Any suggestions?

2006-09-08T09:14:00.000+01:00

Right. I'm at a bit of a loss. I'm at my new job and there is currently very little to do. I'm in the school library (Obviously, being the librarian) which is entirely organised on little bits of cardboard. The most enthusiastic of kids will not come voluntarily to do extra work at lunch times and after school on the first two days of term. Frankly I'd be worried if they did. (Probably call them a big bunch of book-worm Jessies. "Get out in the fresh air. Go find some boys and hang around bus shelters and street corners, for the love of God!)

Next month the whole place is being refurbished and I get to order loads of cool stuff. I will start running structured lunchtime activities like current affairs quizzes, reading groups and themed days. Plus, people are bound to turn up just because they are nosy.

It's Roald Dahl day on Wednesday. It would have been his 90th Birthday. I am going to create a quiz in a minute and run it at lunchtime, with a prize! I am God's gift to Librarianship, non? Anyone with any ideas along the making reading/learning fun front feel free to post them and I'll probably steal them.

I shouldn't complain about not having much to do, should I? I've just had six weeks off. I'm going to be ridiculously busy next month, so I shall relish it. I am aware that I said I would be more interesting and some people (if there are any reading) may feel that this is evidently not the case. To you I say "Pah!" Give me some time to do something interesting. I should probably Write something about V. Yes... That's an idea...I shall think about that. This will all be a lot more convenient when I get a computer on my desk. Until then...

2006-09-05T14:11:00.000+01:00

Hello. I'm back. Today is my first day on my new job. See link and picture.

http://www.stmarys.org.uk/

I have been left to my own devices for a moment. I shan't talk long today but, reading over this blog, it occurs to me that I am very dull. From now on I shall write about interesting and topical issues in stylish, organised and literary fashion. Eh hem. Indeed. Watch this space.

2006-07-19T11:27:00.000+01:00

Happy Birthday to me.

This is my last entry for a while. It is the last day of the school term and who knows when I shall have Internet access again? I shall have a nice peaceful summer. I shall stay up late and sleep in and go to music festivals. I'll go visit my family and my dog. I'll go walking in Yorkshire and bask in the sunshine.

I see a glorious six weeks of blissfulness stretch out in front of me, shining and golden. I don’t wish to make people working in this heat feel bad but it is my birthday and I’m allowed to feel happy about everything. I’m all on my own as some people feel that going to Wales for the week during their significant other’s birthday is acceptable. I don’t mind really. I got some lovely prints this morning and there are still presents hidden around the house to find. It just means I’m alone until this evening until I go to my old flatmate’s for a drink and a Chinese later this evening.

Everyone but everyone must come to visit me during the summer. Just let me know when- all are welcome, anytime. (Unless I’m in Yorkshire or any of the above places. Best to check first.) In fact, it is an order. I haven’t seen some of you for years. Actual years!

Anyway. Goodbye for the summer. I hope everyone who is working has a fun-filled stress-free time. Until September……..

2006-07-13T12:41:00.000+01:00

This may be the last time I write for a while. I may be able to squeeze in one more before the end of term. It is very nearly the end of the school year, thank heaven and all that's sacred, which means I can look forward to an internetless, even computerless summer. I know it will be difficult but everyone can console themselves with the knowledge that I will be deliriously happy all summer due to the fact that I have six weeks off and a nice new job to go to.

Yes, I got the job. I rock. Not only this but it sounds like the best fun in the world. It is at a tiny, private girls' school, which is pretty much a combination of the various girls' schools I have attended during my education - places where I met extremely good friends and generally had the time of my life (apart from Biology GCSE and A-level Physics lessons.) It is a convent school in a beautiful Victorian house, set in a few acres of ground, accepting girls from 0-18.

I will be responsible for running the library and an ICT suite. This means I can order books, create displays, invite writers in to talk about their work, run book and literature clubs at basic and advanced levels to help students widen their reading before university etc. I will be responsible for the computers and the interactive whiteboard- I will help students with their research and possibly give basic interactive whiteboard training to teachers. I'm also going to help out with the careers library. I get to do loads of stuff and enjoy doing and still teach some extra classes, like bookclubs, but they will be voluntary for the pupils- all of the fun, none of the pressure. I am so excited.

It will involve a bit of a pay cut but it's five minutes from my house, which will save petrol, and I think it will be worth it because of how much I will adore it. I am blissful. All I have to do now is get through three and a half more days where I am now and all will be right with the world.

Plus, it is my birthday on Wednesday. Hip hip hooray.

2006-07-11T08:46:00.000+01:00

We lost then. Sorry for absence- I've been doing exciting things like going to safari parks. Can't talk long- busy busy. I have a job interview tomorrow! Write soon. Wish me luck, everyone.

2006-06-29T13:54:00.000+01:00

I’m trying to work out how much I like football. I’ve been watching an inordinate amount of it just lately. In fact, I’ve watched every match, except for the ones that were on while I’m at work- Oh and Switzerland v Ukraine. There’s being enthusiastic about football and then there’s being a glutton for monotony. I’ve been suitably entertained and diverted for a large portion of them. I have also been quite exasperatingly indifferent the rest of the time.

There are a number of elements to consider when reviewing what makes a match enjoyable for me:

1. The number of goals.
I like to make infuriating little squeaking noises when the ball gets within 30 yards of either goal.

2. The number of sendings-off.
Especially for dissent. I do like an altercation or two. Head butting, calling the other player’s/referee’s wife/mother/pet a whore. It’s all good.

3. The number of dives.
Not because I condone dishonest and fraudulent behaviour in any way at all, that would be unthinkable, but because we all like to hate Argentineans (football wise, I’m not a xenophobe) and let’s face it, it’s they’re the Lords of the dive. (Dive, dive, wherever you may be….) Being angry is fun.

4. The number of actual injuries.
Again, I don’t want to make it sound like I have a desire for Players to actually get hurt. Well, not too badly anyway, but it does make for good watching, The commentator’s remarks (see later) are always interesting at these points too.

5. The amount of gabble spouted by commentators and pundits alike.
Tell you what, I’ve written a lot of blog entries in my time but this just might be the best blog I’ve written about football in the history of blogging and the game, at the end of the day. It’s not all about original grammar and clichés. Some of it is just plain ridiculous. I turn your attention to the following site about one such individual who, although somewhat disgraced of late, stands out as a paradigm of language inventiveness.

http://dangerhere.com/ronglish/

I’ve been learning to speak football gibberish- observe:

“Well, he’s given it the little eyebrows full gun and it’s glanced off the second post and it’s gone straight in the back of the onion net, putting England up one nil, early doors. I’m telling you, they’re playing for fun!”

6. Whether Gary Lineker in presenting or the inferior blonde Gabby woman on ITV.
Gary Lineker, Alan Hanson, Alan Shearer and Ian Wright all sat in a row. What more could a girl, or a man, for that matter, wish for?

If we could come up with some sort of mathematical scoring system based on these elements, we could work out whether I will enjoy a match with almost pinpoint accuracy. What the reason for this would be is anyone’s guess but it is almost certainly fundamental for future of mankind. Of course, if England are playing it makes it exhilarating, whatever happens. So much so that I’ve been in danger of having to go upstairs and hide under the duvet until it’s all over. So, what do you think, do I like football or not? I know the offside rule, if that helps.

2006-06-28T14:01:00.000+01:00

Since I don't have enough time to write properly, here is a poem generated from the content of the site, made by some generator thing.

Any pets immensely and I
had people to simultaneously
write a shiny black Toyota Corolla to face quite so
the procedure has been signed off
because
I find I felt
that
despite only 4 people to this
is a
good television but
that they threw rocks and the summer months.
In abundance. There are the
illogical and exasperating. It will now, here
I am on any upset
worried about
to town and clean
everything they have a
whining No hot cars and
my education
I expect to parliament.
Let's face
quite a charming young creature by the
other innocent bystander.

It's better than my actual poetry.

2006-06-21T14:10:00.000+01:00

There are some upsides to this malarkey.

Currently, my year 12 Media group are studying film genre. The specific genre that they are studying is Science Fiction. This means I can legitimately put on any Science Fiction film I like and then discuss it with them. I get paid for this.

I do this quite a lot in my spare time. Only last weekend I got into a fairly intense discussion with some fellow pub-goers about the relative merits of two such films. I became so irate when some of the people involved, who appeared to be of sound mind and under no hallucinogenic influences, claimed that they could enjoy the film ‘Face Off’ because it clearly suspended the audiences disbelief in a sophisticated fashion.

My problems with this are manifest. Firstly, the idea that detaching someone’s face, transplanting onto someone else’s using a plastic template thing to make sure the structure is the same, and then assuming that no one would notice the exchange, the faces would be entirely unblemished, the recovery time would be non-existent, there would be no visible scarring, no infection from an alien plastic device being shoved between flesh and bone, nothing, in fact, to suggest the procedure has taken place, is utterly preposterous and downright insulting. Excuse the length of my sentences. (I allow that this is supposed to be some new-fangled technique but the rest of the film is not overly futuristic and none of this is given an explanation.)

Secondly, even granting the illogical and absurd pretence, are the film- makers really trying to tell me that, despite having widely different physiques, voices, hairlines and any number of other distinguishable features unique to the actors in question, the characters’ nearest and dearest seem completely oblivious to the alterations? John Travolta is 6”2 and was born in 1954. Nic Cage claims to be 6”0 and was born in 1964 (although it is said that he wears high-heals to make himself look taller.)

There is a scene in the film when John Travolta (who is actually Nic Cage with Johnny’s face) quite obviously comes on to his teenage daughter (not really his daughter, you understand, the real Johnny’s daughter) The deluded girl suspects that her Daddy is acting a little odd and we cannot blame her for being confused because the man is question quite evidently has her Father’s voice, torso and appendages, as well as his face.

My one piece of praise is that the acting may have been ok, if I hadn’t been thoroughly livid the whole time I was watching it. Utter gibberish from beginning to end. The only thing suspended during that piece of cinematic claptrap was the Director’s senses.

The other film we discussed was ‘X-Men The Last Stand’ and I don’t care what you comic boys say! Even if Juggernaut isn’t supposed to be a mutant or Rogue’s character is entirely out of keeping with her comic namesake, I liked it. (Although The Rock ( You smell what he’s cooking) needed to be aforementioned Juggernaut, not the ridiculously inept Vinnie Jones)

‘Walking Tall’…now there’s a film.

2006-06-16T12:14:00.000+01:00

What do you do when, as an adult, you are subjected to the most unreasonable discrimination and ill treatment? What are you supposed to when, day after day, it becomes entirely evident that nothing you can do satisfies, no matter how relentlessly you struggle to impress, or merely to escape the browbeating and chastisement for a few unblemished hours?

At school, I was always a good girl. A little lazy at times, perhaps, but I always got done what needed to be done. I was polite and punctual. At times, earlier on in my education I was desperately unhappy, and I had reason for resenting fellow students and teachers alike, but I never really felt that spiteful. So why do I feel so hard done by now?

If I were at school, I’d tell my mum. She and, no doubt my Nan, would storm down to the school in a blaze of matriarchal umbrage, safe in the knowledge that their angelic daughter/granddaughter could do no wrong. I was never one to stand up for myself very much. I had people to do that for me and it only causes problems anyway, doesn’t it?

I begin to wonder whether the uncomfortable position I find myself in isn’t much worse than any upset I may cause by springing into action. The belief keeps tearing through my thoughts- “I don’t bloody deserve this. I don’t. I really, really don’t. I know my shortcomings you have no right to make me feel this way.”

When I was 12, I was standing at a bus stop when two lads, several years older than I, decided to cover me in a veil of phlegm and spittle so extensive that I was forced to run home, in tears, where my distraught mother, called the police. The culprits were given formal cautions and curfews and the parents had to pay for the cleaning bill. Later that week, a group of boys aged about 14-18, in large and threatening gangs, gathered outside my house. They were angry because their friends couldn’t come out - no doubt to terrorize some other innocent bystander. They threw rocks and eggs at my house, causing my baby sister to scream and my dad to go out on some sort of vengeance mission, vowing to kill them all.

I felt frightened, yes. I was upset, worried about my family and even guilty that they should have to suffer like that on my account. But mostly what I felt was the overwhelming unfairness of it all. The complete and utter lack of justice was tangible to me.

How could people possibly make others feel this way? I would find it impossible. How can you make somebody else feel worthless and still sleep at night, let alone take active pleasure from it, as I suspect the aforementioned boys did? I comforted myself with the fact that they were children, or near enough so. I reassured myself with the fact that they were ignorant, unaware, and unlikely to face a future as bright as I would make sure mine was.

And now here I am and I have that exact same feeling. But the people I face aren’t young or uninformed. They don’t have deprived backgrounds. They have no reason to feel jealous or resentful of anyone. They are cultured and knowledgeable professionals. They have absolutely no reason to deride and condemn someone to the point that they feel as if everything they do is utterly without value. Make no mistake- I expect to be given suggestions and assistance in becoming better than I am. I would be miffed if all I had was indifference but that is not what this is.

It is bullying- and I find I am stunned that it exists away from the playground.

2006-06-12T14:04:00.000+01:00

I love the summer. Even in baking classrooms, when all the windows are open and it’s still stifling. Even when the incessant buzz of fans, blades creaking with the effort of their perpetual gyrating, is only interrupted by the whinging of sun stroked children. Even when the first twenty minutes of the lesson is taken up by tag team water collection- I adore every minute of it.

Of course, I would rather not be at work at all. I’d rather be in a beer garden somewhere, iced beverage in hand, soaking up the damaging and unremitting rays of the sun, big screen in front of me and football about to begin. I’d rather be at my parents' house, dividing my time between lounging on the decking and nipping into the lounge, cool and sheltered from the heat by the barrier of the thatch, to flick the TV onto the constant coverage of BB that E4 provides.

Even thunderstorms are tremendous. I want to wake up to unexpected coolness in the middle of the night, to find rainwater splashing up from the sills of open windows and thunder rumbling in the distance. I want to experience how fresh and clean everything feels afterwards.

I would be happy back in Worcester, at my favourite bar by the riverside, cool breeze on my face and Southern Comfort and ginger beer in my hand, chatting and laughing and drinking- things essential to the summer months. In fact I want to have a motion passed. If the temperature reaches 26 degrees from June onwards, or if it is a world cup year, regardless of temperature, all school should be suspended and all non essential workplaces closed down. We should all congregate in the great green spaces and pub gardens of this land, sunhats and factor 20 in hand, with sandwiches to share, cool drinks and strawberries and ice cream in abundance. There should be music and football and cheering and gaiety and bliss.

No marking. No whining. No hot cars and motorways and sticky backs in breezeless rooms. No worries until September. We can make it happen. Let’s march to parliament. Let’s all go on strike. We can make it happen!

Who is with me?

2006-06-08T13:08:00.000+01:00

The poor, much lamented Gadfly. May the big, traffic free motorway in the sky be brightened by her manifold emerald loveliness. I was minding my own business, driving along a fairly busy country road near the village of Badgeworth, between Cheltenham and Gloucester, when the car in front stopped somewhat unexpectedly. I, being the vigilant and proficient driver you all know and love, stopped in plenty of time. (Only a fool breaks the two-second rule and all that jazz)

I had the briefest of moments to gather my wits and think “Oh, I had to stop quite quickly then; It was lucky I didn’t crash” when a massive Nissan Four by Four thing rammed the unsuspecting and innocent Gadfly right in the rear, smashing the windscreen and, to some extent, the back wheels, into oblivion.

Needless to say, I was taken aback. Being that it wasn’t my fault, I have a brand new hire car to drive for the moment. It has a CD player. How new-fangled.

I am quite happy, though. The Emerald Gadfly will be much missed but I have come out of it unscathed and with a shiny black Toyota Corolla to play with for a few weeks.

All very exciting, eh?

2006-06-06T12:44:00.000+01:00

I am in hiding. I am also trying to simultaneously write my yr 7 reports so if I slip into “ Sam constantly distracts others and allows himself to be distracted…” you’ll know why. I am hiding because I am a prisoner in my own workplace. I’m having bad dreams because of it! Although, I do suspect that this, in point of fact, was due to the vast amounts of crap I consumed at the weekend: a bottle of Southern Comfort in under 4 hours, Pringles, parsnip crisps, mini savoury eggs, cocktail sausages, garlic mushrooms, Chinese finger food selection, potato skins, 3 types of cheese in salad starter and a carbonara sauce, a further 2 types of cheese and several tonnes of cream in a butterscotch and mascapone cake thing….. it goes on.

The reason for all this being, of course, because I had a party on Friday and dinner guests on Saturday. The results were mixed. My party was great fun; I drank whole of aforementioned contentment of the southern persuasion, we went on to town and don’t remember returning home. However, only 4 people turned up. It’s quality not quantity, I tells ya! Also, I feel some of the guests may have been disturbed by the amount of Star Wars memorabilia in the lounging area.

A good friend, who was once from back in sunny Colchester, came to visit. We dined on a spectacular (even if I do say so myself) meal created by me and the other half. The long-awaited guests in question brought a charming young creature by the name of Vinnie, who is, in truth, some sort of Jack Russell. I enjoy almost any pets immensely and even though my joint tenant dislikes canines and all their doggy kind, (“Help, help, he putting his filthy dog hands all over me!) the rest of us had great fun watching him get vexed and bally-ragged to within an inch of his life.

I am on a diet now. I’m drinking bottled water at school. This is mostly due to the bastard government banning fizzy drinks at schools, rather than an attempt at purifying my overwhelmed and poisoned body but there you go. Anyway, one last request before I go:

I demand that everybody comments! I’m going to send an email and texts saying so! It is so hard to stay in touch with everyone without a chatting function and this is nearly the same thing- just delayed a bit. Get to it, I say!

2006-06-05T11:23:00.000+01:00

I'm back at school so the unbearable gap in communications will cease almost immediately. I am going to have to write at home and paste from now on because I am under constant and relentless surveillance. I have lots to talk about in regards to all of my half term shenanigans- A house party with very few guests etc- but it will have to wait.

2006-05-25T12:41:00.000+01:00

I can't begin to explain how shit today has been so far. I can't really have a rant about it, since I'm sure slagging off your colleagues on an online diary must be unprofessional on some level. Let's just say I have been embarrassed and belittled and if this outbreak of amnesia is due to psychological strain then, sweet Jesus up a tree, I’m due a relapse. I’m only managing to get on with this because this is the first moment I have been left alone, despite only having one lesson so far.

I was in quite a jovial mood yesterday afternoon. I was all ready to come in today and do a bit of work, sort out memos to my forms class teachers, as well potter on the Internet, write a nice long entry on this. I would probably have discussed Shabaz, in more detail than I will now, ( Big Brother, Sorry- I know it’s all trendy these days to pretend we are above it all, it’s a horrid vulgar programme and I’ve got my own life, I don’t need to watch some saddos sit about in a house doing sweet Fanny Adams all day- but who are we kidding?) who has nearly given me an ulcer in one short week.

I honestly didn’t think I was capable of finding someone quite so abhorrent and exasperating. It makes for good television but it seems to make me shout a lot, much to a living companion’s chagrin. Apparently, the neighbours can hear me. I’m sorry but the man is repugnant, even taking into account a level exhibitionism and attention-seeking common in such programmes. Is his ploy to accuse everyone of being racist and homophobic until they crack, give in and become homophobes and racists just to shut him up, or possibly brain him? It would seem so.

Alas, of course, he is gone now, much to the relief of partner and neighbours, no doubt, alike. I am left with Nikki to mock, whose voice has the quality of a cross between a whining year 10 girl and a kitten being grated.

I must leave you now, before I am busted, as it were, by the powers that shame and humiliate. May your working environment be infinitely more enjoyable than mine.

2006-05-24T11:09:00.000+01:00

Tomorrow I have a lesson in the morning, a lesson in the afternoon and four hours in between. I'll get down to the long post everyone is no doubt dying for then. I know you're giddy with anticipation.

2006-05-22T13:55:00.000+01:00

I'm back at school. My comment thingy is all ballsed. I keep trying to post one but then it disappears. Perhaps I have loads of comments from well-wishers and admirers and they just haven't been able to get through. I shall comfort myself with this thought. They don't know what's wrong with me. They think it is stress but that all sounds a little weak kneed to me. I've been referred to a neurologist to make sure. Who is mr anonymous? I apologise if I know but have forgotton.

Here is a thought: One of my year 9s tried to tell me today that she had let her rabbit out in the garden with the cat and the two mated. She tried to convince me that her cat subsequently gave birth to 'cabbits.'

Indeed!

2006-05-17T14:58:00.000+01:00

I have been signed off work again due to this odd not being able to remember anything malarky. I am at worcester library. I don't have the internet at home. It's just as well. Reading entries and discovering all the things I have forgotton is depressing me. Be back soon. Not that anyone has noticed I've gone. :(

2006-05-05T13:32:00.000+01:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

2006-05-03T14:02:00.000+01:00

All my posts start with 'I'. How self-centred. Except this one doesn't.

Something for you all to mull over:

It's is not, it isn't ain't, and it's it's, not its, if you mean it
is. If you don't, it's its. Then too, it's hers. It isn't her's. It
isn't our's either. It's ours, and likewise yours and theirs.
-- Oxford University Press, Edpress News

2006-05-02T10:53:00.000+01:00

I have problems with holidays of any kind. The longer they are, the worse it is.

Don’t get me wrong- spending Friday night in my lovely house, with my significant other, drinking Southern Comfort and lemonade, while listening, enraptured (cough), as he played stuff I like on the keyboard, was great.

Going out for dinner at our favourite Italian and then moseying on down to one of my preferred public houses to drink more Southern Comfort was charming.

Cooking someone’s special sausage, mash and leeks a la Danielle and then spending Sunday afternoon watching the wonderful Nathan Fillion (Firefly, Serenity) in ‘Slither’ was enthralling. So was the subsequent pub quiz at our local, even if the place does smell of greased up fat people and we lost. Any Shakespeare questions I may or may not have got wrong were irrelevant in light of ‘someone’ being a good 32 years out, as far as their guess for when the Lincoln memorial was erected was concerned.

Monday, likewise, was a festival of delights. I lounged around a lot, avoiding any marking, then made a lasagne and watched an old ‘Sharpe’ I purchased on DVD.

“Let’s get buggers tha’ d’it!” (I spent Sunday evening attempting to do a Yorkshire accent and shouting such things as “ You Sir, what business do you have telling an Officer of the British Army what to do?! Name and rank, you scurvy knave!” “Major Sharpe, Company of the South Essex” “Oh, I see, sorry Sir!”)

No, the problem is that it makes me realise how exquisite not being at school is and, in contrast, how much school is a syphilitic disfigurement on the face of my otherwise delightful life. This may sound a bit excessive and I suppose I am exaggerating but it doesn’t feel that way on a Monday, or in this case, Tuesday morning.

The thing is, I don’t know what else I’m good for. An uncertain future looms in front of me. I have lots of qualifications! Surely someone is willing to employ me to do something relatively easy for a large amount of money and still let me have school holidays off? No? Damn.

2006-04-28T13:13:00.000+01:00

I have just been showing a recent BBC adaptation of “Great Expectations” to an irresolute and restless year 10. It’s Friday and let’s face it, I’m as lazy as they are. I was quite happily engrossed in entertainment when who should turn up playing the despicable, Dickensian Lawyer, Jaggers, than Ian McDiamid.

I of course exclaimed “ Emperor Palpatine!”, with some force and was rewarded by a sea of goggle-eyed and mystified young faces.

“Star Wars?” I continued, unabashed, met with steely stares and flared nostrils.

“He’s the Dark Lord of the Sith? A senator in the new films? He’s in all of them.” Nothing.

“Anakin’s friend. For the love of God, he can make lightning come out of his fingers!” Only the barest of murmurs is audible.

“Are you honestly telling me none of you have seen ANY Star Wars films?”
“Nah Miss”

They looked at me as if I were the most tiresome and unreserved geek they had had the displeasure of conversing with and continued with their nattering, applying of lip gloss and hormonal jostling, poking and general mucking about, completely oblivious to their deplorable lack of knowledge. The day I attempt to discuss Star Wars with a group of mostly 15 year-old boys, and hit a brick wall, is a sad one indeed.

Not two seconds hence and who is it playing Jaggers’ housekeeper and Estella’s long lost mother but, Laila Morse (ne Maureen Oldman), Big Mo from Eastenders.

The shouts of recognition and delight must have been audible in the next classroom. I attempted to inform the young layabouts that the woman who had animated them in a way I had considered impossible for lunchtime on a Friday, was Gary Oldman’s sister.

Blank faces. I give up.

2006-04-28T08:14:00.000+01:00

I have decided that I am going to start writing on this again. Not because anyone will read it. Of this I am nigh-on (?) certain. Oh no. I shall write because after reading through it after many, many months, I find that I remember how entertaining it was to write it. I enjoy writing. I am creative dammit! I don't get a chance to write drivel on an everyday basis, just mark it. Also, it was fun to play around with the colours and stuff. So there. Let the world judge me. Or, not- as no one is reading it.

2004-12-17T13:46:00.000Z

I wonder if anyone would notice if I started writing this again? It seems unlikey, since, in fact, no one noticed when I was writing twice a week. Oh well. So far today I have had Years 7, 8,9 and 10 and watched most of Star Wars, The Empire Strikes back and Return of the Jedi. Sing yay for Christmas.

2004-07-04T16:09:00.000+01:00

I am back in Colchester. Actually I am lying. I am currently in Sutton but I would usually be in Colchester. My presence in Sutton accounts for the internet access, something which is, at present, lacking in Colchester. This is mainly due to my mother's incompetence. She decided, very unwisely, that because it said "5 easy steps" on the BTYahoo internet set-up disc, that she would be able to successfully set up an account. I knew that something peculiar was going on when the poor, deluded woman claimed that she didn't have a username or password and that, in fact, the "internet let her on without any of that." It appears that the internet and my mother have a unique and special relationship.

It turned out, of course, that the computer had crashed before she completed the account details. When my mother switched the computer back on and the BTYahoo icon had appeared, she assumed that it had all gone swimmingly. My sister proceeded to use the icon to dial up and 'revise' for hours on end, entirely oblivious to the fact that she was running up a bill for £70 worth of internet calls to the pay-as-you-go number that they put you on as default. Well, they do if, like my mother, you are retarded enough to think the internet is some sort of sentient entity, that decides who it gives access to, based on, presumably, whether the person concerned is my mother or not. The resulting hysteria when the phone bill arrived means that broaching the idea that she might let me set it all up properly is something I am not willing to attempt for a few weeks. It is just as well...I might have something interesting to say by then.

I would have written before I left Canterbury but I had more important things to do. I am in Sutton visiting my good friend Gemma and her fiance Sid. I am here until Tuesday, when I am going to my nice school in Buckinghamshire for an induction-type day. I am trying to write this on an iMac. It is all very confusing. Maybe not very confusing. I am coping. The last few weeks of college passed without too much of interest to tell. I handed in all my final thingies which means I am now practically almost a proper teacher.

There was an eventful celebration evening which fell on the night England played Portugal. Everyone I knew was at least as drunk as I was, which was refreshing. Shame about the result... I was confronted, upon leaving the Union, with my inebriated Subject Tutor who informed me that we should "just go in there and trash the place" because it wasn't "fair." I managed to escape home without trashing the union or being witness to the abuse of anyone who was Swiss, had Swiss relatives, had ever been to Switzerland or had ever eaten a Toblerone. It was harder than it sounds.

I am being quite anti-social and there appears to be some sort of 'Monkeyball' extravaganza going on -Monkeyball being a game on the GameCube. I am unfamiliar with the controls for the GameCube pads. This is the reason why I was 63 over par on my recent game of Monkeyball Golf. That was the reason, I tell you!

2004-06-08T18:36:00.000+01:00

It is really rather hot. Normally, at this time of year, I would not be protesting. It is about the time that university exams finish and I would customarily be free to lounge about, sunning myself and hiding in cool bars, safe in the knowledge that, although Uni had finished, I had enough loan left to see me through another month without the inconvenience of having to get a job.

Not so this year. This year I am trapped in muggy mobiles with inattentive children, while the oppressive heat threatens to remove me of all my senses and I resort to throttling every last one of the ruffians, silencing the constant entreaties to go outside and the incessant bellyaching about how ‘it should be illegal’ forever.

I wouldn’t object to taking them outside, if the sight of some twigs and a bit of grass didn’t reduce them into frenzied hooligans. The urge to rip great handfuls of lawn up and throw them at each other, with intermittent sticks or rocks for good luck, is apparently too much to withstand. I let them get water whenever they need it. (The amount of people prone to giddiness seems to have increased beyond the figure one would expect, even taking into account the stifling weather) No ties are required in my lessons. Let collars hang loose, top buttons forsaken. Yet my good humour and affability is rewarded by, at best, apathy, or worse, their persistent and exasperating whining.

At least next week school is over and done with and I get to doss about at college for a few weeks, before returning home to doss around there. I have a nice couple of months off before I have to start work. Moreover, it is my birthday soon! I believe I am entirely justified in saying that five weeks is soon. Also on the upside I have decided that lesson planning is now entirely gratuitous, having submitted my RoD, (Record of Development- don’t get excited) and subsequently I find my evenings relatively unblemished for the first time in an age.

Unfortunately, the television in my room having migrated back to Colchester and the one in the lounge being buggered, I am reduced to playing solitaire and reading for amusement. Can you imagine? Oh, and at long last I have time to write this again, of course. I did manage to escape to a friend’s house to watch I Am Not an Animal last night and I will leave you with some small excerpts from last night’s and earlier episodes now…

“Love is something that celebrities have in a place called Lon-don….Love is having a boyfriend who hits you, then cries and promises never to do it again, except he does and you go to a safe house.

“No Hugh! We have no proof that this is eat as much as you want for £4.50 Buffet!”

“That’s Arabic. It’s from space.”

“I am not a monkey. I am from Islamic Jihad.”

“There’s no point trying to be something you’re not…like any good.”

“London is approximately 1.9 million miles away.... And you can add 300000 miles to that for road works.”

2004-05-17T20:33:00.000+01:00

Today has been much like last Monday, except with a rather preoccupied and inattentive Year 11 added to the day of hell. They are certainly not interested in last minute revision. In fact, I had to bribe them not to run out of the classroom with the promise of a party. Therefore, I have just returned from Sainsbury’s, where I purchased several goodie bags, chocolates, crisps and sugary drinks. E-numbers-just the way to calm them down

I have been teaching my socks off. However, I feel much more relaxed after an extremely pleasant weekend, involving a nice trip to Broadstairs beach and a very poor performance at a ‘Wine and Wisdom’ evening. The wine was my strong point. Apparently, literature, despite what I may have thought, is not. Still, I find myself feeling positive and contented. Last week’s despair has been replaced by a cheerful, if slightly weary, sense of achievement. You are, no doubt, relieved to hear it. That said I have party games to organise.

Incidentally, while looking up an appropriate grammar quiz to thrill the aforementioned Year 11s with, I appear to have achieved divinity.

You are a GRAMMAR GOD!

If your mission in life is not already to
preserve the English tongue, it should be.
Congratulations and thank you!

How grammatically sound are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

2004-05-12T20:10:00.000+01:00

I have just experienced three of the most stressful days of my young life. What with lesson observations, my timetable being increased to 70 per cent, no lunches or break-times- either due to my excess generosity detention-wise or my frantic attempts to get all my college tasks done- I have not even had time to realise I might faint from exhaustion at any moment. Add to this very little sleep, four lesson observations this week, a department meeting leading to a two-hour journey home and the completion of two of the Qualified Teacher Status Skills Tests this very afternoon and you are fortunate to find me awake and relatively coherent. (Watch it!)

On the QTS skills tests front, there is good news. I passed the first two and I’m pretty certain there wasn’t much I got wrong. In fact, the ICT test, which was meant to take 35 minutes, crashed at the end of my first attempt and I had to take it again. My second attempt took under 6 minutes and that was with checking everything at the end. Oh yeah.

During one of my lesson observations this week, I had the pleasure of attempting to prepare my Year 10 for their end of year, pre-released materials exam. This involved two very nice articles about Mozambican floods and a humorous cartoon. The second article was entitled ‘Flood baby born in tree’ or something along those lines. When I asked them what affect the headline would likely have on a reader, I was greeted with a sea of blank faces. I pressed the point. What did the title make them think about? Do babies get born during floods and in trees everyday? Nothing. Did they not think that giving birth under those circumstances would be very difficult? Bear in mind that I am being observed by my mentor who had never seen me with this class before. One lad raised his hand. Knowing him as I do, I gingerly gestured that he should articulate his ideas.

“Well, miss, bein’ in a tree and that. You’d fink the gravity might make the baby come out quicker, so it might not be as difficult as it sounds.”

I do not remember what I said at this point. The lesson is somewhat of a blur. My mentor only commented that using that amount of sarcasm was not really appropriate, especially since the boy had been attempting a serious answer. Humph. Come out with that nonsense in one of my lessons and I can’t even be sarcastic. What is the world coming to?

2004-05-09T14:57:00.000+01:00

I got the job. This means, for those of you who are interested, as of September I will be moving to High Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire, where I will be responsible for teaching English Literature and Language to boys from 11-18 and Drama to boys from 11-14. The Royal Grammar school provides accommodation and is right in between Oxford and London. I am quite pleased with myself, to be honest. It is a lovely school with polite, well-behaved boys who achieve 60% A and A* grades at G.C.S.E.

Quite apart from it being a great school in a good place, (it is quite close to everywhere I am likely to go to) just knowing what I am doing in September has made me feel a lot more relaxed about everything. The unfamiliar and the unknown do not sit well with me and that feeling of blind panic, all too common in recent weeks, seems to have subsided somewhat. So, in summary, yay me, I rock. Ok that is enough of that.

So, come September, for the first time in my life, I will not be financially dependent on the government or my parents, have a proper job in a proper profession and I will have moved to a whole new county. Oh and I can afford a car. That is also a first. My goodness how responsible and grown-up I shall be.

2004-05-06T14:59:00.000+01:00

Suit bought. Trains checked. Lesson planned and exciting resources in process of production, to be completed on the train. Wish me luck.

2004-05-04T22:45:00.001+01:00

I apologise for my prolonged absence. What with that written assignment lark, college, starting school again and a nice bank holiday to take advantage of by doing sod all, I have not had time to write. Well, I could have made time, if I am honest. The inclination was, alas, wanting.

Interesting things that have happened since last I wrote include: a lovely college session involving improvised role play (my very favourite thing); the creation of the finest Carbonara and White Chocolate Cheesecake ever to have graced Canterbury, and indeed the world, with their rich and flavoursome existence (anyone who says otherwise is lying to conceal their own lack of culinary proficiency, I tell you!); I watched The Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless mind (very good it was too, despite having two actors who are amongst the most likely to piss me off if they are not careful) and I have a job interview! (Yay me.)

I shall expand on the last of the touched upon happenings forthwith. I have a job interview! On Friday! It is at a boys’ grammar school in Buckinghamshire but is very close to London and Oxford. Since there are persons counted amid those nearest and dearest to me who will be living in both these places, I am quite keen to obtain the position. They provide accommodation and seemed very enthusiastic on the phone. I am faced with the prospect of two days off school and the justification to buy new clothing. Couldn’t be better. Unfortunately, this, and the fact that more interviews are likely to follow, means that the interlude between this entry and the next is likely to be as long as the last. I can hear your hearts breaking. In fact, since it is quite late and I have much to remain bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow, I must toddle off to bed.

I’d love to stay and chat …but you’re a total bitch.

2004-04-20T19:18:00.000+01:00

Christmas and Easter have been and gone since last I wrote. Trust me, they have. My various jaunts were all very pleasant (apart from a few bouts of illness which threatened to overwhelm me and another, once resulting in a memorable fainting) and I have had a jolly nice few weeks- no school and much merriment. I am now faced with the unwelcome prospect of completing the second written assignment for my P.G.C.E. That is what I should be doing now. I have recently returned from the library, laden with publications with gripping and exhilarating titles, such as ‘Communication and Learning in Small Groups.’

My written assignment is to be on the subject of Inclusion and Social Learning. Ooohh. Ahhh. This essentially means that I will be looking at how children who have problems interacting with others (such as children with Asperger’s Syndrome, a disorder on the Autistic Spectrum) cope with group work and whether they can benefit from it. Now doesn’t that sound stimulating?

I started off well. I have much relevant material. I have even read some of it. Unfortunately I decided to have a flick through what is essentially a novel, albeit a novel told from the perspective of a child with Asperger’s, attempting to solve the murder of his neighbour’s dog. I suppose it is technically related, as it does give quite an insight as to how those with Asperger’s view the world, but it is something I should have read a few months ago, when planning my research lessons, rather than a week before the essay is due. An extract and then I must crack on-

‘Heaven doesn’t exist. I said there wasn’t another kind of place altogether. Except there might be if you went through a black hole. If Heaven was on the other side of a black hole, dead people would have to be fired into space on rockets to get there, and they aren’t, or people would notice.’(The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.)

Now there’s logic for you. This passage may also illustrate why I find talking to children with Asperger’s so interesting. They may well see the world differently but still certainly manage to make more sense than a lot of people.

2004-04-06T12:10:00.000+01:00

I forgot to say yesterday- another pupil, in the same class, was asked what they would discuss in their essay in relation to the rhyme scheme. The pupil replied that the rhyming was “erotic.” Quite apart from the fact that she had meant to say erratic, the rhyme scheme is very regular in the poem in question (ababb, if you’re interested.) I didn’t laugh out loud but it was difficult.

This, the briefest of entries, will probably be the last that is heard of me, blog-wise, for some time. Tonight I have much work to do, involving devising a fun poetry quiz for the aforementioned year 10s, and then I must pack and wash things and whatnot. I am off, you see, for the majority of the Easter holidays, on a magical mystery tour of the country. Well, it’s not really mysterious. I know exactly where I am going, or at least where I intend to go. Come to think of it, it is unlikely to be magical but you never know. Since it is doubtful I shall have access to a computer for, oooh, over a week, you will have to do without me. Good luck.

2004-04-05T20:54:00.000+01:00

As part of their coursework, my year 10s are currently writing a comparative essay on two, Pre-1914, Love poems. The poems they have the good fortune to be scrutinising are ‘Porphyria’s Lover’, by Robert Browning and ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, by John Keats. While going through the plan for this essay, I asked one pupil what he thought the situation was at the beginning of the Keats poem. The boy responded along these lines: “He’s drinking alone in the pub and he wants to know what kind of beer they have.” For those of you unfamiliar with Romantic ballads, here are the opening lines of ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’

“Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?”

When I questioned the lad further as to his reasoning, he illuminated by way of the following: “Well, he’s at the pub, yeah, The Knight’s Arms, alone, and he wants to know what kind of ale they have.” This is at the essay planning stage. They have already been through the poems. At least he got the alone part right. You have to focus on what they know and build from that. That is what I tell myself.

On the way back to my house this evening, I purchased some groceries. Since I had procured enough Diet Coke to kill, or at least maim, a donkey, I utilized a taxi instead of undertaking the two-minute walk back to my place of residence. (I was tired and cold!) The taxi driver, upon arrival at my domicile, declared that the remuneration he required for the use of his carriage was “a couple of quid, love.” I, no doubt distracted by the remnants of the previous day’s victuals lodged in his whiskers, answered “I’m sorry, did you say that was two pounds?” The driver responded by thrusting his nose into the air, presumably in an attempt to imitate the upper-classes, and stating, in an affected tone, that “Two Poy-unds would be just charming.” Then, resuming his prior, vulgar intonation, he continued “Well, love, that’s a coupla quid in normal peoples’ language.” As those who are acquainted with me will no doubt vouch, I am not aristocratic, especially in respect to my accent. I alighted, not a little perplexed and considerably taken-aback.

2004-04-01T17:07:00.000+01:00

Today is my little sister’s birthday. She is 17. This does mean she will shortly be getting behind the wheel of an automotive vehicle. I would suggest to anyone living or travelling in the area of Essex close to Colchester, that they avoid the lanes and thoroughfares of that county for the foreseeable future. It is also April Fools’ Day. (Miss, miss, pinch, punch, first of the month! Can we play a trick on you?!) And what an apt day for the occasion of her birth it was too. If you think I am being harsh, take note of the following account. On receiving her gym membership, signing up for classes and attending the first one, my sister made the following remark- “Well, I enjoyed it and everything but I really can’t see what it had to do with Pirates.” Can you guess the currently popular exercise program designed to “engage body and mind” my sister had just participated in?

The Passion then… The violence was, you might say, a bit strong - not that I feel deeply opposed to graphic violence or become exceptionally squeamish when viewing such material. The argument behind such explicit scenes – all Sin forgiven, greatest sacrifice, greatest suffering, follows cruelty has to be excessive, etc, etc- is all well and good. It does, however, get a bit dull after a while. (I, not being altogether religious, am more concerned with the film’s aesthetic value, rather than its power to instruct and redeem/corrupt the public.) In addition, this purpose is rather undermined by the cheap, pseudo-poignant sensationalism we have grown to, well, tolerate from Mel Gibson.

If you would rather see the film first, do not read on. Imagine the scene- Jesus, beaten and bloody, bits hanging off, dragging the cross athwart the opening to an alleyway in which his distraught mother is waiting to catch a glimpse of him. She, paralysed with maternal suffering, cannot summon the courage to go to her son and give what words of comfort she can. Jesus, overcome with exhaustion, trips. His head cracks on the harsh stone and flashback! We are now in the presence of Jesus the boy, running along a pathway, with no regard for his personal safety, as children are wont to do. He trips- gasp! Mary, about her usual domestic duties, hears her son’s shout of anguish and rushes to him, ready to bandage his grazed and youthful knees. And we’re back in film present! This mental episode has apparently given Mary the kick up the arse she needed in order to go to her son. She now runs to him, the music building to an emotional and orchestral crescendo. We all feel suitably moved.

Having said all this, it was not as bad as I was expecting. In the man’s defence, (a phrase I am unlikely to use again, so pay attention) producing the whole film in Aramaic and Latin was a stroke of genius. Had the characters been speaking English and, Heaven forbid, (Ohh Blasphemy!) using American accents, the whole thing would have been a farce. The language was extremely pleasant to listen to and, apart from a few incidents like the one mentioned above and the lack of anything actually happening, -half an hour of various cross-dragging, falling, being beaten, more cross dragging- I must say I found it…not enjoyable but...interesting. I resisted the urge, at one point, when a leading character proclaims that Jesus is “not the Messiah” to shout out “he’s a very naughty boy.” How restrained of me. With regard to anti-Semitism, I feel that is a can of worms I best leave alone. All I will say is, the characterisation of Pontius Pilate was a little unexpected.

Now, one more thing with regard to Mel, as he seems to have got off very lightly indeed. I must recount to you certain details from another film affiliated with Mr Gibson. The Patriot is worth watching for one scene. Where I have put ‘worth’ in that sentence, feel free to insert ‘laughing at.’ Mel’s youngest daughter in the above mentioned production, for reasons best known to herself, is struck mute for most of the first part of the film. There follows, towards the end, a moving and tender scene in which the girl speaks again for the first time. Sighs of relief all round. During the proceeding dialogue between Mel and his loquacious offspring, certain details come to light that could put off the more attentive viewer. When the camera is on Mel and the child’s back is to the camera, her golden pigtails are flowing down her back. When the camera is on the girl and Mel’s back is to us, the girl’s pigtails lie on her front. Mr Gibson has been involved in much stirring and controversial cinema and much in which the production team appear to have been a bit lackadaisical in their editing. My, I have been long- winded today.

Oh, I must mention one more thing in relation to The Passion and it invloves Satan. My housemate, James, with whom I shared my Cinema Experience, commented thus at our departure from the theatre- “Well, for me, the transsexual Devil with the shaven Telly Tubby made the whole film.” The boy has a ‘degree’ in Film Studies. How’s that for a review?

And finally- I win! Mr Flossie is mine! I won’t even have to “wrestle the intellectual Property rights away from him with a crowbar”, as a friend of mine suggested. She was feeling a bit ill at the time, though.

2004-03-31T17:57:00.000+01:00

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.

2004-03-29T19:44:00.000+01:00

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.

2004-03-25T18:02:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-25T12:40:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-24T19:13:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-23T17:40:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-22T19:07:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-21T15:54:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-21T13:56:00.000Z

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