ‘Zooks’, which are then pitted against one another in a variety of insipid and unexciting ‘battles.’

My puzzlement and condemnation is generated by these so-called battles. The programme I watched involved contestants’ creations respectively running from one end of a virtual table and back, knocking over some sticks and, finally, attempting to stay on a nigh on stationary spinning wheel for as long as possible. Where are the fights to the death? Where the brutality, the carnage, the appendages being ripped off in veritable showers of bloody pixels? I appreciate that gratuitous violence in children’s programmes is likely to be frowned upon by the masses but really, what is the point? It was certainly no Robot Wars.

The next thing to scandalise and astonish me was the pronouncement by the leading character in a programme called ‘Cavegirl’- “a comedy series about everyday life for a teenage girl growing up in prehistoric times” – that, although she enjoyed ‘getting-off’ with complete strangers, she did not feel disposed to marry one. What?! While I find it difficult to accept the fact that the Philip Scofields of a bygone age have been cruelly replaced by denim-clad simpletons, such as the likes of Fern Cotton, my dissatisfaction with such gibberish goes beyond a mere longing for the comforts of my own childhood. Maybe I am more old-fashioned than I had previously suspected but does this sort of attitude really need to be perpetuated amongst the country’s youth?

I am suddenly reminded of that terrifying space Ulysses thing with all the dead/sleeping crew floating in the ship’s hanger. And Rainbow Brite. I used to have the toy horse with the rainbow mane (Starlite) and a comic book with a recipe for making Star Sprinkles… sigh….ah Star Sprinkles. I bet Fern Cotton hasn’t even heard of Star Sprinkles.

I nearly died on the way home. The person who usually gives me a lift to school and back has taken to overtaking four cars at once, just as we reach particularly blind spots in the road, and then sitting back and laughing hysterically at my obvious distress and panic. It's lucky I have such a well-developed sense of humour.

I was in Woolworths this afternoon, attempting to purchase a marzipan –based confectionery item for a certain lucky individual, when some young French gentlemen endeavoured to take their goods to the front of a very extensive queue. The shop assistant informed them, in the politest of tones, that they would have to go to the back and await their turn. At this, the gentlemen in question began to utter what I assume were profanities, before throwing their wares to one side and taking their leave.

Believe it or not, members of staff were responsible for the mysterious paper theft. We have all received very stern and disapproving emails from the office employees, asking that the culprit, anonymously if necessary, return the paper to the cupboards without delay. No questions will be asked but if the paper does not turn up by the end of the week, the cupboards will be locked until the end of the year. We will have to go and ask permission for more paper. I am not kidding.

Children who reach the age of fourteen should be sent away and thrashed until they learn to speak two words of sense together, or they shut up. Whichever happens first.

Ha! Mr Flossie has just paid me a visit. I take this to be verification of his support and confirmation of his patronage. Well, either that or a plea for more milk. (Prawns in a milky basket?)

Every scrap of the paper supply for the next month has been stolen from the cupboards opposite the photocopiers. Needless to say, this is a tad inconvenient, bearing in mind that no one in the whole school has been able to print or photocopy anything for two days.

As it turns out, my paranoia is not paranoia at all but merely an accurate assessment of my own stupidity. While creating what might be described as a 'mind map' of things a Year 7 group thought they knew about Shakespeare on the white board,(yes, it is as thrilling as it sounds) I found myself demonstrating a complete inability to spell the word ‘Twelfth.’ This happened despite several embarrassing and, quite frankly, far-fetched attempts. Although the incident depressed me for a short spell, my spirits were soon buoyed by the revelation that using the word ‘orgasm’ unexpectedly when addressing 15 year-old boys can be extremely entertaining. It was all in the name of good poetry analysis, I assure you.

Due to a wholly unforeseen staff meeting and the train journey from hell, –during which, quite disturbingly, it appeared to be raining on one side of the train only- I have just now returned to my place of residence. Since I have a million and one things to do and tonight is a good telly night, I shall be brief.

I shall just point out, before I get on top of the lesson planning, that although it is true the current name of this site was suggested to me by another, I consider the aforementioned person’s attempts to steal back the name somewhat petty. In addition to this, the contenders for the new name of abovementioned individual’s site are dull and uninspiring, to say the least. Therefore, I have decided to run an alternative poll, with what I consider to be more suitable options. This is quite likely to fall flat on its face, since no one actually looks at my site and it is likely no one ever will. Regardless of this, I find it all very amusing and that, after all, is the main thing. I shall occupy myself by voting, if no one else will.

In a similar vein to one who finds himself making a rather smart casual jacket out of his tax returns, it appears that, despite swearing not twenty-four hours ago that I did not want to write one of these things, I am. It may be that I'm here in a pointless attempt to avoid looking for jobs to apply for; it may be that I was enticed by the heady prospect of being able to make up a title and change the fonts and all the pretty colours and have polls and comments and ohhh see, I've got carried away by it all.

The problem is that, although there can be no doubt that my thoughts are infinitely more articulate and sensible when transformed into text, the horrible suspicion that I have nothing interesting to say, or indeed the flair and panache necessary to hide the fact, blights what would otherwise be an exciting and stimulating experience. This, in turn, leads to the stupefying paranoia which causes me to believe that because I am more or less an English teacher, any spelling mistake I might make on this page, for all the world to see, could mean the end of life as I know it. I would be grateful if such mistakes went unmentioned. If this seems odd, you should see me play Trivial Pursuit...

Incidentally, the site name is likely to change. Despite being an admirable feline friend and indeed, a talented a mime artist, Mr Flossie has little or nothing to do with anything.

I need to figure out what I'm doing first. Such impatience. Sigh.