Wing cows are vicious

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

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!

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

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…

…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

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!

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…