On New Year's Resolutions

I have a computer now.
It is new (never happened before) and shiny and brown (although Paul claims it's actually black, the box said 'dark brown' and I choose to believe them).
I have my own computer now, it is sitting on the kitchen table and using it does not involve climbing up into the freezing loft and waiting for three hours for it to start and then three more for it to open Internet Explorer.
It is sitting on the kitchen table 24/7 and so is available to me also when Paul is not home eg. when I'm not too busy talking to him/serving dinner/watching Neighbours or QI.
I have a computer, it is mine, it is available with no restrictions in space and time, and I have no more excuses especially while I justified the purchase of the said computer to myself (4 years on less than a student budget in France conditionned me into believing that any purchase requires a valid justification and 'I want it' is valid only for items worth less than 10 pounds and once a month) by:
1. getting better about staying properly in touch with all my friends scattered about the globe
2. updating my blog regularly (cause otherwise what's the point?)
No excuses.

On my problem with London

I don't like going to London much.
I don't like going to London, because I don't feel comfortable in big cities with all their crowds in haste.
But mostly I don't like going to London because I like it too much. Like Paris. Like Berlin.
I spend the day doing the touristy stuff, pushing my way through crowds, being pushed myself, clinging on to my handbag and to Paul's hand so that this whole unspeakable energy and movement would not suck me in and make me disappear.
But then we sit somewhere for a drink and I start watching people walking past and my mind starts imagining the lifes they have, what it would be like to be their friend or colleague or neighbour, and I spot a street with particularly nice (interesting, unusual, ugly) houses (trees, shades, lamp posts, you name it) and I start wondering what it would be like if that street was mine, if I lived there/walked past it every day, if the pub/cafe I'm sitting in was my pub/cafe, what friends I would have if I was hanging out here, what kind of job I'd be doing, and a whole new unknown life starts unravelling itself in my mind.
The itch.
Later on I get back home, I wash off all the metallic dust of the underground, and I feel relieved that all that buzzing and chaos are far away from me and I am safe in my little house. The itch subsides a little.
But then I go to bed and I fall asleep listening to the cars driving past my window and I wonder where they are going to, are they going to one of those unknown lives I lurked into earlier on that day? Or to yet a different one, in yet a different place?
What is it like? What would it be like to live there?
And it saddens me that I will never find out...

Aix

The difference between France and Poland, just as between England and France, is that I have never missed my life in Poland and I miss my life in France dearly - all aware that I am that I'm much better off in England, I can't help but miss my little appartment at the foot of a pinaide, the terrasse with a rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and so many good times, and so many other big and little things that I left behind.
So every time the plane starts to descend above the Marseille Provence airport, a big ball of nostalgia climbs into my throat and it feels like coming home (ah, difficult notion that of home, when you're me... but on that another time).
Then I spot Mount Sainte Victoire as the plane turns, then the first shock of the heat, the first gush of the Mistral, the ball in my throat keeps growing.
Then we get on the coach to Aix and I see all those place names, Pinchinades, Vitrolles, la Duranne, les Milles, names that were once new and full of promises now greet me like old friends making the ball in my throat grow even more. I does not matter that I have never been in many of them, I have read them, seen them, heard them, savoured the way their sounds rolled out of my mouth so many times...

Aix is still Aix.
The colours, the little streets, the blue shutters spotting the ochre facades of the bastides, the baguettes, the cheese, the wine, Pastis, the marketplace, Mamie's ratatouille, everything stopping for lunch, the cycadas driving you mad with their monotonous screeching, the oppressing heat, people stopping in the middle of a roundabout to get a newspaper, the bourgeoises riding their shopping trollies across your feet and failing to apologise... and Mount Sainte Victoire reigning overlooking all this madness and beauty, impassible and majestic.

Some friends are gone, some are still there. Some have drifted away a force de distances, the important ones greet me as if I had never left.
I still have my seat at the bar in Cafe le Verdun (although you can't smoke in there anymore) and Pat still accepts a glass of wine I pay him and then knocks a round off my bill.
Mamie and Papy are still Mamie and Papy, growing older without changing at all but each time I see them, I feel the painfully aware that they are not eternal.

And the house at the Roc Fleuri is still there too, with the pinaide behind it and the terrasse in front, the rusty table that has seen so many bottles of rose and good times...

Indeed, places where you were once happy should not be allowed to go on without you.

On being told to shut up

The kind of child to tell you to 'shut up' (or 'f-off' as a matter of fact) is usually a distraught individual struggling to become human and thinking that being rude and fearless of consequences is what being an adult is all about. As far as they're concerned life is seriously shit and they will fight anything they can by all means possible, just in case.
And most of the time, you can see how distraught they get once they realise what they'd just said. Or, at the very least, how upset and worked up they got before saying it.
You still get angry, you shout at them, you give them detentions, but you don't hold grudges and deep inside you just wish you could use a magic wand make them less miserable and less angry at the entire world.
And then there is Kenisha (not a real name). Kenisha thinks you're dirt. Kenisha thinks that all is due to her and if she wants to talk, she will talk, whether you are trying to teach or not has no importance what so ever. And when you say 'Kenisha, could you please stop talking?', Kenisha looks at you as if you were a fly on her sandwich and says 'Shut up'.
Somehow I think Kenisha will follow into her sister's footsteps and get excluded before finishing year 10.
And I know that next time Kenisha sends a door into my face, I am not going to be willing to talk about it and make it go away in hope of establishing a positive relationship with her.
Screw that.

On Sports Days

We're having a Sports Day at my school soon. Each form had to come up with a team and students to volunteer for different events. There's this one girl, who is an angry young woman, constantly in trouble, but I've put her down for shot put as others claimed she was really good at it.
This morning she came to school after a few days of absence, and I broke the news to her.
"Ain't doing that!" she said "You can't flipping make me!"
An expected reaction, granted, but I wasn't going to give up easily.
"Oh come on, it's just one small event and I hear you're really good at it. Come on, please?"
I have to say, I did expect this to be met with another rude outburst of anger. Instead I heard: "All right then miss. I'll do it."
I still think I must have been dreaming!

This does not, of course, mean that she'll actually show up on the day though...





PS. Later update: She didn't.

On tea

Last night, as I was struggling to fall asleep, I have come to realise an astonishing truth: ever since I moved to the UK, I've been drinking a lot less tea than before.
Ok, fine, I have one cup of proper tea with milk a day (or something like that), which is me adopting local habits, but I used to have 2-3 cups of green tea a day before and what happened to that?
Well, school happened to that.
Need to buy a kettle and put it in my cupboard.
Green tea is good for you.

On wonders

We went to see Stevie Wonder in the Hyde Park yesterday and my God was it great!
The man is absolutely beautiful - the joy in his face as he plays the music would be enough for ten people or more.
Made me seriously happy.
What a brilliant day.

57 miles

Up to 4 miles, cycling is no fun. It's only after that distance that your muscles are properly warmed up and you start enjoying it as opposed to just wanting to go home and feel sorry for yourself. I know that, so I don't get discouraged and I apply all my energy to warming my muscles up.
After that, up to ca. 20 miles, it's seriously fun, sun is shining, interesting birds are flying, all hills are ascendable and it's so cool to ride down them!
Past 20 miles it's time for a small rest, a stretch, a sandwich, and off we go again, all positive and happy, cause it is such a beautiful day and I'm going to beat my distance record and all.
At around 25 miles, it is however starting to become harder, the muscles feel tired and on steeper inclines I start to struggle - or so it feels, as I always end up getting both me and Bob the bike to the top. .
At 30 miles I'm properly tired. I'm starting to speculate whether I actually do have to do those 50 miles or if I could just go home now. But soon I want to continue, cause look, I've beaten my record and I'm still cycling! Besides soon we'll make a proper stop and have a good rest, it will be fine.
A couple of miles later, all I can think of is a pub or a shop where we could refill our bottles hence forcing the stop, cause God it hurts when it's uphill!
And after that stop it is all better, I'm still tired but I think that if we can stop when needed, I'll be fine. I'm just slightly worried: Paul has to pull my gloves off for me, as my fingers are no longer prehensile.
45th mile: I get off my bike, sit down and cry. 'I can't do it, it is too hard' I sob pathetically blowing my nose into the surrounding foliage.
Paul takes me litterally and suggests we find me a nice place to wait and he'll go and get the car, as nothing is worth such misery.
It takes me a while to make him understand that I was just letting off pressure and that I'm fine, really, and I really meant 'I'm finding this very difficult, I need some encouragement, but I'll still do it'.
'Well, that's not what you said' says Paul and I think he is a little bit annoyed that I'm speaking female at him and expect him to understand.
But anyway - we get back on our bikes and get safely home, 57 miles on the counter all together. We shower and put the barbacue on. We have a couple of beers. My legs aren't even hurting really (though the fingers in my left hand still refuse to cooperate) and I feel extremely proud of myself.

On stag dos

I’m not sure if I understand the idea of stag/hen weekends away. I mean, in some cases it is obvious – go away where no one knows you in order to get laid one more time with a total stranger before you make your vow of fidelity and, at least in theory, have to give up that kind of behaviours forever (but then why take your friends with you – after all one of them could say something to someone on another drunken night and your other half could still find out).
Anyway, that reason being out of the question, what’s the point?
Paul’s just been on one in Munich and what they did was: drink beer, go go-carting, play football in the park, drink some more beer. All of which they could have done over here without paying an arm and a leg for flights and hotels. I would have understood if they had done one thing that was actually about Munich – but they didn’t! Unless you count drinking beer, that is...
Two years ago another friend of his was getting married and they went to Amsterdam, which made sense as the point was for the said friend to get stoned braindead as he loves to get stoned so Amsterdam was the place to go and he couldn’t have done that over here. But this one?
Don’t get me wrong – when/if it comes to my hen do, I would love to go away somewhere with my friends. But I would see something of the place on top of merry making...

On hairdresser therapy

I went to the hairdresser's today, a treat after a long half-term and other turmoils, and I felt that some hair needed to come off.
My hairdresser, Sarah, is this nice lady from South Africa, who seems to remember all I tell her about me through the months in between my visits, which is a quality every good hairdresser should have as frankly, getting a new haircut is only one of the reasons we go there.
She washed my hair, which is one of the reasons I go to the hairdressers - I love having my hair washed by someone else, it's like the best massage ever, soothing and relaxing, and then my hair started to come off and we started to talk. First some small talk about work, fatigue, planned holidays, her son's schooling etc. Then we got interrupted by some idiot from my bank who had to speak to me urgently - no doubt wanting me to upgrade my account, which I have no desire of doing. Once I got rid of that woman, Sarah and I decided that commercial calls were annoying and pointless, because we know very well that there are other options out there and if we are unhappy with our current provider of whatever service, we will look into alternatives, we are not retarded.
As Sarah was putting the finishing touches into my now short hair, she said her husband (who is the one handling service providers in her household) gets seriously with such phone calls but always forgets about it immediately. 'I would be grumpy for a while' she added philosophically 'but he isn’t. I guess it's just that men are better at getting over things quickly, while we will go on turning them over and over in hour heads. They're better at compartmentalising stuff and moving on.'
And she quite possibly saved my relationship there and then.

On local sensitivity

One thing that strikes a foreigner moving over here is how quickly you are on the first name basis with people, whether the situation be social or professional. In other countries there is a more or less official ceremony where the elder (in whatever way – age, status, job, anything) suggests to the other party involved to move on to less formal terms, in some cases followed by both of them sealing the new pact by drinking high percentage alcohol in various doses.
Nothing of the kind here, your boss is ‘Peter’ immediately, your partners’ parents, the mailman, your elderly neighbours, anyone. Of course, we all know it before we come here, we’ve learnt it and about it in our English lessons.
Where we’re lost, is that this apparent informality and friendliness finishes there and then exactly. You can call your boss ‘Peter’ but you won’t ask him about his family (you’re still required to answer politely when he asks you about yours, but you should limit yourself to meaninglessly acquiescing them being fine). You call your superior “Catherine” but beware how you ask her for help – the appropriate way is to say in an emotionless voice ‘I could use your support on this’, accept being brushed off and wait patiently until some time is allocated to you. Even if in the meantime a student is reducing you to tears every time they enter your classroom and clearly enjoying it very much, saying ‘I’m sorry to be pushy, but I really need something done about this’ is rude.
Mainly, whatever happens, be it in social or professional situation, any kind of reaction other than smiling and pretending that it is all right is not acceptable. You have to be nice to everyone, regardless of whether or not they are nice to you. (Actually, the locals seem to have a way of not being nice to you that is not considered rude by the bystanders – you’re hurt, but no one else sees the problem. Unfortunately, as I haven’t mastered that art yet, when I retaliate, I’m inevitably rude...)
In conclusion, it seems that I might need to leave my personality and my opinions at home as having them does not seem to be socially acceptable. Plus, I don’t think it is a good idea for me to drink around other people – I inevitably say something that I have managed to repress while sober and I end up having to apologise for hurting people's sensitivity by my inacceptable behaviour. And I grow angrier each time...

I don't want to brag...

but I will. Paul and I are training for the London to Brighton in June, which is a challenge and it should be an accomplishement and lots of fun!
And the road to it is also full of smaller but not lesser accomplishements: today I broke my distance record (30,5 miles - was 30 miles from when I'd done the Oxfordshire ride last year, notably so as it was the third time I was riding a bike in some 15 years) and my speed record (27.3 mph - was 21.7 mph). And those massive hills seem less massive each time I attack them.
My big worry however is a hill on the actual route to Brighton - I've heard stories about it and apparently 90% of participants push their bikes up that thing. Well, me being me, I know that I'll have to ride up the bastard or die in shame. The only problem is I probably won't be able to... and I'll have to get over it...

Bletchley Park

Last weekend we took Paul's school French exchange partner, who's been staying with us for a week, to Bletchley Park. I had never been before but I knew about it of course, coming from a place as obsessed with the second world war as the Poland of my childhood was.
I was bracing myself a little anticipating a need to clench my teeth and say nothing, as yet another Polish contribution to something big was going to be ignored and buried under the local achievements. I was wrong - they even have a memorial to Polish ingeneers who started it all!
Highly refreshing after finding out about all those exceptional French people, such as Marie Curie-Sklodowska, Fryderyk Chopin and even Robert Korzeniowski.
(A big rant full of witty and sarcastic remarks could follow, but I'm afrait that if start, there will be no stopping me!)

On home stores and more

I love home stores. They make me dream of nesting and hominess, and oh...

We have Paul's exchange French teacher coming to stay with us on Tuesday, so we finally decided to sort the guest cupboard a bit - it only had a sofa bed so far. We opted for a bookshelf, as it would provide surfaces for the woman to put her stuff on and still fit into the room. I was also looking forward to having somewhere to put all the books lying around in piles, but as it is, we bought a 'CD/DVD shelf' and so only the smallest books fit onto it.

Then we did some time killing before going for dinner to Paul's parents, which resulted in the purchase of a wok (yay!) and a couple of little things that make me happy. But as we were browsing through the vast spaces of TKMaxx, I realised that I can dream all I want - some things are just not going to happen.

And so I find home stores highly frustrating - there's just so many things I want, I want, I want, but I can't have as I can't afford, I have nowhere to put, I don't need... or Paul doesn't like...

Yet again...

Excerpts from my year 10 group:
"Of course you 'do' ski, the French do everything!"
"Miss, what are you doing tomorrow after school?" (he meant could he come and work on his assessment script, but it still sounded the way it sounded)
"Vowel clash! I knew I would find one!" (Lovely that he gets this excited about the language, but no, it wasn't a vowel clash at all)

I know I'm not updating as often as I could/should. I blame the little time I have for myself and the lack of own laptop (RIP).
Yet again, I'll try to be better...

A rant

You can only do as much yourself. You can put them on report, tell them off, give them detentions, call parents, but at some point the person above you needs to take over. Who that is depends on school policies and structures, most of the time it won't be the same person for subject as for form etc. Anyway - one of my such people is mostly useless. She is trying, don't get me wrong, but things are not being chased up as quickly as they should if at all.
And of course the little buggers feel untouchable.
So all your effort, the fact that you chased everything up and did everything you could, just gets wasted.
Seriously frustrating.

On top of that, I had a fight in my classroom today. Chairs being thrown onto people, people being thrown onto tables, serious fight, not a fun 'let's-wind-the-teacher-up' fight. And of course, without thinking, I got right in the middle of it. I managed to separate them, they got removed to isolation and higher powers will deal with them now (much higher powers, so they actually will) but I can't help but think: I could have gotten hurt...

Bottom line: I need a glass of wine and a cigarette. Now.

On weights and measures

One of the biggest problems I've had to deal with these days was the problem of what 30g of dry cat food looked like. I settled for 5 spoon fulls, the cat was acting as if he was being starved, friends on Facebook suggested half a glass, failed however to specify the type of glass they had in mind, I ended up buying kitchen scales (a useful item in a kitchen anyway) and found out that 30g of dry cat food were... 3 spoon fulls. The cat was acting as if he was being starved while being overfed.
Moral: don't trust your cat with food measurements.
Quite refreshing not to have bigger problems than that (or to be capable of pushing them away to the very darkest corner of the head where no one can see them).
Good girl.

On furry sausages

Is half term. Brains are resting, bodies are sleeping until undecent hours of almost early evening.
We both brought quite a lot of work to do home this week but so far the big pile of bags has been shifted once or twice for the benefit of visiting friends (so they would not trip on it) but that's where our interaction with it ended. Which is not good really.
But to be quite honest I am much more interested in interacting with the newest addition to our little family - a big pile of black hair requiring regular brushing and stroking and emitting some serious purring. Much more interesting than marking!

On English books

There's a girl in my form who would not respond to me, well, even react to me. As if I didn't exist. She would answer to the register but that's as far as our interactions went. She ignored instructions, left classroom before being dismissed, lost counltess reports, forgot countless detention slips, missed countless detentions and I ended up having to refer the case to the Year Learning Manager and we were seriously talking about having her move forms.
Since Christmas she started taking her jacket off when instructed to do so maybe once a week, then twice a week, by now I still have to ask but she does it.
She does not leave the classroom before I dismiss them anymore.
She actually talked to me about options (probably because I spoke to her and her mum at the Options Evening and then nagged and nagged until she spoke to me) - then she came back cause she changed her mind and asked my advice(?!).
This morning she came in early and said "Miss, do you want a look at my English book? I'm working really well in English."
Of course I wanted.
And it doesn't matter that the book was thrown to me rather than handed over.

On not blogging

I have not written anything in over two months -I'm sorry. Countless times I would think to myself 'I have to blog about this or that' but somehow I never did. It was probably somewhat related to shorter days, general fatigue and the modification of my time allocations and instinctive priorities (as opposed to actual priorities) due to the load of work and to moving in with a boy.
And then there was the NYE and I was not going to blog about any of that - there was no way I could make it sound entertaining.
Anyway.
That's done with, for the time being at least, the days are getting longer and here I am again!