On modern art and deluge

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

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.

Last day of school

Yesterday was the last day of school, or actually the last half-day of school, as I finished before noon. I had lots of fun teaching Polish to one of my classes, but then I got annoyed to the utmost by a bunch of Year 9’s whom I had to keep in a classroom for half a lesson. What can you do against a bunch of 14 years olds, who can already smell freedom, when you’re a supply teacher they are sure they will never see again and therefore do not see a point in obeying? The answer is nothing. There is no point of setting any activities, cause they will not do anything anyway. So you just try to keep the noise levels under control while keeping your hands in you pockets so that they can’t see them spontaneously clench into fists and squeezing your teeth to stop yourself from screaming, while they send the textbooks flying across the floor, litter the floor with tiny bits of paper you know you will not be able to make them pick up, spill out the contents of the bin, listen to the music on several phones in the same time, write/draw obscenities on the white board, explore the boxes containing another teacher’s belongings, attempt to break into the cupboards, try to get out through the door, try to get out through the windows, hang out of the windows and chat with the escapees outside and do everything they know you really don’t want them to do. Those were the most frustrating 25 minutes in my life, especially while I couldn’t see a point in them being there either. On top of everything someone had forgotten to activate the bell, so half of them didn’t even show up and the rest of them fled the classroom when the time came, bell or no bell, while I was vainly trying to make them stay in (cause I was told to wait for the bell).
As a result of that, when I got into Paul’s car, I spent a good minute just groaning my frustration out. And when I finally turned around to actually say hello… there was no beard.
Now that will take some adjusting.

Not a Cosmo columnist

I have composed a very witty and funny entry in my head about sure signs of being in a relationship. Then I have decided against publishing it here. I’m not writing for Cosmo. Nor do I wish to make this blog into a verbal version of a web cam in a dorm.
I will also not describe the agony of trying to find the perfect dress for a wedding on a limited budget nor the reasons why I feel the need for one.
What I will say, is that I have just ordered a ‘make a kite’ kit and I can’t wait for it to get here. I will say that, cause if I don’t, I might tell Paul out of sheer excitement, and it is supposed to be a surprise.
We shall have our own kite in the sky. And we shall make it ourselves too.

Life in supply

Being a supply teacher means that quite often you have to teach subjects other than your speciality. Up till now I’ve taught English, History, Citizenship, Music and PSHE (which stands for Personal, Social and Health Education). It is not a big deal really, cause work is prepared for you and you just have to set it and then make sure that the kids are doing what they’re supposed to be doing, so mainly you’re baby sitting. The other day, in History, I was bored so I flicked through the textbook the kids were working from on the subject of the Cold War. And I found out that the only thing worth mentioning when talking about how the Eastern Block collapsed is the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. As far as the British secondary school history teaching is concerned Solidarnosc did not exist. Which makes me think that if it wasn’t for the recent massive Polish immigration, me telling an average British teenager that I’m Polish would probably mean as much as if I told them I was Martian.

S/M à l’anglaise

I was bored in the staff room the other day which explains why I reached for a copy of one of the local free sheets that someone left lying around. Among many fascinating stories, I found a review of a book about the kinky side of British sexuality (you will forgive me for forgetting the title). Therein, the author mentioned an S/M club, featuring a man dressed in leather in a big cage. There is also another man dressed in leather next to the cage. He is… the Health and Safety Officer.

A Recipe for a Perfect Sunday

Ingredients:

A fry-up breakfast (preferably eaten in the garden)
A picnic (it doesn’t really matter what food you bring)
A park with grass to lie on and with happy toddlers to smile at
Live music (it doesn’t even have to be good all the time, just as long as it isn’t oppressive, cause you can always make fun of how bad it is)
Sunshine
A kite in the sky
And a right person to share it with.

And if you’re lucky, there will be a van selling disgustingly sweet ice-cream and they might even release a big bag of balloons and dot the sky with colours.

On Shiny Saxophones

As I walked towards the Symphony Hall yesterday, I somehow knew that the One with the Shiny Saxophone would be playing. And sure enough, he was. We exchanged hello’s as the band was setting up and then he caught up with me at the bar. I have to say, we ran out of conversation pretty quickly, probably because I was not making an effort to keep one going at all.
And then once the gig started, he would take his eyes off me only when playing a solo, which both Naomi and I found highly amusing. Men are funny creatures indeed.

“I had not noticed how short he is”, I told Naomi, explaining that one of the things I liked about Paul was that I had to get up on my toes to kiss him, which I found refreshing after four years spent in a country of little people. “They’re like hobbits” said Naomi sending both of us in uncontrollable fit of giggles in the middle of a very fervent saxophone solo, which was probably intended to trigger a completely different reaction.

Onomasiology

‘When a speaker has to name something, s/he first tries to categorise it. If the speaker can classify the referent as member of a familiar concept, s/he will carry out some sort of cognitive-linguistic cost-benefit-analysis: what should I say to get what I want. Based on this analysis, the speaker can then either fall back on an already existing word or decide to coin a new designation. These processes are sometimes more conscious, sometimes less conscious and the coinage of a new designation can be incited by various forces, for instance difficulties in classifying the thing to be named or attributing the right word to the thing to be named, thus confusing designations.’

Paul has been around for almost two weeks now. And Paul has been Paul, full stop.
Then last night we went out for drinks for my flatmate’s Michelle’s birthday. And suddenly it became: “This is my flatmate Anna and her boyfriend Paul”.

How the hell did that happen? What happened to ‘carpe date’em’?
My guess is, it got lost somewhere around ‘why don’t we sleep over at mine tonight, it will be more practical if I’m giving you a ride to work tomorrow’.

Dear God, I have a boyfriend.