I, Expat

An unexpected change of language

2011-11-21T22:07:00.001Z

I went to a training session today, supposed to make my A-level teaching match the board specifications better, hence allowing for better exam results.As I arrived, the woman delivering the session was walking around registering participants and chatting a bit here and there. From where I sat, I could hear her having an animated conversation in French with one of the participants, which was natural given that she was French, as I deduced from her name written on the board next to the session's timings. After a while she approached me, we went through greetings and a bit of small talk in French, and then suddenly she switched to English - no reason, no warning - and stuck to English even though I stuck to French. And then it dawned on me - the change was not that inexplicable. It coincided with me indicating my name on her register. My name is rather obviously not French...

Stuff from home and stuff

2011-11-13T17:34:00.001Z

I've been musing today about how some expatriates will always prefer products from their home country to the local ones, even if the local ones are essentially the same except for the label and the lower price. I've known people who had their relatives back home send them everything, even things like salt and pepper. I can understand missing what you can't get - I was myself a victim of cruel cravings for Polish sausage, bigos, pierogi etc., but beer was beer and yes, I missed my favourite Zywiec, but would have never bought it (had it been available) if the local similar product was cheaper. And now that it is available, I don't - also because I have discovered that there are many local ales that I actually like much better. But then again I gave myself the opportunity of discovering that by trying things - and so many people just won't. Wonder why.

French vs. British part 1

2011-10-30T22:21:00.003Z

While Mother was here visitng, we took her to Blenheim Palace. Her English had improved a lot thanks to several language courses combined and crammed into a period of couple of months preceding her visit, but still was not up to understanding the guide there. I was therefore translating for her, as quietly as I possibly could, she was actually bending over to keep her ear as close to my mouth as possible.At one point, I noticed a posh looking lady giving me evil looks. Didn't think much of it, but the next thing I knew, the lady spoke: "Can you stop talking, I can't hear her (meaning the guide) if you are speaking in the same time." No please, no nothing, no being apologetic, and the accent leaving no doubt the lady was French. I didn't bother responding, just pulled Mother away from the lady, so that we would not disturb her anymore - the 'a bit English' part of me in control clearly, although the 'a bit French' part of me gave her an evil look and started listing snappy responses to her 'polite' request. After the tour, I told Paul all about it, and being both English and really nice, he opposed me vehemently, saying that I could not generalise. But of course I can.This is not to say that each and every French person would have behaved the same. Just an average one, as the French society teaches its members to function in a certain specific way towards others, and the English one in a different specific way - had the lady been English, my bet is she would have moved away from us, if I was really disturbing her. That is not to say, of course, that each and every English person would. Just an average one.

like riding a bike

2011-02-08T21:13:00.003Z

'I bought a piano' I told my parents.
Mother immediately provided me with such an amount of good advice that I fervently wished I had not bought the piano at all or at least that I had had the presence of mind not to tell my parents about it.
Father said not to worry, that it was like riding a bike - one did not forget and it came back quickly.
Well, not really.
Not after twenty years (NB. saying this makes me slightly alarmed. I actually had not played the piano for twenty years. I am old enough to not have done something for twenty years. Not sure what to do with this).

Still, the piano has been bought and now is standing in my living room, like a wild animal that I have to tame knowing very well that it is not going to help me (might have something to do with lots of white 'teeth' staring at me as soon as I enter the room).

I am going to try though, as being able to play the Moonlight Sonata has been on my bucket list long enough and it's time I learnt it. Especially now that I have paid stupid money for a piano... (it reassures me that I am not likely to actually kick the bucket any time soon as it will take a lot of time to learn the stupid thing. That and a surgery enlarging the span of my fingers!)

On Elvis

2011-01-07T16:52:00.003Z

Whenever I watched footages from concerts, or other events involving the presence of stars, I would sigh with lack of understanding and a feeling of certain perplexity at the teenagers and no-longer-teenagers waving frantically at their idol(s) and screaming their hearts out in an almost religious trance. Do not get, do not approve, get a life.

And then I watched Elvis with Jannick. And there we were, two mature women in their 30ies, otherwise mostly reasonable and calm, crying and screaming at the telly, pressing our hands to our lips with emotion as if trying to contain the squeeky noises that were forcing themselves out of our throats (but failing miserably).

(Other people present retreated to the conservatory for the duration of the concert.
Paul, me thinks, had a hard time getting to grips with what was happening to his normally rather much less noisy girlfriend.)

But still, it was Jannick and me and lots of wine and Elvis. Not Westlife or the likes.
Yet, I now know from which part of one's insides those screams emerge and that it is not possible to contain them.
So I no longer judge.

NB. I was told later on that it was rude of us to watch Elvis instead of all of us doing something together. Maybe so. But then I remember another social gathering during which people put on football that some of us had no desire to watch and that was ok. I sometimes get a paranoid feeling that if someone else does it, it's ok, but when I do it, it's rude...

On New Year's Resolutions

2010-12-29T17:19:00.005Z

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

2010-08-26T15:26:00.002+01:00

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

2010-07-31T14:59:00.000+01:00

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

2010-07-19T16:29:00.000+01:00

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

2010-06-29T21:55:00.001+01:00

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

2010-06-28T21:13:00.003+01:00

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

2010-06-27T11:17:00.000+01:00

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

2010-06-06T21:38:00.009+01:00

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

2010-05-30T12:30:00.001+01:00

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

2010-05-29T13:38:00.003+01:00

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

2010-05-25T19:03:00.000+01:00

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...

2010-05-15T20:36:00.004+01:00

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

2010-05-12T18:46:00.003+01:00

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

2010-05-02T14:52:00.002+01:00

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...

2010-05-01T19:47:00.002+01:00

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

2010-03-01T22:05:00.002Z

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

2010-02-20T20:14:00.003Z

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

2010-02-17T12:24:00.002Z

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

2010-02-10T19:33:00.003Z

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

2010-02-06T14:47:00.000Z

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!

The bully

2009-11-14T18:43:00.005Z

On Friday everyone is on their last nerves. Especially in this longest, darkest, worst half-term of the entire school year. Everyone is stressed out, everyone is exhausted, everyone feels like they would rather get an important part of their body chopped off than spend one more day at school. For me this has been a particularly trying week with lots of drama in my form, a year 8 student destroying my favourite jumper using the ink from a pen he personally dismembered instead of working, and the usual lot of gobby cows and cheeky arseholes who think they don't owe respect to anything or anyone never mind the teacher.
Until yesterday however I didn't think such states of mind and emotions justified rudeness.

Yesterday morning I went to reprographics hoping to get a worksheet copied.
'Can't do it' the copy lady snapped 'I have an urgent job now'.
Fair enough, I really should have brought it in earlier. The lack of 'good morning' and 'sorry' did not put me off too much as she has made me rather used to that.
I apologized profusely and decided to try the staff room machine.
The copy lady had beaten me to it.
'Can't do it now' she snapped 'we're doing maintenance'.
After which she told me that I'm not allowed to use this machine for more than a couple of copies (I wouldn't have if she hadn't refused to do them for me on her machine) and I'll have to be better organised, all in a tone of voice that implied that I had offended her majesty by suggesting that she was there to help me do my job and not the other way around and how dare I the little nothing that I am.
I was speachless. Emotionally exhausted as I was, for a minute I actually thought that I did something terribly wrong, broke a rule I had not known existed or something? Until one of the cover teachers who witnessed it all came around and said she admired me for not saying anything because the copy lady had been plain rude.
And as I spoke to people along the day, I realised that as it is, people stay long after hours to sneakingly do their copies in the staffroom because that is the only way they know their copies will be done right (right number of pages, right number of copies, right size etc.) and they won't get told off for daring to want any.
Magalie, who is in my department, said she tries to plan without worksheets so that she won't have to go to reprographics. And if she has to, she sends a kid.
Charlotte (my head of department/mentor) said that had never happened to her but she knows that the copy lady can be like this when stressed out (as if that excused anything!) and that I shouldn't worry cause she will have forgotten all about it by Monday. SHE will have forgotten?!
I am outraged. I am paid to deal with rude children, but not rude colleagues! And she is clearly bullying a lot of teachers (if not all staff) and no one is doing anything about it! But I am not sure if anything can be done. I am however sure that going on any crusade here would cost me more than it would benefit me or others. So I suppose that the only thing for me to do is to start staying longer after hours than I already do and make my copies sneakingly in the staff room...

Cheddington

2009-11-12T17:13:00.001Z

Another walk last weekend – this time without any animals ganging up on us. We did walk past a few horses who observed us attentively making us feel uneasy after the Wing cows experience, but luckily they made no attempt at intimidation.
The walk is picturesque, a big part goes along the Grand Union Canal with a double lock and we’ve spotted a few lovely thatched cottages – apparently it is very expensive to own a thatched roof as it requires a lot of maintenance.
This time we also managed to eat at the pub – The Old Swan – and it was delicious! I had a roast with the best Yorkshire pudding I have ever had. I do recommend it (in case you’re ever in Cheddington…).

"I love you. Will you do a French GCSE please?"

2009-11-07T10:17:00.002Z

I think everyone finds parents evenings draining. I know I do. But then maybe no everyone gets as emotional about them as me? Who knows.
We had a year 9 parents evening on Thursday, and as my form is year 9, I spent over 3 hours talking non-stop. At 7 most teachers had left - I was still there talking. I have to say that I'm kind of grateful to have been abandoned for the day today - at least I don't have to open my mouth!
It is always interesting to meet your students' parents - helps you understand your students better. Also, you can sometimes make powerful allies. Or reward the nice kids, who never get enough of your attention because you're busy dealing with the culprits.
But it is draining - you talk, and you talk and there is often an emotional response to what you say, people getting all proud and happy, others almost crying (I know some teachers find it wrong, but I tend to tell the truth as it is, without embelishing it too much).
By the end of the night I had managed to tell one student I loved her, tell another one he was an idiot (in front of his mother of course), promise another one that I will wear my glasses if he wears his, promise to tell X's teachers she can't sit next to Y, to tell Z's teachers he should sit alone in the front cause then he's less tempted to mess about, to find out for A why her science teacher wants her to do triple science while she feels she's rubbish at it, etc. On top of that I'll have to go through endless sheets of statistical info and past results to help all 30 of my little monsters make informed decisions when it comes to choosing GCSE options. I don't think I'm going to leave school at all next week.
Any volunteers willing to mark my books for me? There's only some 200 of them to do...

7 am

2009-11-03T17:21:00.002Z

The school is eerie, like a little ghost town of its own. Everything is dark, in the reception area the lights go automatically on as I walk in and I know they will switch themselves off soon after I'll have walked out. The corridors, which are usually full of chatter and noise, are empty and hollow. I feel like I'm the only person there. I know that I am, cause as I left the reception, my name was the only one with 'in' marked next to it.
But I'm wrong.
In the early morning, the school belongs to the caretakers. They walk the grounds and the corridors silently, ghostlike. They go about their business, checking things, fixing things, making sure everyone is safe and warm as the day begins. They smile and greet me as I walk past them, and I feel reassured by their presence.
As soon as I get to my own classroom however, it's just the empty building and me all over again. So I put music on loud and sing along as I get ready for the day to begin. And it's great, because I have lots of time to do all the things I have to do and all the energy I need to do them.
If you had ever told me that I would enjoy being at work at 7am, I would think you were crazy. But there we go.
The only bit I don't like about it is having to get out of bed. But I would hate that part regardless of the hour!

Half-term

2009-10-31T18:05:00.004Z

Half-term is almost over.
I've been sick for most of it, a really nasty cold, which was made worse by travelling and stress.
We went to Poland for a couple of days for my parents' 40th anniversary (!) and it was good, but tiring and hard in some ways as Mother wasn't very well at all and Parents were Parents, so I mainly got back feeling fat and worthless. They mean well, I know they do, but the message getting through is that I don't really have anything interesting to say (at least not anything that would call for a response or a question aiming to find out more, not to speak of letting me finish my sentence), that I'm gaining weight (even if I've actually lost some) and that the only reason why I'm actually taking care of myself and am going somewhere is that I'm with Paul.
It's really curious how some people express their love!
So now I could really use a few days to get over it all but Monday is back to school. And I feel completely out of it, I am sure that there were things I should follow up etc. but I just don't have it in me.
I need a holiday.

Wing cows are vicious

2009-10-11T17:45:00.001+01:00

At one point it became clear that weekends couldn’t be about just sorting the house out anymore – we needed a break, even if it meant some boxes staying around for longer. So we decided to go walking. I had bought myself a pair of outdoor shoes I didn’t really need (and yay to that!) and a “Pub Walks in Buckinghamshire” book, and yesterday we set off to do the closest one – in Wing.

It quickly became clear that this particular pub walk would not include the pub bit, there was however nothing I could do about the pub stopping serving food and not serving again until several hours later. Oh well, if I wanted pubs serving food all day long I should have stayed in Brum.

The walk started off lovely, the sun was shining, the countryside was picturesque, following the route indicated in the book was easy. The first obstacle we encountered was a large group of cows scattered in a field we were supposed to cross. We joked that the guide should really be saying “go over the stile and among the cows” and that we hoped they would not gang up on us. They didn’t. They gave us strange looks as we went past but resumed munching almost immediately.

Encouraged by this experience, we approached our second herd of cows with more confidence, especially while they were lazily lying in the grass and looked oblivious to our presence. As we got closer they stood up and walked away, which was even better. However, as soon as we were on their level, they hurried back towards us and the next thing we knew we were ducking under the electric fence and desperately trying to get through overgrown bushes which would sting and scratch but not give way. The cows stayed put on their side and watched us as we retracted our steps through the bushes on the other side of the fence getting stung and scratched until we were far enough to venture getting back into the field.

Uh oh. Scary!

On idiots of various sorts

2009-09-26T16:48:00.000+01:00

Ever since we have moved into our little cottage I have been cycling to school. I am proud to say that I am getting more and more confident on my bike and develop more and more normal speeds now. My first ride to school was 40 minutes. Now I’m at 25 and I tend to prefer roads to pavements (at least on my way to school – in the afternoon there are way too many cars!).

I have however quickly understood that most drivers don’t give much heed to us cyclists. Like the idiot who was stationary right across the red way the other day, even if he had plenty of driveway in front and in the back. Did he move when he saw me? No. What for if I can get off my bike and go around him like a good girl?

Like the idiot who sped off the roundabout the other day on a red light that he did not see because he was busy looking for something on the floor of his car. He probably didn’t notice the fact that he almost took my front wheel off either. Thank God I was slow getting on my bike!

And finally yesterday’s idiot – I was nearing a roundabout where I turn right so I needed to get into the right lane. Now, indicating right is really hard. I stick my arm out but I wobble and stress and all. So I hate doing it. Still, since I knew there was a car behind me, I stuck my arm out and after a few seconds started changing lanes. And that idiot decided to still take me over and get onto the roundabout a few centimetres in front of me sharply getting back into the left lane cause he was going straight.

Still, the most disgusting story of all is probably that of an 11 years old girl from Paul’s form who was knocked off her bike by a reversing car. The driver did not even get out. He stuck his head out of his window and shouted abuse at her.

Not even an idiot that. A sorry excuse for a human being.

I’m back!

2009-09-22T19:20:00.002+01:00

Until yesterday I have been completely cut off from the internet (if you don’t count school, but the network won’t let me access the interesting sites anyway) – hence the long silence. An update is therefore due – lots to tell, could type pages, but will do it in brief:

The school is great. Love it. Absolutely. As of yesterday I even have a form. Inherited from a teacher who was too burdened by his personal problems to remain a good form tutor. They’re spoilt. They lack both care and discipline. They’re year 9 so their hormones are through the roof. It will take a lot of hard work, sweat and tears before I break them into decent human beings. But I will. And in the meantime I shall be faithfully reporting on all the jewels coming out of their mouths.

We’ve moved into our little cottage on September 5th and it hasn’t stopped since. Boxes. CD towers. A drill. More boxes. Throws and cushions (cause we are happy owners of a very comfortable yet seriously ugly couch). Some more boxes. Mirror in the bathroom. Desk up into the loft – take it apart, put it together. Yet more boxes. Shower curtain (cause as it was taking a shower implied a flood in the bathroom). Change address with school, bank… Internet. Boxes… gah.

Weekend? Sorry, what?

At this point we are connected to the outside world (and right on time, as am expecting loads of birthday messages tomorrow!), we don’t have to mop the bathroom every morning, the living room is done and box-free.
The loft contains desk, computer, two chairs, some piles of books and… boxes.
The bedroom is ok but contains unpacked bags.
The conservatory is full of boxes (although some of them empty).
But we have bird feeders in the garden.
And we know how recycling works.
We’re home.

Moving

2009-08-23T17:30:00.002+01:00

We had found this brilliant bungalow, perfect in every way, even with all inclusive rent and without agency fees - a miracle organised by the Head's PA from my new school.
Before we went off on different holidays, we had written the contract and sent it to our future landlord who was supposed to sign it and send it back.
He didn't, but we didn't worry much as had been travelling too.
We called him on our way back from the Lakes and arranged the contract signing and moving in for Saturday at 12.
We arrived to the house on Saturday at 12. No sign of the bloke.
After 15 minutes, we tried his mobile - not available.
After 30 minutes it changed to switched off.
After 45 minutes Paul called a friend who checked his e-mail for him - nothing.
After 65 minutes we gave up and left.
We sent the bloke and e-mail asking to contact us a.s.a.p. No reply.
Paul called him again, it rang and then it went busy. Twice.
I called him, he answered the phone and hung up on me immediately.
So I guess that's it. I'll have to chase that lovely picture of sitting on that porch with a glass of wine out of my head.

But.

We're supposed to be picking up Paul's sister's furniture and my stuff on Saturday, but we have nowhere to move it to.
I'm starting work on Friday. If we're still here, it will mean setting off every day at 6.40 so that Paul can drop me off before going to work himself.
The chances of us not being here anymore are very slim.
I don't know where my school clothes are. Quite possibly still in Birmingham.

Shooting stars…

2009-08-12T12:27:00.001+01:00

…are dead cool. There’s nothing like lying on the grass staring at the sky even if your bum gets slightly cold. Peace, people.

On not being adapted to living on this planet

2009-07-22T09:07:00.000+01:00

I realise that I haven’t been posting as much lately but to be honest, there wasn’t much to post about. Unless I would keep posting about being disillusioned with the system and drained into numbness.
And now the school’s over. I should be jubilant. When I think back at how I felt most of the time, I can’t help thinking that the main thing I should feel is relief.
It isn’t.
I’ve spent last three days just crying uncontrollably and being angry about it, cause look, my life is great, there’s lots of good stuff happening and lots of good stuff to look forward to, but I can’t help it.
I think it’s because I’m just so exhausted and I have been sucking it up for such a long time.
And because whatever I might have been saying and however horrid these kids have been to me most of the time, I did get attached to them, I did get somewhere with some of them, and some of them really did care for me too. I had a proof of that last few days when I was inundated in cards, flowers, presents and hugs.
And because yes, the upcoming changes are good, but they are also scary. In any case – I’m off to France now, where there are people who know me with a big supply of wine and tissues. And I’ll drink, talk, cry and relax and hopefully eventually I’ll stop crying at last.

Miiiiss! Tiiiiits!

2009-07-10T17:30:00.001+01:00

Give a year 10 students, recently promoted to year 11 by a controversial decision to start the new school year early, a cultural book called “Germany Live” with a task to carry out using it. Most of them will open it to keep up the appearances, and immediately relax into a conversation. One or two of them will diligently set about to do what they were told to. One of them will start flicking through the book and suddenly cry out: “Miiiiss! Tiiits! Guys, look at page 34, there’s a naked broad! Miss, look at page 34!”
All of the male students will immediately revive and find page 34. Some of them will join in with “Miss, tits, no really, look at page 34, there’s a naked broad”.
“I know what breasts look like dear” I’ll say and reluctantly open the book on page 34. Sure enough there is a picture of people on a beach and one woman indeed is topless.
Follows a lengthy discussion about nudist beaches in Germany and Poland and my acquaintance with such beaches, at the end of which one of them states a firm decision to go to Germany.
“There is a slight problem” I say. “You’d need to actually speak some German.”
“Oh no, miss. I’d just wink and say ‘bedroom’.”
“Well, do you know how to say ‘bedroom’ in German?”
Ah, the educational side effects of naked women in secondary school textbooks…

On playing God

2009-06-29T18:16:00.001+01:00

On Thursday night Paul came up from MK and we went to the Yardbird for a gig. We were standing outside, sipping at our drinks and enjoying the music, the weather was warm – bliss. Just what I needed to forget all the other shit and remember how it feels to just feel plain happy.
At one point, I spotted a guy walking hastily towards the club. He got there and sat at a table where a woman sat with two drinks, waiting for him. As he was sitting down, he took his I-pod out of his pocket and a business card flew out onto the pavement. He didn’t notice.
The natural reaction would have been to pick it up and hand it to him, but I was in the middle of a conversation that I didn’t want to lose anything of.
A little later, I looked back and the business card was still on the ground. I hesitated – at this point, it would have been much less natural to pick it up and hand it to him. Besides, after all it was just a business card, which could not be of importance if he’d put it rather carelessly into his back pocket. But what if it was important? What if, for instance, the details on it was of a person who could change his life? Absorbed as he was in his conversation with the woman, he wasn’t going to check his pocket for it. So if I didn’t say anything, his life could have changed forever. For a brief moment, his destiny was in my hands…
I did pick it up and give it to him. He thanked me but barely acknowledged the card, just shoved it back into his pocket. So maybe it wasn’t important after all. Or maybe the woman sitting in front of him was more important than the person whose details where on the card.

On new arrivals

2009-06-15T16:47:00.000+01:00

There's a Polish girl in my school who recently approached me asking for help preparing for her exams. I accepted willingly, cause God knows I needed something good, ie. to work with a kid who actually cares. But this is not good. She is hard working and puts every effort in, but her English is just not good enough. And what I don't understand is how could a child be schooled in the UK for almost two years and still not speak any English? From what I gathered, she had initially refused to learn English, a rebellions teenager angry about having to moved into a foreign country and into a school where her and her brother are constantly bullied. But how come no one ever cared enough to talk her out of it? Why nobody cared to check how long she's really been here before denying her the right to a dictionary and extra time in exams? And actually, how come kids have that right only for two years after their arrival regardless of their level of English?
She has special provision. A translator for two lessons a week. How is she supposed to cope? Why no one asked me earlier if I would be willing to help?
And, in the first place, what is the point in putting new arrivals straight into mainstream schools? I knew a girl who was put straight into year 11 and forced to take her GCSE's while all she could say in English was 'hello'.
From what I've heard, there used to be special centres for new arrivals, where they were schooled for up to a year learning English only. I wonder who decided it was a bad idea. I wonder how the current way of doing things could possibly be seen as better.
It just makes me so angry - all those kids arriving here and so absolutely failed by the education system. What are their chances to succeed? None, unless of course their parents are wealthy enough to provide them with private tutoring.

Taking a cab

2009-06-08T16:30:00.004+01:00

Relatively often I take a cab from work. Mostly to New Street when I'm on my way to MK. Sometimes home. There are four gates to the school, in three different roads. I always book it for the main entrance. I once booked it for gate B, when I had a meeting on that side of the school. And ever since, no matter how many times I repeat that I want it from the main entrance my cab gets inevitably sent to gate B. And the scenario's always the same - the poor cab driver calls me cause he can't see me, I can't see him either cause he's in a different parking lot, and he has to drive to where I am or I run like an idiot to where he is. Which bit of 'main gate' is so hard to understand?
And today, while waiting for my cabbie to make his way to where I was once we'd agreed that it wasn't where he'd got sent to, I called the company again and ranted about it. I mean, how many times can you do that? I expected an apology. I got: If the driver didn't listen then it's not my problem! I said: Well, it would be something like 6 different drivers by now that didn't listen. That's not very likely, is it? To which he replied: I said gate C lady, not my problem.
How nice.
And then the driver told me that the guy did not say anything at all. He sent a message through a thingy which, as clear as day, said 'M School, Gate B'.
Idiot.

Another thing: when the cab gets into my street, I invariably say: Anywhere here, on the right will be fine. And the cab driver invariably pulls in on the left.
Maybe they don't listen after all.
Regardless of the thingy.

On misbehaviour

2009-05-28T11:51:00.001+01:00

Once she told me I had the job, my future Head of Department said that what made her mind up about me was how I had handled misbehaviour during my interview lesson.
I wanted to burst out laughing.
One kid turned around to speak to a friend a couple of times and another one wrote a note, then apologetically handed the note over to me. That’s nothing.
Try this: you have two of them punching the crap out of each other, one of them running around the classroom with someone else’s bag, that someone else following them trying to retrieve the said bag, four or five of them just carelessly walking around socialising with their friends, a couple listening to music on their phones/i-pods and a couple more shouting invectives out of the window. And then telling you to get out of their face when you try to get their attention.
That’s misbehaviour.
Even if the behaviour is in general three times worse than it was in my interview lesson, it’s going to be a friggin’ holiday.

And now dear children...

2009-05-23T15:30:00.002+01:00

There was this TV presenter ages ago in communist Poland who had the misfortune to have said or done something to offend the Party (I’m not quite sure, I only know the story from my parents). The Party decided to punish him by moving him from evening news to a children’s programme where he read stories live on TV. He loathed it absolutely. And one day, once the story was done and he thought the cameras were off, he stood up, pulled his trousers down and said dramatically: ‘And now, dear children, kiss my arse!’. Unfortunately, the cameras were not off just yet…
The reason why I’m telling this story is because it reminds me of how I feel these days in my hectic crazy classroom full of nasty vile children who are betting on who will make me cry first, and all because I finally got a job for September – in a nice school with nice kids who are genuinely happy to be there.
So these dear children can kiss my arse.

Knee-high white socks and pony tails

2009-05-06T17:01:00.000+01:00

A week ago cycling was something I remotely thought of as potentially enjoyable and something Paul did without me. I pushed for us to go on a bike ride together mostly because of the ‘without me’ bit, quite pathetic, I know. So on Saturday we set off for a ride, him in all his gear on his serious road bike, me on his old hybrid, way too big for me, but I made it go forward so it was fine with me. It was hard work though – it is true you never forget how to ride a bike, but when you haven’t done it for over 16 years you’re all wobbly and it is rather strenuous trying to keep it straight up and going where you want it to go.
We got to the hill where Paul did some of his up-hill training while I sat on a bench reading and getting sun burnt (I tried the hill, got something like a quarter of the way up and decided that as much as it was within my capacities to get all the way up, there’s no reason why I should be doing this to myself). And then we set on our way back home. The ride was pleasant, the surroundings picturesque, Paul pointed some bluebells to me, I looked to see the bluebells therefore failing to look where I was going and the next thing I knew I was flat on the road. As soon as I stood up, I realised that in addition to a couple of small grazes on my forearm, I had a bloody mess where my knee used to be and a huge hole in my favourite trousers. But I wasn’t going to cry, oh no, I was going to be very brave.
We had no first aid kit, so we used what we had to clean my knee and just as we were doing that a neighbour of Paul’s pulled up – what are the chances! He offered to take us home by car and I was really, really tempted, cause my knee was hurting like hell and needed proper cleaning, and it had been all scary and all. But I was going to be very brave and a good sport, so I declined the offer and decided to get back on the bike. And then I spent most of the remaining ride cursing under my breath. But once we got home I had a huge sense of achievement, almost as huge as the scab on my knee (all I need now are white knee-high socks and pony tails to go with it!).
One would think that would put me off cycling for a while. Well – no.
On Sunday I went and actually bought myself a bike.
On Monday we went out for a ride again, me on my new bike in my pretty new helmet and this time I didn’t fall (although I was really close a couple of times! – can’t bloody aim with this thing…).
And next Sunday I’m doing a 30 miles long charity ride.
I must not be in my right senses…

On survival

2009-04-27T07:18:00.000+01:00

This weekend we went to see Craig and Ann in their home in the middle of nowhere and it was brilliant – I hadn’t seen them for too long and I’ve missed their faces. We got way too drunk eating a delicious barbecue , playing cards and sharing horror stories (we’re all teachers). The next morning Ann made banana and chocolate chip muffins (that I had too many of) and Craig shared some of his wisdom with me (he used to work at a school that was possibly even worse than mine). And what he said was 10.000 times more useful than all the advice I get at school. Simply because instead of focusing on ‘good practice’ he focused on my sanity and getting my classes to a state where I can actually attempt proper teaching. Here are my two favourite ones:
1. Time out.
Put a chair outside the room. Spot the most disruptive kid and offer him ‘time out’ as in ‘I think you need to chill for 5 minutes, so why don’t you sit outside for a bit.’ If you’re lucky, he will simply bugger off. If not, at least you will have 5 minutes to get the rest of them going. Cover your arse – send a note to behaviour management that the bugger is at large.
2. Note.
Again, spot the most disruptive kid and ask him to take a note to your head of department or anyone else for that matter. The note should say: ‘I’ve sent XY to you because I need him out for 5 minutes so that I can start the others on their work. Thank you!’ It needs to be sealed of course. Again – if you’re lucky, the kid will just bugger off. If not, etc.
I shall put those in practice and we’ll see how it goes!

On swearing in the classroom yet again

2009-04-24T17:17:00.000+01:00

It was a horrid week. Last night I’ve spent an hour sobbing on the phone to Paul about how I didn’t want to go back. And today, which could have potentially been a bit better, given the groups I had, was not. Possibly because some of the kids I have in my Spanish class are the same ones who were so totally horrid yesterday. So just seeing their faces made me want to get out of there as quickly as I could. Or maybe I just didn’t have it in me today.
Anyway, by the time I got to my year 8, I was more than overwhelmed. And they were as horrid as I’ve ever known them to be. So at the end of the lesson, when they were all ready to go, I stood in front of them and told them, in clear loud voice, to ‘f*** the f*** off’.
It was beautiful.
And I won’t even get in trouble for it, cause I said it in Polish and therefore no one understood. But I knew what I was saying and it felt wonderful. I left the classroom with a huge smile on my face.
I'll have to do it more often. I’m just afraid that the effect will wear off rather quickly…

Technology

2009-04-23T06:48:00.000+01:00

Paul’s got a new phone which is equipped with this fancy technology called ‘face recognition’. It means that when you’re taking a photo with it, it will put squares around up to three people’s faces and focus on them.
A couple of nights ago, Paul tried taking a photo of his friend Matt, the camera has however decided to focus on… the wheel of Matt’s bike.
Paul’s dad says its because Matt’s bike’s wheel looks more human than Matt’s face.
I say: ach, technology!

Homeless

2009-04-20T07:15:00.000+01:00

Last time we went to Aix, in late October, just like any time I had gone back after my move to the UK, it felt like going home and being there was both great and really difficult, cause, of course, I didn’t have a home there anymore.
This time the homey feeling was gone and it was just this place that used to be home and where people-who-know-me are. At least some of them, cause James is gone and Jannick is as good as gone in a way, besides, lets not kid ourselves, it is not the same as it was when I was actually there.
So Birmingham, but how much of a home is it really? I do have some friends, but none of them can be qualified as people-who-know-me just yet. I live in a house share, which is fun, but is by definition as un-homey as it gets, by definition temporary, no potential to settle down what so ever. And my local pub is in… Milton Keynes.
So Milton Keynes then? Well, I don’t even live there. The plan is for me to move there, but as long as I haven’t found a job, it isn’t so much a plan as a wish.
And so the sad truth is that I’m living on the boxes with no end to it in sight for now and, quite frankly, I’m growing more and more tired of it.

Flying Ryanair

2009-04-14T18:20:00.004+01:00

Marseille Airport, 20:40 – so far so good, the luggage check-in started on time. I’m slightly worried that my suitcase is over 15 kg, in which case I would have to pay £8 or something per each excess kg on top of the £12 that I have already paid so they would let me take a suitcase at all. Luckily it isn't.
22:00 – Waiting Lounge. The screen announces that our flight is now boarding through gate F. The crowds rush forward and so do we (let’s note the abnormality of the situation: for once we’re actually boarding on time, my hitherto experiences show an average delay of at least 20 minutes).
22:15 – All passengers have been neatly crammed into three waiting lines, one Priority Line (for those who were silly enough to spend extra money on priority boarding, which in reality doesn’t give them anything at all or almost), two other lines, we’re waiting. The plane is noticeably not there (although it should have landed at 22:10).
22:25 – The plane is still not there. Everyone’s starting to get annoyed obviously having missed the point of boarding in the absence of a plane.
22.40 – Due take off time, the plane is still not there.
22:50 – The plane is there. We watch people get off it and then we are ushered through the doors and onto the plane. On the plane, the main stewardess, or whatever you call them nowadays, encourages the passengers to ‘move down the aisle and promptly take seats in order to allow for a quick take off’. That would have been ok if the frequency and the tone of these messages did not imply that it would be our fault if we landed late.
23:15 – The plane starts moving, the security briefing begins just to be almost immediately interrupted by the said stewardess in order to tell people off for not paying attention while it is for their safety. I turn my head and I don’t see anyone not paying attention. What I see is a steward rushing down the aisle to take his spot.
23:25 – We are finally airborne. I check that there is a life jacket under my seat and that neither the jacket nor the oxygen mask panel have been equipped with a coin slot. I mean, they were planning to fit those on the loos, so you never know right?

Other travel entertainment consisted in the same stewardess telling several passengers off for trying to use the toilet while the seat-belt sign was on. She had indeed informed us each time that the toilets would not be available, the intercom however was regulated at a volume where no one could have possibly heard it. I mean, I thought being nice was part of her job description… but then again, how long can you keep being nice if all you do all day is deal with frustrated passengers?

On Sunshine

2009-03-31T16:55:00.001+01:00

The spring is now officially here. We’ve changed the time, the sun is shining, the birds are singing – although none of them are coming to my brand new bird feeder Paul got me cause the goldfinches in his parents’ garden kept stubbornly refusing to feed when I was watching.
Last weekend we’ve spent a few glorious hours in the garden playing Scrabble – the initial plan had been to go fly our kite, but Paul’s foot does not yet allow for him running.
And in just 5 days I will be in Aix, sipping Pastis on Papi’s balcony warming my bones in the Provencal sun.

In the meantime, however, it’s the last week of school and last week of school means that try as you might, they will not co-operate. My lovely year 7s today were totally appalling when all I wanted them to do was a brief exercise summing up the most frequent mistakes I found in their books, which was supposed to be followed by a film. Yeah right. The film didn’t happen, cause the exercise didn’t either. I ended up going with them to their registration after school and having the Head of Year give them a proper bollocking. To my lovely year 7s. Seriously.

But then in my Year 9 Spanish group I have this boy with ADHD, whom I used to be sending with work to the Behaviour Manager every lesson, cause he made it absolutely impossible for me to teach. And lately he’s been just lovely. Yes, still fidgeting and still problematic but doing all his work and nothing compared to what it had been before. The Behaviour Manager would not believe me when I told him how good he’d been. And today they were doing posters about Spain using words of their choice and he came up with this absolutely amazing piece of work that I’m definitely going to laminate and put up on my wall. When I told the Behaviour Manager, he said that I must be doing something right, cause he gets just complaints from all his other teachers. That’s a lovely thought and it made me feel really good about myself for a while. But then I realised that Spanish being their second language, I have 15 of them, not 30, so I have time to give the boy all the attention he needs. But then again – it’s probably also because it’s the right kind of attention. So it could be not only about the group size. Maybe I am doing something right!

Hell has officially frozen

2009-03-26T19:06:00.002Z

I had fun with my vile year 9. Actual fun. I’m not being sarcastic.
I had a game prepared for them, not for the first time, but for the first time I actually had an alternative worksheet in case they wouldn’t let me go through with the game like before.
But they did.
And we had fun.
They had fun.
I had fun.
The lad who assaulted me and is a pain in each and every lesson had his hand up all the time.
The lad who has learning difficulties and can never be bothered had his hand up all the time.
The girl who thinks that a lesson is where she can socialise with her friends squeaking and squirming and being all over the place stayed put and had her hand up all the time.
The girl who never says one word, always sits alone and doesn’t like being talked to had her hand up all the time.
Some of them came up to me and said ‘Miss, I didn’t win’. To which I invariably replied – ‘You did. You’re a bigger winner than the ones who actually got the prizes.’
Cause they did.
And I did.
And we had fun.
Together.
After the lesson, I went to the staffroom and sat there staring blankly at the wall for good ten minutes in a genuine state of shock.
I had fun with my vile year 9.
Miracles officially happen.

The 'Spring Weakness'

2009-03-22T21:11:00.001Z

The weather is nice, you have a loving boyfriend, a good even if difficult job, you’re learning new things, making plans and putting them into motion, you just made a new friend you get to see on a regular basis and are finally feeling less lonely, you name it, life is great and the future looks bright and sunny too. Yet, for some reason, you don’t enjoy it, worse, your eyes tear up constantly without any warning and without any apparent reason.
You think it must be cause you’re exhausted. After all the job is difficult and your chest is still rather painful as you have not yet fully recovered from your accident and recovering itself is a process needing more energy then you have given that you’re working.
Yes, sure, but it doesn’t explain it.
Ok, then it’s because, due to the said accident and the said chest, you haven’t been to the gym in a month – hence, instead of sweating the frustration out, you’re crying it out.
Yes, sure, but it still doesn’t really explain it.
Oh bollocks, you think, maybe you’re actually not that happy, maybe there’s something really wrong but you don’t see it yet if not subconsciously hence crying without apparent reason?
Oh boy. What is it then? What is it? Have you chosen a wrong career? Is the relationship not as good as you think? No? Maybe? What is it? You think about it, you talk about it, you make tiny inconveniences into huge problems, you start crying even more, vicious circle really.

And then your mother calls you. ‘Dear’ she says ‘I’m calling to check on you cause you must be in full spring weakness. Are you eating properly?’.

Right.
Apparently, according to Mother (but I’m sure she’s learnt from some serious and reliable source), in winter many vitamins and minerals get washed out of your body because they need sunlight to be absorbed properly. It gets worse if you’re not eating properly (and Mother being Mother knows that when I’m overworked I don’t eat properly). Some of these vitamins and minerals (can’t remember which ones, but I can ask Mother if you care to know) are apparently really important for mental and emotional processes in your system.

So I went and bought loads of veg and fruit and juices, vitamins and high-protein foods for an extra kick. And made a point of exposing self to sunlight.

And guess what – I’m happy. Yes, I’m still in pain, I’m still frustrated by the whole work situation, still in a desperate need of physical exercise, but happy.

To think I was worried I was getting clinically depressed!

It’s all in the fruit people. Take my word for it.

Wherever I end up in September, it will be a holiday

2009-03-12T19:17:00.001Z

When a visit to the dentist’s is the highlight of your day, something’s definitely wrong.
I’ve had two unusually nice days at work, probably because of the training on Monday that made me miss out on one of my year 9s. But yesterday and today were just dreadful, year 9s, year8s, year 10s, you name it. If it wasn’t for year 7s I would seriously start questioning myself as a teacher.
At lunch break, I was sitting in Tabitha’s car, smoking a cigarette and ranting, feeling that I don’t want to go back to school, I can’t go back to school, please don’t make me go back to school.
My mentor meeting was all about me not being able to keep it together.
And everyone says it’s not me, it’s them. According to Ute, my mentor, I’m actually doing really good (sic!). And I know it is them, but I can’t help thinking that I’m failing. Cause I’m fighting and fighting and nothing changes. Cause when you have a group of 30 and 25 of them are playing up, there’s not much you can do really.
Every day, after school, my classroom looks like a battlefield.
First thing I do every morning is put my display into some order all over again and sort kids’ books into neat piles all over again.
And yes, this is a rough school and the kids are more difficult then elsewhere. But then, I have the same kids in my Spanish lessons, and those are all right, not perfect, not easy, but not dreadful to a point when all you want to do is sit down and cry.
The difference?
Well, there’s 30 of them in my German classes, and 15 in Spanish. There’s your difference. So maybe the important people up in London, who came up with the wonderful yet unrealistic policies of Every Child Matters and Personalised Learning, should go back into a classroom and see for themselves. How the f*** do you want me to cater for the needs of each of my students if I have 200 of them? How the f*** am I supposed to give attention to each and every one of them when I have 30 of them in a classroom? Maybe instead of putting shitloads of money into rebuilding schools, you should just build new ones, create more teaching posts, and reduce the number of kids in each class? Cause as it is, I am not teaching. As it is, I’m just growing more frustrated each day. And I seriously would not mind working in an old building with smaller classrooms with less modern equipment if that meant I had less kids in each lesson and could teach each and every one of them instead of hoping that the good ones learn something inadvertently while I waste my energy on shouting at the rest of them just to keep them in their seats.

Common courtesy

2009-03-09T20:14:00.004Z

While I was planning my lessons for tomorrow, GG (which is a Polish chat programme) informed me that my sister was online. I had not spoken to her in ages so I promptly sent a message. The conversation went as follows:
‘Hi there Fatty!’ (It’s a pet name, the whole family calls her that, probably because she’s always been skin on bones)
‘Hello Skinny’ - that surprised me a bit, but I didn’t think much of it.
‘How are you?’
‘Depends what you’re asking about’
‘Am asking in general’
‘And who are you? I don’t talk to unknown Skinnies’ - I thought that my contact info had disappeared from her GG while she reinstalled it or something, so I replied:
‘Your sister, dummy, how many people call you Fatty?’
‘Who?’
‘Your older sister. The one who lives on the other side of the Channel.’ - how many sisters did my sister think she had?
‘Should I whack you or fuck your face up?’ – WHAT?
I proceeded to apologising politely to the apparently unknown person I had messaged thinking they were my sister but insisted that the language was uncalled for. The apology was accepted, the person apologised for the language and explained that they always reacted like that to unknown contacts.
Ah, common courtesy.
Needless to say, I’ve deleted what I thought was my sister’s contact info from my GG…

Back to school

2009-03-05T18:29:00.000Z

I went back to work this week – not that I felt particularly ready to, but being paid through a supply agency means mainly that if you don’t work, you don’t earn. No sick pay for me. So I went back.
I should I have probably taken a few more days off but, in the same time, I think that I’m recovering faster now that I can’t lick my wounds at ease and have to suck it up and do what I have to do.
I decided to tell the kids the truth about my absence, simply because I needed them to understand why I ask them to move things that are within my reach for me or lean forward to cough (‘Oh, miss, you can bend over whenever you want, you know!’ – ‘Have I made it clear that I can’t laugh either, dear?’).
(But the worst bit is sneezing. If you ever suffer from a seat belt injury, whatever you do, do not sneeze. I did. It took me around 10 minutes to get over it.)
The general reactions to my return were heart warming – ‘Oh, miss, good you’re back, it was boring!’, ‘Miss, I missed you!’, ‘Miss, miss, where have you been?’. But, unfortunately, even if I do not doubt that the intentions were sincere, the reality of my come back to the classroom did not reflect all those warm feelings with the exception of my Vile Year 9 who were unusually good and cooperative. I have however no illusions that they will be back to their ‘best behaviour’ in no time. Like today.

On near-death experiences yet again

2009-02-22T10:42:00.000Z

The way Hollywood productions have it, a near-death experience is supposed to be a turning point in your life, because going through a near-death experience is illuminating and you suddenly have all the answers to the biggest of questions. Therefore, after going through a near-death experience you are supposed to do something dramatic: quit your job, get a divorce, move to the North pole, anything, as long as it entails spectacular changes to your life, makes you excruciatingly happy and successful and makes you live your hitherto average life to the fullest and happily ever after.
Last Thursday we’ve had a head on collision with a lorry at a combined speed of 60 mph. And trust me, when I saw that big white thing going straight into my face I thought that that was that. But my life did not fly before my eyes or anything of the kind. Yet, what my near-death experience made me understand was that, as cheesy as it may sound, I seriously love my life, just the way it is. Not sure if that counts as an illumination though. In any case, I’m not planning on doing anything dramatic about anything any time soon, which is possibly at least partly related to the fact that I feel like a sack of broken glass and even small completely un-dramatic gestures like pulling my trousers up send me into agony.

On being a driver

2009-02-17T18:08:00.002Z

Some time ago Paul and I decided that one of possible (at least partial) solutions to my moving-to-a-small-town paranoia would be for me to learn to drive.
I was a bit reluctant, as 14 years ago I already tried and failed miserably, and I've never actually felt the need to drive – or maybe I just talked myself into not feeling the need to drive after the aforementioned failure. Nevertheless, with the prospect of moving out of a big city with an excellent bus network I did concede that driving would definitely make me feel much less like if I was giving up my independence and I actually got all excited about the whole project.
So I applied for a provisional license and, since it’s half term and we have more free time, we’ve started driving lessons yesterday. And it’s going really good, but I have to say that I’m a bit worried...
Now, many people had said that him teaching me to drive would definitely be an interesting experience if not a trial to the relationship but I did not think about it twice cause they meant him getting annoyed with me getting things wrong and such. Which he doesn’t cause he’s the most patient and laid back person I know. And I don’t get that many things wrong and such. What I do however is talk.
‘Why are you waving at me stupid bitch, can’t you see I have an ‘L’ so I obviously don’t bloody know what I’m doing?’ The poor woman was actually thanking me for letting her through, happily she was beyond ear shot. Paul wasn’t. But it gets worse:
‘Yes Anna, maybe if you had put the clutch down.’
‘Handbrake you daft cow!’
‘Don’t be a mean gear box and don’t make that noise anymore please’.
‘You’ll be a good car now and you’ll start properly, ok?’.
‘Why, why, why are you doing this to me?’
And so I’m starting to wonder if him teaching me to drive was such a good idea after all…

Ray

2009-02-13T19:33:00.000Z

What do you do at the end of a last week of half-term, a week where you got hurt by your best friend, you got assaulted by your student, had an interview in that perfect school with students who don’t assault you and don’t throw things out of windows but actually let you teach them, in that cute little village where you could have had a little house with a piano in it and maybe even a cat, but didn’t get the job, and you’re just so tired of it all?
You go to see Ray. And Ray’s voice makes you cry like a baby all through the first part of the concert and then lifts you up, soothes you and rocks you into serenity. And then you move on. You forgive your friend, you write and incident report, you fill in another job application. And you hope for the best.

Snow

2009-02-03T19:18:00.001Z

Winter is my favourite season, but for winter to be winter, there must be snow. I love snow.
It snowed all Sunday night and all Monday. I got to school snowy cheerful and didn’t understand why people where saying the school should close. After all it was only snow, yes, there was a lot of it, but hell, I’d seen much worse!
Well, I soon realised that the kids were all over the place – probably because snow is such a rarity here. There was no work going on what so ever. Snowballs were flying inside the school as much as outside the school. They all arrived to the lessons late, excited and wet through and through. And as the day went by, as it snowed more and more, my frustration increased with every lesson I didn’t manage to teach, I gave in to the general ‘I don’t want to be here’ mood as well.
Once home, I spent my evening working, cause I didn’t find out that all schools were going to be closed today until everything was done. Well, what’s done is done I thought, at least I’ll get to sleep in.
Think again. The leadership suggested that the staff came to school anyway to catch up on work using the occasion that the kids weren’t there.
So I went. And I think I was probably the only teacher there.
And by the time I left school, the snow had mostly frozen or disappeared.
And yes, I got a lot of work done, and yes, I will have free evenings for the rest of the week. But I can’t help thinking that I’ve missed out.
Cause it seems like I’m the only one who didn’t go mountain biking in the snow, didn’t make a snow man, didn’t make a snow angel, didn’t interact with the snow in any other way and hence doesn’t any have snowy photos to upload to Facebook. Not fair.

On memorable moments

2009-01-21T17:17:00.001Z

Yesterday, as the first black president of the United States of America was being sworn in, I was sitting in a boring meeting struggling to stay awake. Was I aware that the first black president of the United States of America was being sworn in as I watched the clock hands move painfully forward? No. Big things are happening, people, and all I can do is try not to collapse with exhaustion.
‘You are different today, Miss’ said a year 7 boy to me today. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re more in control’.
Am I really? No, not really. Which he must have realised as four of his classmates stumbled into the classroom 15 minutes late and suddenly it was all about behaviour control all over again.
I’m starting to wonder if I will ever actually get to dealing with the behaviour as I teach rather than trying to teach while I’m struggling to control the behaviour.

Almost half way through my first month at M. and still alive

2009-01-14T21:03:00.002Z

It is 9 pm. and I have just finished planning my lessons for tomorrow (yet another 13 hrs long day of work but I’m not going to complain cause last week my days were even longer) and I have finally got around to putting some washing in (didn’t have a choice, ran out of socks…). The consequence is that I can’t go to bed just yet cause I have to wait for it to finish. So I thought I’d share some random thoughts about my hitherto experience of working at the M. school, which I’m really enjoying, I mean it, although I think I might be too exhausted to properly enjoy anything at this point.
I put a boy in detention for spitting on the floor. After that I started noticing spit all over the place and therefore concluded that he wasn’t the only one to do it, he was just the only one to get caught.
I have two Shannons in one class which wouldn’t be surprising at all if I wasn’t working in a school where white children are something like 5%. What are the odds.
To my great delight, I observed three of my year 9 troublemakers spending their lunch break picking up rubbish at the main gate. That’s what happens when you ignore your teacher’s detentions and end up referred to the Head. Subsequently I danced a little dance of victory after they’d come and apologised profusely after school. Oh yeah.
I have my own classroom, which would be even more exciting if I hadn’t inherited it in such a messy state. Cause I really don’t know when I will have time to go through all those piles of worksheets, revision booklets, workbooks and pupils’ work and decide what to chuck and what to keep. Happily, two boys in my year 7 helped by chucking a big part of one of those piles through the window. They were of course duly punished, including calling parents, but I couldn’t help feeling a bit grateful rather than angry. Possibly I’m also too exhausted to feel properly angry about anything…
Today I have finally managed to teach my year 8. It was our 3rd lesson.
I haven’t taught even one lesson to either of my year 9 groups and I’ve seen each of them 3 times already. All I do is shout and try to put them in a sitting plan. And call for SWEEP to take half of them away. Still my Head of Department says I’m doing much better than she’d expected.
So I guess I’ll take the compliment and try again tomorrow.

Piano

2009-01-12T20:28:00.000Z

‘Can you remember what you were dreaming about just now?’ asks Paul.
‘Yes, why?’
‘Were you playing the piano?’
‘How do you know?!’
‘Cause you were moving your fingers like this’ he demonstrates on my arm.
I laugh and turn onto my other side.
‘So was it at your parents’ place?’
‘No’
‘Where was it then?’
‘I don’t know. In a house. I was playing and you came in and said something about dinner, and I said okay and went back to playing.’
‘Was it our house?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I like that dream’ he says and pulls me closer in.

I think I might see if there’s a piano at school I could play.
I think it’s time.
Cause this time it’s all about me. And the piano, of course.

Update: in brief

2009-01-05T18:39:00.001Z

I’m back! Sorry for the silence, limited internet access, lots to see and lots to do, catching up with people and places and so on – some stories to tell, I will try to include them as I go, but for now – in brief:
The holiday was amazing, although tiring as lots to see and lots to do etc.
Haven’t unfortunately managed to see everyone and those I did see I did not see enough of, a firm decision has been made that in the summer we’ll plan more than one day in Warsaw – a week preferably.
Paul met Mother and didn’t flee, which does prove something as those who also met Mother will undoubtedly easily understand. Especially since Mother really, really loved Paul. So did everyone actually. There were moments where I was worried that his ego might be slightly too flattered for his own good. But I have to admit that he absolutely deserved each and every one of the compliments bestowed on him.
Some stuff to process for me – after all I’ve spent more than 10 days with Parents – but I have to say that they surprised me in an unexpectedly positive way. To a certain extent at least.
And finally, first day at my new school today. The department seems great, all welcoming and helpful. The kids are kids, some are lovely some are horrid, two groups already are competing for the name of the Vile Year X, one year 11 and one year 9, but the year 9 is leading as for now. I’ve managed to go to a wrong classroom once and forget I had a lesson once, not too bad for the first day, but I was told not to worry about it. Hence so far so good.
So it’s back to sitting plans and lesson planning. Oh well, every holiday has its end!

Zakopane

2008-12-25T14:36:00.004Z

Having decided that I was going to rest, I left my computer at home, which means that my only internet access in this God forsaken yet beautiful place is my dad's laptop, which I don't get to use very often. Besides, to be honest, I did not come here to spend my time sitting inside and surfing on the internet, I came here to conquer high peaks, brave the snow and the cold and drink a lot of mulled wine (mental note to self - I haven't had any yet, time to make up for that).
That to explain my hitherto silence and the silence to come, as well as the fact that this post will be hectic and generally rubbish, but I need to hurry cause there's a dad out there wanting his computer back and there's a world out there wanting me back.
Having said that, I don't know what to say - I mean, I have loads to say, plenty of little funny or absurd things happening on the way, in Warsaw and here, but I don't really know where to start. I'll try to keep a note of them and retrospect a bit once back in Brum. For now, there are mountains out there...

German Christmas Market

2008-12-17T19:30:00.001Z

I was standing by the pretzel stand enjoying a pretzel, when I suddenly heard:
‘Miss, Miss, did you speak German to her to buy that pretzel?’ and without waiting for my answer, to the pretzel-lady: ‘Did she speak German to you?’
‘No’ the pretzel lady answered politely, which only encouraged the little buggers.
‘Are you German?’
‘No, I’m not’.
‘Oh, cause she’s our German teacher. Where are you from then?’
‘I’m Polish.’
‘Oh my God! She’s Polish too! Miss, Miss, speak Polish to her! Go on then Miss!’
At which point I smiled apologetically at the pretzel lady and satisfied their request: ‘Sorry’ I said ‘School trip…’.

On Wednesdays

2008-12-10T18:47:00.001Z

If you want my opinion, Wednesday is the worst day of the week. The energy you had after a restful weekend is gone, and when your weekend wasn’t restful – as it was the case for me, sleepless in Brum for three nights in a row without a reason really – it is even worse. And there’s still more time to crawl through until next weekend than has elapsed since the last one. So on Wednesday mornings the world is not a friendly place, and all I want is to stay in bed and feel sorry for myself. Which usually means I do stay in bed longer than I should, and then I have to rush my way out, which only adds to the horrible Wednesday feeling, cause I hate rushing, especially in the morning.
But Wednesday is also the day when my Year 7 group has their Citizenship lesson in the classroom opposite mine. And once the bell goes, they spill out into the corridor and peek into my room saying: ‘Hi German teacher!’, ‘Safe Miss!’ and ‘I can’t wait till tomorrow’s lesson Miss!’ and my heart grows and I realise that actually it is after lunch so the next weekend is closer than the previous one already and I can’t wait till tomorrow’s lesson either, cause we always have loads of fun. And there goes the Wednesday feeling, cause suddenly it is almost Friday and there are cool things ahead.

Straight or bent

2008-12-03T17:48:00.001Z

In the school I work at I have to deliver citizenship lessons to a year 8 group. And last homework I gave them yielded a couple of beauties, my favourite being an answer to the following question:
Homosexual couples are not allowed to get married. Why is that wrong?
Well, apparently because you should be allowed to marry who you want whether you are straight or bent.

The Nutcracker

2008-11-28T23:27:00.002Z

was brilliant. We loved the Snowflakes, although we were rather disappointed by the Sugar Plum Fairy. In my humble opinion she should have had some more power and all she did was execute a number of highly skilful and admirable but still – poses. Oh well. It still was great.
What was not so great was the way out of there – it took us almost an hour just to get out of the car park! And there was this bastard who went through the ‘no exit’ lane and pushed his way into the queue right in front of us! Seriously, just because you have a landrover, it doesn’t mean you’re exempt from queuing like everybody else! And the British are supposed to be the masters of the art of queuing! And Naomi didn’t even use the horn on him, I suppose cause we were still in the car park. But she did use it on some other bastards trying to force their way through on Broad Street, which was fun. As was singing along to Tina while queuing. It could have been a fairly entertaining queuing if it hadn’t been for the bastard in the landrover (who gave a whole new meaning to ‘nutcracker’ I guess). Oh well. Sleep now!

Everybody happy

2008-11-28T16:57:00.001Z

You can’t make everyone happy. It’s a sweet thing to try, but it just doesn’t work. Usually you make yourself unhappy in the process and most of the time someone else ends up upset or pissed off as well. I’ve learnt it the hard way, but I have. Now it looks that I’m going to have to deal with the problem from the other side.
There are a few really good Polish expressions that would sum up the situation perfectly, unfortunately none of them translate properly to English. Like ‘masz babo placek’. Or, even better, ‘widziały gały co brały’.
Oh well. I suppose I’ll just have to live with it.
Unfortunately living with it at this particular moment is not the easiest thing as high doses of antibiotics mess up my system, making me feel tired and sick all the time (as if dealing with the lack of sunlight wasn’t enough on its own).
Enough moaning though, am going to see the Nutcracker with Naomi tonight. Should take my mind off things.

Dream Number 3

2008-11-25T16:50:00.003Z

As the days get shorter, I tend to get gloomy and grumpy and life seems generally blah. I suppose I could continue on that note, but there’s really no point – it’s all light depravation, nothing more, nothing less. So instead – here’s dream number 3.

I’m at my high school reunion. I see my schoolmates and, inevitably, the guy I was hopelessly in love with while at school. He has grown a beard and looks seriously silly, cause the beard is really just irregular tuffs of hair here and there. I go to the loo that the organisers’ have given me the key to. Then there is a break and we go back to the hotel before the evening conference. I realise that I need to go to the loo again, this time to change a tampon (sorry if this is too much information, but it’s just a dream). I go to hotel loos on different floors but they are all filthy. The conference centre is too far. I want to do what I have to do in my room, but I’m sharing it and there are other people there. I keep trying to find a clean toilet, but they are all horrid.

Again, this is not my first dream of filthy stalls. The difference is that until now I always needed them for a simple wee and ended up resolving to using the least filthy one. And it all took place back in high school.

Here’s what Dream Moods has to say on the subject:
“To see an overflowing or flooded toilet in your dream, denotes your desires to fully express your emotions.”
“dreams of needing to go to the bathroom, suggest [the] need to let go of some relationship that has ran its course” – but I manage that, so that’s done. I presume my subconscious is giving me a clap for killing prince charming by letting me wee in a clean loo. Finally: “To dream of menstruation, indicates that you are releasing your pent-up tension and worry. It signals an end to your difficult times and the beginning of relaxation. It may mean that some creative energy is being released or recognised.” - I certainly hope so!

Dream Number 2

2008-11-21T16:33:00.000Z

This one is from around a month ago.
I am driving somewhere through a city. I’m enjoying the drive but in the same time I feel the need to get wherever I’m going on time. Suddenly, I realise that I do not have a driver’s license and that if I get stopped, I will go to jail. My driving is impeccable and there’s no reason why I should get stopped, nevertheless I pull over and stop the car. Then I get out and I ask a passer by to park it for me.

Again, from what I know, driving is the dreamer’s life journey and path in life. Losing your driver’s license is losing your identity or the autonomy to move towards your goals. But I have never had a driver’s license (and I know it perfectly well in the dream). So?

This dream is not a new one – I’ve had it several times already. The difference is that until now, when I realised I didn’t have a driver’s license, I kept on driving just being extra careful. This is the first time I actually stop the car.

‘Are they making little planes?’

2008-11-20T18:51:00.000Z

The form I am covering now has a very specific schedule of activities. Thursday is presentation day, where they take turns presenting topics of interest to them. This morning one boy talked about aeroplanes. He explained the safety, he explained different bits and pieces on the wings and elsewhere and then he changed slides and said:
‘And now, the cockpit. … Don’t get any wrong ideas!’
There was a moment of silence and we all burst out laughing. Highly inappropriate, I know, but there was really nothing I could do about it… There was no way he was going to say anything substantial about the cockpit, so he moved on to tanking in flight. The slide accompanying that bit showed two planes one on top of the other. And the comment wasn’t long to be made. What didn’t help, was that the rear of the upper one really looked a lot like a bum.
Ah, the one tracked minds of 12 year olds…

Dream number 1

2008-11-19T21:16:00.001Z

There are dreams that you forget as soon as you open your eyes, others stay with you after you wake up. Sometimes they’re clearly embedded in your current situation, sometimes they seem completely unrelated – or so it would seem. Personally, I believe that your dreams, especially the latter kind, are the way your subconscious is talking to you. The problem is to understand them.
Lately (within last couple of months or so) I’ve had three of such dreams. I think I know why – my life has changed a lot and my subconscious wants me to deal with it properly. The problem is that I’m not sure what it wants to tell me exactly. But enough introductions, here’s dream number one (dating around 2 months ago):
I am on my way home and I can’t wait to get there, cause I’m tired and I want my bed. Unfortunately, when I get there, I find that the person whom I left in charge (I don’t know who that is, an anonymous person) rented the rooms out to wrong people. The house is a mess and it is noisy. I go to the first floor (attic?) to talk to the said person in charge, then I come back downstairs and face the troublesome strangers. There is an argument, I shout a lot, but manage to kick them out.
Now, a house is the dreamer’s own soul and self. But what about the troublesome strangers?
Any thoughts?

to be continued…

Oh just save it!

2008-11-18T17:58:00.002Z

For around a week now, I’ve been working at a school that didn’t want me back in May, covering a sick leave. They called me directly cause they had been soooo impressed with me back in May and hoped I was available and they were soooo lucky that I was and that I could come in and work with them and they were sooooo bummed that they couldn’t hire me back in May, and oh just shut up or I’ll smack you. You could have hired me back in May. You chose not to, and that’s that, cut the crap! Last week I was mostly swinging between anger and disappointment. Not a good place to be. By now however I’ve reached the point where it became all about the kids and I’m really enjoying working there (as I knew I would back in May) and to be honest nothing else matters. Well, if you don’t count the fact that I can’t stay there and I’ve already managed to get attached to some of them little buggers.

But good news is that as of January I’ll be on a two terms supply contract with one school, which means stability, two terms of induction out of the way and steady professional development, which seriously makes me happy. I was actually offered two such posts, one of which was in the school where vile children make me swear in the classroom, it goes without saying that I decided against that one. But the other offer was also better, so my decision wasn’t based solely on that though!

On being nice

2008-11-10T08:40:00.001Z

I went for a drink with José the other night – it took some effort to pull him out of his NQT private hell, but then he was as happy to take a break from it all as I was to have a human being to speak to. And José being José, I didn’t have to wait long for yet another immortal quote. He was telling me about a wedding he went to the previous weekend, where he saw a few people from the programme. As they were exchanging information about how they were doing and how the absent others were doing, Naomi filled them in on my potential move to Milton Keynes. To which José said: ‘Good for her, maybe she’ll finally be nice!’. Which didn’t go down well at all. He tried to explain but worried that he did not manage to put what he meant through and hoped that if I had heard about it already, I wasn’t angry at him.
I wasn’t. I was laughing out laud, because I could just see the outraged looks and shocked expressions, and ‘how-can-you-say-that’-s he was describing.
Also because it’s so José to say something like that.
And because I didn’t need much explaining to know that ‘maybe she’ll finally be nice’ really meant ‘maybe life will finally be nice to her’.

And may his wish come true, cause lately life’s been more of a bitch. A shitty week was crowned by an even shittier Friday, culminating with me standing in the middle of New Street in a cold drizzle sobbing down the phone that I missed my train. But let’s not go there – a new week is starting, my batteries have been recharged over the weekend, so I shall brace myself and hope for the best.

Post-holiday mess

2008-11-05T19:27:00.001Z

As much as I enjoyed having Monday off, on Tuesday I started to feel restless and ended up feeling pretty miserable by the evening. A nice portion of ice cream took care of that, this morning however I felt even worse. It didn’t matter all that much, I told myself, it was going to go away as soon as I got into a classroom. But that didn’t happen – my agent had forgotten to mention I needed to have my CRB (criminal record check) on me so they sent me back home.
By the time I got home, I had figured it all out: I was feeling lonely. I had just spent a week among people who know me and love me, and I’m back here now, reduced to stuffed animals looking at me sympathetically as I’m reading in bed while Paul gets to see his friends (which is good for him, really, it just doesn’t make me feel better). So I decided to do something about it. However, there is only so much you can do when all your local friends had moved away or are in their first year of teaching and overwhelmed by it.
By then it was crying it out or sweating it out, and as the latter seemed more productive I set off to the gym. Once there, I decided to hook my headphones to the news channel thinking that images of people celebrating Obama’s victory would help the process. Unfortunately I was rather emotionally challenged at that point so it only made me cry, and more it made me cry, more purposefully I marched on my treadmill, which did the trick: 10 bloody kilometres and buckets of sweat later, I was feeling much better.
Only it didn’t last.
So the only solution I had left at that point was to get myself a drink and dig out my long forgotten Tori Amos cds. And I find it both disturbing and comforting how I still know all the lyrics.

Final stage of Grinch-ism

2008-11-03T16:46:00.001Z

I hate Christmas.
Or at least I used to.
Or maybe I not so much hated it as held a grudge against it.
It doesn’t matter really what you call it, suffice to say that the first wonderful whiffs of winter in the air always associated in my mind with the impending doom of omnipresent carols playing everywhere over and over again until you want to scream, fake Santas reeking of alcohol at every corner ho-ho-ing unconvincingly at children who aren’t even really interested cause they believe in the X-Box now, the general mostly failed effort to be merry and bright, pushing through swarms of people, hugging protectively your handbag to your chest while trying to find a decent Xmas gift for everyone on a limited budget and repressing tears as your feet are being stepped on, your ribs get elbowed and your bottom is being groped by perverts thriving in such crowds, and feeling generally insecure, lonely and generally blah. Which inevitably made me go into instant hibernation mode and dread the moment when the first Xmas offers would start jumping out at me from all sides and first Xmas decorations would start appearing around town in all their sparkly, shiny, nauseatingly merry glory.
I spotted first of those a few weeks ago and they made me cringe as usual.
But.
Yesterday, as we were driving through town, I spotted a particularly in-your-face Xmas advert and… it made me smile.
And this morning, as I was blessed with an extra day off and had nothing better to do, I started on my Xmas shopping while trying to remember where I hid those reindeer antlers I got at the Xmas do last year and wondering if I could get Xmas decorations anywhere yet.
Dear God.
I seem to have reached the final stage of Grinch-ism, the happy ending of the tale (which I used to claim spoilt the whole thing). And I must say that I find it slightly disturbing. Cause that means that this year at least my green fur is staying in the closet and it is a very cosy green fur, even if it is rather ugly...

English weather in the South of France

2008-11-01T19:14:00.002Z

I’m back to Brum after a week of what was supposed to be sunshine, wine and cheese, and well, sunshine didn’t happen. Apparently the first weekend was glorious, but I missed it completely as I spent it dying in bed, cause as usual in the beginning of a holiday my body said ‘No more work? Letting go!’ and put me through all colds, migraines and stomach troubles it had bravely resisted through school time. Uh, oh.
I was going to put updates up regularly, but I found myself cut from the internet as my adoptive grandma’s computer died on her the day before our arrival. And now I’m at a loss, cause recounting everything would take pages and pages and so I should probably try to sum it up somehow, which is not easy at all.
It was blissful. In spite of the weather. Just seeing all those faces after having missed them so much!
Two huge emotional moments, first when spotting Sainte Victoire from the plane, then one evening at the dinner table, when I just wanted my life there back, but of course that is not possible and, of course, if I had not moved away, then… etc.
My still growing hair was a big hit, apparently it looks like a lion’s mane and I hide rainbows in it (as one can see on little Guillaume’s portrait of me, which he unfortunately refused to part with, cause wanted to remember me by).
Everyone was excited about meeting Paul, I was excited about everybody meeting Paul, Papi loved Paul absolutely which, if you know Papi, you know is not to be taken for granted.
And well, it was all smiling, hugging, making merry, talking, eating and drinking (uh, oh, body needs tea-totalling for a while now!).
All to be done all over again at Easter (cause it got somehow decided that we would be back at Easter and well, we did not protest too much) but hopefully in a better weather and in less of a hurry!

Obscenities

2008-10-23T21:36:00.000+01:00

I’m hot.
A simple solution to that problem would of course be to turn the heating down but that can not be done as heaps of clothes I just washed are drying and need to be dry a.s.a.p. cause I’m packing! One more day of cheeky brats and then, after a brief stop in MK, it’s all wine, cheese and sunshine – although some of you did not fail to point out that it’s actually raining out there right now. Well, if I’m to trust Metcheck, I shall bring you sunshine!

In the meantime, here’s a funny one for you:
I’ve spent last few days at a school specialising in languages, although I mostly taught English, but that is not the point. As many other schools with the same specialism, all signs inside this one were not only in English but also in other languages spoken/taught in the school. One of the languages this school included in its signs is Polish – not that they teach Polish or that I’d have encountered any Polish kids, but that, once again, is not the point. The point is that this morning, as I was walking through the building, I noticed the signs on the languages classrooms and stopped dead before starting to giggle uncontrollably: the sign said ‘languages’ ‘langues’ ‘Sprachen’ ‘lenguas’ and the same thing again and again in other languages unknown to me, but next to all that I read ‘grubiaństwa’, which is Polish all right, but means… ‘obscenities’.
I can’t help but wonder if it is a result of a failed attempt on translation by someone who didn’t actually speak Polish or if someone played a practical joke on the school.
I’m also trying to decide whether I should tell someone in the school or leave it for other random Poles to enjoy…

Drunk driving

2008-10-20T20:15:00.000+01:00

What do you say to one of the most important people in your world when they tell you they drank and drove and hit something and didn’t know what it was, cause they were so drunk that they didn’t even think to stop and see?
You ask them if they’re ok.
You ask them if there was any evidence of blood on the car and start crying in relief when they tell you that it was definitely an inanimate hard object given the damage to the vehicle.
And then you rage and you summon all the most elaborate invectives in your vocabulary but you fail and resort to the most common ones, but your deliver them vehemently in spite of tears.
Because, thinking they could control their drinking and didn’t need AA anymore, they deserved each and every one of them. And they know it too, but still you tell them.
You tell them.
And then you tell them, you’re so angry with them you don’t even want to speak to them anymore and that if they don’t get their posterior back into AA meetings, you’ll never speak to them again. Cause God knows that once you’ve decided you loved someone it was damn hard to get rid of you, but you’re not going to go to bed each night wondering whether they killed someone or themselves.
And then, a couple of hours later, you cry yourself to sleep imagining what life would be like without them.
And that, ladies and gentleman, seriously sucks.

On being Polish

2008-10-16T17:00:00.000+01:00

I had two interesting conversations concerned with my nationality today. They went like this:

1.
- Miss, is it true you’re Polish?
- Yes, I am.
- Aaaaaah, that explains it!
- What do you mean?
- Polish people are nasty!

2.
- Miss, are you really Polish?
- Yes, I am.
- Oooooh, bless! (in a tone of voice implying that it was the most endearing thing my interlocutor had ever heard).

One was with a student, one with a teaching assistant. Guess which one with whom. Guess which one annoyed me more.

Russell

2008-10-08T19:32:00.002+01:00

We met a few weeks ago, during a weekend I was spending in MK. He was a little sceptical about me, but then decided that I was ok, or at least so it seemed, since he agreed to lend me his pillow. In exchange, I lent him my ear, and he told me stories of Brussels, his hometown, although we both thought it was quite an unusual place for a Polar Bear to be from.
He told me he often dreamt about Iceland and was quite disappointed to have missed an opportunity to go there, but hoped that one day maybe another opportunity will arise again. I told him of my dreams of Norway and said that I could maybe take him with me if I ever went, if he was interested in going, that is. We talked and talked, until we fell asleep, me with my head on his pillow, him with his muzzle still by my ear. The next morning I was rushing for my train, so we exchanged hasty ‘nice to have met you’-s and ‘see you when I see you’-s.

The following weekend, I was delightfully surprised to see him climb out of Paul’s bag – he wanted to see me, he said. He thought that we should talk some more. The beginnings were slightly awkward as Hoffman the Dog was somewhat unimpressed with what he thought was competition. Happily, he quickly warmed up to Russell and decided that it was nice to have someone to keep him company when I was away. Besides, he said, Russell could do things he couldn’t do himself, because of being too big (Russell is a very small Polar Bear). Like get into my teacher’s bag so that I don’t have to go alone to that vile school with vile children that make me swear in the classroom. Like go places and then tell him all about them. Cause Hoffman is a very curious Dog, and Russell is full of stories and enjoys telling them, unlike Didier, who is a Travelling and Adventurous Frog, but being a Frog is rather haughty, a trait that Hoffman doesn’t appreciate much.

On a few occasions Russell talked about going back to MK, as he missed Paul, but somehow never made it into his bag. Nevertheless, his first question every morning is invariably ‘Is it Friday yet?’ (polar bears don’t have a very good sense of time). If I say ‘no’, he asks ‘how long till Friday?’. If I say ‘yes’, he says ‘Uh, oh, happy Friday then’ and lets out a chuffed growl.

I have been tagged!

2008-10-07T10:22:00.005+01:00

It is always nice to find out that people read your musings – especially when the main reason for your blog is to stay in touch with all those people you love but are far away from, as it is the case for yours truly. Consequently, I was thrilled to find myself tagged by Tasha – I didn’t know she was reading, and now I do, and that makes me happy.

So first my 7 random facts:

1) I love random facts. Like that the Earth is 0.02 degrees hotter during full moon. Like that in France technically it is illegal for a woman to wear trousers (except when riding a horse or a bike) because of a law dated 1892 that was never abolished. Like that apparently coffee drinkers have sex more often than people who don’t drink coffee.

2) I share my birthday with, among others, John Coltrane, Ray Charles and Eurypides (although I sincerely do not know how did Wikipedia people manage to figure it out for that last one).

3) My very favourite place in the entire world are Tatra mountains in Poland (Zakopane). Any mountains make me happy, but there is just something about these particular peaks that makes it a true soul asylum for me. No demons can go there.

4) I sing most of the time. I try to keep it in my head when in public, but I quite often fail.

5) I love garlic sandwiches. One of the best things about being sick when I was little was my dad making them for me (cause garlic boosts up your defences and you’re sick in bed, so no one cares if you sweat it out and stink). Take a slice of bread, butter it, put chopped up raw garlic on it and finish off with some salt. Yum. (I have just made some for Manpreet, as she’s poorly and off work, she was sceptical at first but then loved them).

6) I can’t sleep without my stuffed dog. What can I say – a 25 years long habit is not easily lost. Not that I’ve tried though.

7) My favourite season is winter. Even if it is not snowing, although of course it is much better with snow. There is something about the crispness of the winter air that makes you feel more alive and makes everything sharper and more there. And then there are the evenings, dark and cold, which make your home and bed even cosier than usual.

And now for the tagging –
Tasha has already tagged some of the blogs I would have tagged, but there’s still one by an old friend of mine Ewelina and Carina’s culinary pages, and then some by people I don’t know but whose writing I enjoy: Annie Rhiannon, Morning Coffee, German Joys. I know it's not 7 but that's all I've got.

On swearing in the classroom

2008-10-06T18:35:00.001+01:00

I said ‘shit’ in the classroom and I sincerely hope that you can’t get sacked for that.
It was the last lesson of the day, and just after I had texted Paul saying that if the last lot I had today was to be half as bad (rude, disruptive, disrespectful) as the four I had before, I was going to cry.
It was much worse.
And so I said ‘shit’.
I said: ‘Why would I care how you feel if you don’t care how your behaviour makes me feel and you obviously don’t give a shit?’
‘Did she say the S WORD???!!!’
‘Did she actually say S-H-I-T?’
‘Miss, you can’t swear!’
‘I will tell that you swore in the classroom!’
Sure you will sweetheart. Cause you’re dumb enough to hope it will get you out of the detention. And cause you’re petty enough to want to get back at me for that detention, even if you’ve deserved every single minute of it and even more, and you know it.
I hate supply teaching. I really do.
But I have to do it for now, so I will light some candles, pour myself a glass of wine and think happy thoughts.

On achievements and serenity

2008-09-30T19:03:00.000+01:00

Last weekend Paul learned how to count to 100, which could be an odd statement, if I forgot to mention that he learned to do that in Polish. Although sums are still a bit of a problem.

I found that I could talk (‘What do you mean?! You talk all the time!’), and I was told that I thought too much and that I should stop thinking, cause it was all very simple really, if it felt right then it was right and this feels right and that’s that. Which was exactly what I needed to be told.

And I made my amazing boyfriend sandwiches for work thinking that as long as I have that atavistic need to feed him, everything is all right (which, quite suitably, is another thing he learned to say in Polish).

Thursday

2008-09-26T12:47:00.002+01:00

1.
I got fed up with not knowing when the deadline for submitting my PhD for publication was, nor what other documents I had to provide and fed up with waiting for answers, so I decided to nag. This time the university press did reply (miracle!) and provided all information required, which I read with great care and attention and decided that was that. The deadline was on the 30th (that’s bloody Tuesday!), and yes, my edited text could be ready by then (if I didn’t do anything else until, but that was not going to happen) but they also needed a presentation of its academic values (which also could be done, even if I had no idea what I was supposed to write) and the endorsement of the Head of Faculty on the application letter. And there is no way in the world that one could be done within three working days I had left.
So that was that. I had blown it. I should have worked more. I should have nagged earlier. Now it was too late.
So I went down to the lounge, put the TV on and watched two episodes of Scrubs in total dumbness and resignation.
Then I went back upstairs and managed to get hold of my supervisor… who told me not to worry, she was going to take her copy of my PhD to the publishing committee’s meeting, fill in an application form and get the Head of Faculty to sign it.
“Oh…” I gasped with cautious half-relief “but your copy is not edited!”
“Don’t worry, you’ll do that once they’ve decided to publish.”
WHAT?! All these hours spent trying to make it on time, hard work, stress and all?! WHAT?!
“But, but… it’s more than 300 pages, you said 300…”
“You’ll just have to cut it down slightly to some 350 pages.” she said in the same time.
WHAT?! All those things I have already cut out with bleeding heart to get it under 300 pages, why? It already IS under 350 pages! WHAT?!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. And relieved. Because after all I haven’t blown it. Because it’s still all on. But still. Seriously!
Anyway.

2.
After all that I was relieved but still shaky and there was no way I was getting back to work, not with all that information, and I needed to calm down first anyway, so I started surfing on the Internet, which eventually led me to the Times Educational Supplement website, where they publish all the job ads for teachers. I put in all my criteria without much hope, after all I had checked it the day before, and there it was: “French Teacher, permanent contract, secondary school… Milton Keynes.”
I had always thought that at one point I might have to consider moving to MK, I also said I was going to let life decide – apply for jobs both here and there and see what I get first.
But this made it real. There is a job running, I am of course going to apply, and then I might get it, and then I will have to move, to a place where Paul is the only person I know, and I’m not scared of turning my life upside down for my own fantasy, been there, done that, was fun, but this, this is scary!
At that point I could distinctly feel an impending panic crisis come down on me, so I went out, got a bottle of wine, poured myself a huge glass and just sat there waiting for Susanne to come around so that I could properly vent.

3.
Susanne was coming around cause we were going to the Yardbird for a jazz gig as part of my birthday celebrations. We had some dinner (I had forgotten lunch in all that upheaval), I had another glass of wine and we sat there talking, or rather I was talking, and gradually calming myself down. By 7.30 we were all ready to go and just waiting for a friend of mine who was going to give us a ride, and I had just decreed that if I had not had a heart attack today, I was probably safe for ever after, when the knock on the door came. So I went to open… and there stood Paul.

Apparently, my first reaction to my boyfriend’s surprise appearance was: “Oh fuck!”.
But it really was all about the tone of voice. Really.

4.
At the Yardbird I’ve managed to get drunk on two pints of beer.
After we got home I cried a bit and then had a full blown głupawka (which is that state where you get into fits of uncontrollable laughter over things that really are not that funny at all – no other language has a good word for it).
And then I lay sleepless next to my snoring boyfriend and tried not to start freaking out again.
But all is good.
Life knows what it’s doing.
At least I hope so.

“Debussy is a wanker”

2008-09-24T11:23:00.001+01:00

I ruled as we were clapping vigorously at the end of the first part of the concert.
“Oh… but I love this piece.” said Paul.
“Well… he just doesn’t have enough balls” I said as if that was any better – but in my defence, I had been drinking for solid 7 hours by then, as Shell and Preet had unexpectedly started off my birthday celebrations right after noon, and we all know that if you start drinking at lunch time, the only way not to give into a severe somnolence that could make you sleep through your own birthday is to keep drinking. So I did.
Nevertheless, I was still relatively sober, not sober enough however to avoid getting seriously emotional during Rachmaninov’s 2nd Symphony, but I guess getting emotional kind of is the actual point of it all.
I was also not sober enough to refrain from sticking my hand under Paul’s nose claiming that this is what being at the Symphony Hall smelled like, and that I would be highly unimpressed if they put a different hand lotion in the loos. Although by that time it was all his fault, as he fed me two more glasses of wine at the concert.
He’s also already discovered that I’m ‘a little weird’, as he kindly puts it, so I guess there’s no need to worry.

Some more on hair and minor panic crisis

2008-09-22T09:39:00.002+01:00

“Gah!” I gasped, standing in Craig and Ann’s bathroom yesterday morning (well, afternoon), washing my hands. I gasped, because I had just glanced at myself in the mirror and spotted a streak of grey hair on the very top of my head. I gasped, and then I examined my head with great care, in case I was wrong, but I wasn’t, it was definitely there.
Oh God.
I composed myself as best I could, but then as soon as the boys were out of the room, I pointed to my head: “Look Ann, grey hair, right here!” Ann examined my head with great care and confirmed the presence of the horror. “All Paul’s fault” she ruled and we both giggled, but quite seriously, if I get a streak of grey hair just because my boyfriend omits to include me in a rice and naan order, then I’m in trouble. Cause then imagine when something actually wrong happens! I mean, soon I’m going to be back at school! I’m going to turn completely grey in no time! And I have nothing against grey hair as such, I actually think it looks dignified and am not planning on dying mine, but it’s way too early, I’m not even 31! (at least not for one more day, but that’s beside the point.)

Later on, back home, when Paul was in the shower, I made Carina pull the horror out of my head. There were all two of them.
But somehow they had managed to look like a whole streak.
I think I’m having a mild case of birthday panic…

(Explanatory note: Craig and Ann are friends of Paul’s, with whom we went to the Lake District and to Alton Towers and several other places.)

No, I’m not Russian…

2008-09-15T20:49:00.000+01:00

Meeting your boyfriend’s former colleagues can prove quite entertaining indeed (if you don’t count having the “And what are you up to? – Oh, I’m in supply for now. – Oh… don’t worry, something will come up.” conversation one time too many).

There was this one girl (that Paul claims having talked to maybe twice in his life) who spent a good moment telling me what a lovely bloke he was, speaking veeeeery sloooowly indeeeeed and checking if I understood her every once in a while. I was a bit puzzled until I spotted a coin on the floor, and she insisted I kept it ‘as a souvenir from England’. Then it dawned on me: she thought I was one of the Russian exchange teachers their school was hosting and well, that I had just pulled Paul at the party!
‘Dear, I’m not Russian’ I chuckled ‘I’m actually Polish’.
‘Oh’ she said, with a puzzled look on her face and the conversation faltered. And then, when she finally figured it out, she told me – with that exalted insistence you only get when someone’s had one drink to many – what a lucky lady I was. How could I disagree?

The girl who got the job we didn’t get was there too, and she was feeling quite insecure around us, poor thing. But, nice people that we are, we were very friendly and all, having agreed behind her back that comparing what she’s got out of that interview with what we’ve got out of it, we’re definitely much better off (as, from what we hear, many people both staff and students regard her as the evil lady who took Paul’s job).

As for the rest of the weekend, here’s one for you: Although I have to admit that keeping this thing airborne for longer than one minute was beyond our skills and knowledge. But we’re not giving up and one day it shall fly properly, cause we’re smart and it’s not – after all, it’s just a kite!

On how I won a cruise to Caribbean

2008-09-12T12:14:00.002+01:00

For a long while, my parents had to call me simultaneously on my mobile and my land line so that I would know to answer the latter – the phone just didn’t ring. On top of that, speaking to anyone for more than 5 minutes resulted inevitably in a back pain, as the only way you could position yourself while on the phone was squatting on the stairs, where you would also necessarily be in the way of anyone trying to get from the lounge to the kitchen, and who sometimes inadvertently kicked you as passing by or spilled their drink on your head.
So a couple of weeks ago I have finally decided to go buy a new phone. I opted for wireless, so that I could have my transatlantic counselling sessions comfortably lying on my bed and so that my flatmates were not forced to listen to my occasional highly vocal disagreements with my parents. Unfortunately the phone came with very short cables, so I had to redecorate the entrance by sticking them to the floor with bright blue masking tape, which was the only potentially appropriate thing I could find. But that was not the biggest problem. The biggest problem is that now it won’t stop ringing.
‘Hello?’ – ‘You have just won a cruise to the Caribbean…’.
I don’t want to go to the Caribbean and I don’t want to know what I would have to buy to actually go, I want to sit down and concentrate on my work, if you don’t mind/eat my dinner in peace/whatever else I was doing when you decided to force your recorded emotionless message on me.
‘Hello?’ – ‘Can I speak to [insert my landlord’s name]?’
Not discouraged by the lack of ‘please’ at the end of that sentence I reply politely: ‘I’m sorry, but he doesn’t live here anymore.’
And the guy just hangs up!
‘What the f*#& happened to ‘thank you’, ‘sorry for disturbing you’? Learn your manners, stupid knob!’ I bellow down the dead line.
Happily I am home alone so my flatmates are not forced to listen to my highly vocal expression of disagreement.

Happy Friday!

2008-09-12T10:23:00.003+01:00

It was a good week, a seriously good week. I have done loads of translating and the editing work on my PhD is finally progressing properly too, this to a great extent thanks to Naomi, who talked me into buying A.S. Byatt’s ‘Possession’ during our hunt for the perfect dress a couple of months ago. I started reading it only this week and it puts me into a proper academic mode, so exactly where I need to be right now.
The big news of the week is however that it is official now: we’re going to Aix. The tickets are bought and we shall arrive to the land of wine, cheese and sun in the last week of October. I am so excited that I’ve had trouble falling asleep for a couple of days, as my brain is in a full planning mode now. Can’t wait!
And now it’s Friday, I have a proper sense of achievement and Paul will be here in a few hours. The bookcase will get assembled, the light bulb changed, friends will be seen and maybe we’ll even have time to finally fly that kite?

On gum infection and my independent self sufficient persona

2008-09-10T09:41:00.000+01:00

I am happy, really, I am. Most of the time, I lightly swing through a day with a smile on my face and a happy song in my head. But for last two days I’ve been unexpectedly and without a reason dipping down into pits of sudden gloominess, and than struggling out to climb back out.
As I find it all seriously annoying, I’ve decided to figure it out but none of the potential reasons I came up with seem to provide a satisfactory explanation:
I have a lot of work, so much that I have to stay glued to my desk all day long unless I want to work over the weekend too, which I don’t – but a lot of work means income which I can use to finance my language classes and my trip to Aix, so I actually should be glad. And it isn’t as if I had been glued to my desk for ever (it’s been only two days since the weekend, when I wasn’t glued to anything at all) and it isn’t as if I was secluded (cause there is Shell and Preet is back from India now).
I don’t have my own classroom (read: I don’t have a job) – but I’ve already come to terms with that and decided to be philosophical about it, so there is no reason why I should un-decide that now. Maybe if there was nothing else I could hang on to, like it was back in May, but there is plenty.
I have an infected gum around my wisdom tooth, which tends to wake me up at night, therefore messing up my sleeping patterns, and I suppose that that could partially account for me being slightly downbeat.
I am missing Paul more than I would like to admit to, which seriously annoys my independent self sufficient persona.
And that’s it.
Hm.
I think I’ll blame it on the gum infection and get to work while listening to Elvis, before my independent self sufficient persona gets alarmed all over again.

Haircut

2008-09-08T11:59:00.002+01:00

After a few minutes of a discussion concerned with pros and cons of laminating different stuff, I said I needed a haircut.
‘You should laminate you hair’ said Paul, being silly. ‘I’ll put it up in my classroom with a tag saying ‘les cheveux blonds’'.
I chuckled and we changed subjects, but then I actually did go to get a haircut. And I will never forget the hairdresser’s face when I protested as she wanted to sweep the floor and proceeded to collecting what she’d cut off my head.
‘It’s a private joke’ I said, as if it explained anything ‘I need to laminate that’.
‘You’re weird people’ was her only reply. I suppose there wasn’t much else she could have said.

Putting in place a nice routine

2008-09-04T11:17:00.000+01:00

Feeling much better today, maybe because it’s the first morning where I’ve woken up without a headache and managed to do so before 10, maybe because tomorrow’s Friday and I’m going to Milton Keynes. Probably both.
Anyway, this week has been all about organising my weeks for the months to come – going back to the gym (dear God I’m in pain, but it is a nice kind of pain), finding out about language classes, and coming to terms with the fact that I’m in a weekend relationship now, which is okay, just needs some getting used to. So if everything works out fine, it will be Monday night German, Tuesday night Spanish, Wednesday night Body Balance and Thursday night Body Pump. So I will be busy, but it’s all good, it’s all what I always wanted to do and never really could afford doing, so hey, I may as well. Add to that weekends with Paul and meeting up with friends and it looks like this year is going to be the exact opposite of the last one – I am going to have so much life that I’m not sure I’ll be able to cope! But, if you ask me, it’s about time.

And so it's September

2008-09-03T10:59:00.001+01:00

When I said I needed life to go on, I meant I needed to go back to work. Unfortunately, for now there’s nothing on the supply front cause the kids are not back to school until tomorrow. But what I really want is my own classroom and being around people who do doesn’t help being philosophical about it.
Fortunately I have translations to keep me busy and also the PhD that I have to edit for print and the deadline’s dreadfully close now. I was supposed to have the whole summer to work on it, needless to say, I haven’t touched it, or almost.
Life going on mainly takes the form of house improvements – I have a functioning land line now, a desk (inherited from Paul) and a chair (that I skilfully assembled myself) and a bookcase – finally, after a year of keeping books in boxes and on piles. The problem with the bookcase however is that I can not assemble it on my own, so for now it is just lying there in its box, like a mean reminder of life actually not going on.
On the other hand, life seems to want to be going on rather quicker than I’m ready for it to. I’m fine with short-term plans and organising my life for the months to come, but I’m not sure I’m quite ready to make Christmas plans, and I am making Christmas plans, and there’s still almost 4 months until Christmas, why the hell would I be thinking about Christmas now? I mean, planning Aix for the half-term was far from being obvious and I’m still not 100% sure I made the right decisions, so Christmas?!

Summer is gone

2008-09-01T10:49:00.001+01:00

It is September 1st and the summer is officially over, although technically it will still be summer for a few days. Yet, the school year is starting, Paul is in Milton Keynes and I’m sorting out my paper work, meeting my agent, working and setting back into my single routines while trying to get used to sleeping alone again.
It was the best summer ever and I am a little sad that it is over, but I think I have been ready for it to end for a little while now. I think I need life to go on and life doesn’t really go on when you’re on holiday, regardless of how many exciting things you do.

Ah, nostalgia…

2008-08-25T14:12:00.001+01:00

A few weeks ago I received a letter from the University of Provence saying that if I wanted them to send me my PhD diploma, I had to provide the university office with a self addressed envelope with a 5,60 € stamp on it. They have of course not thought about the simple fact that getting stamps in euros in the UK might be slightly complicated if not impossible. Once again, James came to my rescue and offered to provide them with what they needed. The office was closed for the summer so he set on the mission only today. Here’s the e-mail he sent me afterwards:

“Hi Anna,

Well, unfortunately I wasn't able to drop your diploma envelope at doctoral studies office today. You no doubt remember how the university has a habit of loosing paperwork, but this time they outdid themselves. They lost the office. Depending on who you ask, Bureau 10 has moved, is moving, or will be moving, but no one knows when or to where. All anyone can agree on is that it's not open, if it's even still there at all. Some say it's destined to stay at the Schuman campus, other say it will re-open at the MMSH. We shall see. They said to call in a week or two, so I'll give them a ring in a while.

--James”

What can I say – there are some things I definitely do not miss about France.

On public toilets and roller coasters of a completely different kind

2008-08-16T13:29:00.002+01:00

There’s nothing like going to the mountainside when you’re low. There’s nothing like a good hike up to shed all your weary thoughts and feel in control again. There’s nothing more overwhelming than going to the mountainside when you’re happy. Especially when you go down to the local pub after a solid hike, feeling the effort in your thighs, get a perfect pint of Guinness and the night air is fresh and even the toilets smell like mountainside toilets should. I felt as if all the happiness was about to burst me open and the only thing I could find to do about it was cry. Who would think that public toilets could trigger such reactions… (funnily enough, a few more memorable moments of this trip involved standing outside public toilets in the night).
Anyway, I am not a religious person, but I stood outside those toilets for good five minutes crying and praying to The One Up There that s/he would not take this away from me. Cause all this feels as if s/he had finally decided that I had been through enough now and it was time to give me a break.

But highs like that exhaust you too. And then the vile little voice of the messed up person you used to be makes itself heard and tells you that all this is wrong and you’re just winding yourself up but we’ve been there before and we know how it is going to end. And you listen even if you don’t want to, cause it just makes sense – indeed, we’ve been there before and there’s no reason why this should be any different. I suppose that sleepless nights caused by a deflating air-bed did not help there.

But then someone makes you coffee and your rational thinking kicks in and you realise that what really is the matter is that being that happy is a scary feeling, cause you just can’t help looking over your shoulder as if someone or something was going to steal it away from you or make you pay for it. And that you’ve been single for far too long and enjoyed it far too much, and that mainly is all there is to it.

On squashed organs and near death experiences

2008-08-07T14:51:00.001+01:00

The big plan for my 30th birthday was for me to go on a roller coaster. I had never done that before, and I found it quite pathetic to be 30 and not had made that experience. However, with the move to England and the PGCE and all, it just didn’t happen. When I told Paul about it, he agreed that it was definitely wrong and a few days ago we went to Alton Towers, which is a big amusement park not far from here.
And so I lost my roller coaster virginity on Oblivion, which mainly consists of you dropping from 60 meters into a black hole. It felt like I was about to die. It felt like if all of my organs were squashed inside of me and I would never be able to use them again. Talk about easing me in!
I survived. But I still do not understand why one would do something like that to themselves.
Maybe I’m weird, but I somehow preferred the rides when you could giggle and scream to the ones where the air was compressed back into your lungs or where all you could think of was stabilising your head so that it would not rattle all over bumping off the sides of your seat. Even if the former do not give you an adrenaline rush like the latter ones do. Although I’m starting to suspect that it is a little bit like with child birth – with time, you forget how painful it was but you can still remember how exhilarated you felt after it was all over. So I might do it again, you never know.

On modern art and deluge

2008-07-30T23:05:00.000+01:00

Last weekend we went to London to see Carina, or at least that was the plan, cause the trip expanded as we went and so we also went to Milton Keynes to water plants and to Oxford to have Mexican food and see Cate. You know me, stick me in a car, put the music on and I’m happy – in other words, I love road trips, and this one definitely lived up to my expectations.

Saturday was eating, drinking and talking in Carina’s garden and nursing a sunburn I’ve miraculously acquired between Birmingham and London. An uneventful yet blissful summer evening.

On Sunday we went to Modern Tate and I liked it, in spite of my general disdain for modern art - at least for the kind where they put a huge red dot on yellow canvas and call it ‘Pain’, or something similar. I really liked the sculptures, especially the ones Paul said I wouldn’t want in my bedroom (I feel quite daft for having forgotten the artist’s name) and that looked as if someone had dripped hot iron into silhouettes.
I was however not spared a painting made up of squares of different colours entitled ‘Mediterranean’. I stared at it and stared at it, and the more I stared, the more it remained just a random selection of colours that did not evoke any associations, which I found frustrating as I had spent four years living in the very region that inspired the artist, so I should be able to see it. I know that it was the same region, cause I read the label – I thought it would help me understand as it did with some of the sculptures, but no luck. Squares remained squares.
There was also a mandatory set of paintings picturing female private parts from weird angles and a video installation featuring a naked guy jumping up and down, which made me giggle but which failed to inspire any art-worthy reactions. Oh well. Maybe I’m just too insensitive to comprehend the depth of those artists’ talent and inspiration, but I think I will live in spite of it.

As we were driving back on Monday, the sky fell. It was already grunting when we were leaving Oxford, and Cate had warned us about thunderstorms coming up from Cornwall, but I was not prepared for driving through a wall of water. I was quite relived when we got back to Brum in one piece, but then we were confronted with a huge lake on one of the main roads and had to go around it through the grass, which was exciting and scary as Paul’s car is not an SUV, so we could easily get stuck in the watered mud that the surrounding ground had turned into or slide with it down the slope and into the lake. Other options were staying in the car forever or taking a run for it and getting soaking wet while abandoning the car behind, none of which seemed appealing to either of us. But we didn’t get stuck or slide in the mud and got home safe and I could joyfully run around barefoot in the back garden getting soaking wet, knowing that the warm shower and hot tea were just seconds away.

Sad stuff

2008-07-26T11:59:00.001+01:00

Every death in a car crash is stupid. Yet this one is particularly wrong. I will not go into detail about how much this man meant to Poland, although we definitely wouldn’t be where we are if it wasn’t for him. You can read more here if you want.
I can however remember Bronisław Geremek as a teacher. In my University of Warsaw years I managed to get into his medieval history class even if I was officially studying at a different faculty and so I wasn’t really entitled to be there. But he said ‘Just come around’ and so I did. He would open the door and start talking while making his way to his desk. This was the only time in my academic career where I witnessed students being perfectly silent before the professor even entered the room. We just didn’t want to miss one word. And dear God he took you places.

Another sad thing, although of much lesser importance on the global scale, is the closing of the Mercer’s cafés in Warsaw. I used to live there. I wrote my masters’ there. I will never have Orange Latte Grande again. I will need to find a new place to meet up with people when I go and visit. Warsaw just became even less mine and that saddens me, although I do feel kind of silly feeling sad for a coffee shop when a great man has died.