Saturday, February 16

I get away with this

Supervising the education of West London's young is obviously a responsibility that I take very seriously. Much complex planning and consideration goes into each lesson.

It's just a shame that none of it is evident here:

I bought a new scanner/printer today. I was playing with it. The man in PC World asked me what I wanted from a printer. And I replied 'I want for it to print'. Then he bamboozled me with science and I walked out of the shop with a scanner/copier/printer, which I don't really need, but it's nice and shiny, at least.

Wednesday, February 6

Oh yeah, and...

... mental lady downstairs bought me some flowers and chocolates today, to apologise for storming up here this morning, yelling at me for drilling, and then storming back to call me a liar for denying any part in the drilling.

She found out it was below her.

So I'm thinking the gifts are well-deserved.

scary mums

I chose the worst possible time to go for a pot of mint tea in one of Crouch End's many eco-friendly, bio-sustainable, recycled-wood-bullshit-utensils cafes.

Taking two of my library books, and a pencil, I thought that the change of scene would wake me from my malaise and illicit some new ideas from my otherwise broken brain.

BUT, I went at 3pm, didn't I? What happens at 3pm in Crouch End? I'll tell you what. All the middle class mums pick up their Alonsos and Tabithas from Montessori school and swarm, en masse, to any cafe that doesn't sell food with additives. I was sandwiched between 3 buggies, 7 toddlers (I counted, it was hard because they kept running around), 2 breastfeeding mothers with enormous bags under their eyes and A LOT of bullshit.

A couple of the mums (no Dad', they were all at Moorgate or Bank getting premature heart disease) were discussing literacy, which made my ears prick up because I'm researching a project on it, one particularly obnoxious specimen, was holding court; 'yah, so, basically, you have to just read to them constantly until they're about six' (all the mothers around her nod sagely). Wow. I wonder how she came up with that nugget of vital child-rearing wisdom.

As you can imagine, I got very little done. There was one interesting episode. One tiny little boy skidded to a halt right in front of me, pointed to my head and said 'red'. I nodded and said 'yes, red'. He nodded back. Then we both resumed our activities. We had a moment, I think.

I don't ever want to have children. Or get married. Or grow up.

devil/angel, mental/sane

I am torn between the desire to go out and mooch around shops on my day off or to have a lazy day hanging around the house in my pyjamas and watching Woody Allen films (I have a full cupboard of food, freshly delivered from Sainsburys).

I'm a tad manic at the moment, so my body is telling me to GO, GO, GO, but when I manage to calm myself down enough to be rational I know that it's really not a good idea to out where there are shops when I am being a bit mental.

But if I stay at home I'll end up pacing and sending weird emails to all of my friends to alleviate the boredom.


Tuesday, February 5


I'm writing this blog 'on location' (with a pen and paper, later to be copied into font) from the reception area of my doctor's surgery in Crouch End, hoping that the periodic ringing of telephones and unrelenting soundtrack of the Carpenter's Greatest Hits (we're on I Won't Last A Day Without You now) will inspire me to produce something greater and more interesting than the patter that has littered these webpages in recent months.

There is duplicity in my visit here. I arranged the appointment under the guise of needing more steroid inhalers, as I keep waking up in the night only to encounter a near-death experience as my lungs fluff up and I clutch at the pillows, gasping for breath. This is my official reason for coming. My unofficial reason is to request some more sleeping pills.

I LOVE sleeping pills. The doctor prescribed them for me when I started my PGCE, as the newness and scariness of everything was causing A LOT of sleepless nights.

I'm not addicted or anything. In fact, I have only taken about seven zopiclones in my entire life. But the pure bliss they bring is like a cuddle in a cosy blanket under a thousand stars. You take one at 11pm knowing (there is a very loud, brash Scottish lady lecturing her ghetto fabulous daughter now. It's more off-putting than Karen Carpenter's dulcet tones) that the next conscious breath you take will be when your alarm goes off at 6.30am, and that you will complete the rest of the day without any of the nasty side effects that illegal, herbal or alcoholic substances can cause (the track order on this cd is weird, who puts Yesterday Once More before Calling Occupants of Interplanetery Craft - who?).

Sometimes, for fun, I take a zopiclone at 4pm, and again at 10pm, and I can spend nearly twenty hours asleep. Sometimes life just isn't interesting enough to bother to stay awake.

But, obviously, I am not going to tell my doctor any of this. I am simply going to plant the idea of the sleeping pills into her head, and then let her think that she has come up with the idea herself. And then I am going to skip to the pharmacy and present my prescription like it is a golden ticket.

And, while I'm there, I might as well get some inhalers. IT'S ONLY MY LUNGS.

Monday, February 4

Have you ever...

... screamed at yourself in the bathroom mirror whilst washing your hands because you had forgotten that you'd dyed your hair bright red earlier that day and subsequently were really, really surprised to see what resembles a disco-wig atop your head?

Then did you spend the next 5 minutes posing and pulling faces, as you realise that you actually like this new colour?

Balls, cocks, ballcocks, and more balls

My life has become centered around other people's balls.

To Ball Or Not To Ball?
My rabbit has suddenly become a lot more frisky than he used to be, and he stinks, so I have been advised by several friends (and veterinary surgeons) to have his testicles removed. My last rabbit, Big Bun, had his bollocks removed, and it transformed him from a playful, interesting pet into a boring, slobbering idiot. In fact, the change was so stark that I considered calling the vet to check that he hadn't performed a labotomy by accident.

Never Mind The Ballcocks...
... is a phrase I wish I'd been able to say this weekend, when, attempting to combat a leaking tank I foolishly snapped the floating ball off my plastic toilet flushing mechanism (following telephone instructions from my Dad, who thought it was made of brass and would therefore 'bend'). I thought I had turned the water off at the mains, and isolated the problem. But I hadn't. Because, as I later found out when I gave in and called a plumber, my flat has two stopcocks. And stopcock number 2 was hidden behind a plastered panel. What kind of flat has two stopcocks? Mine.

Little Balls Made Of Pixels
These are an ongoing source of frustration, as I am getting rubbisher and rubbisher at Nintendo tennis by the day.

Sunday, February 3

What you get if you google...

'Boys' and 'English' whilst researching your university assignment into underachieving boys:

English Boys- the site for the horniest cock on cock boy action

English boys strip naked,wank and fuck for England. - 3k - Cached - Similar pages - Note this


Do Google searches and that...