It is the middle of the summer holidays and I'm pretty much as relaxed as I could be. I woke up at 11am this morning - amazing! Granted that is probably because the kids are spending some much needed time at their Grandparents but these days with the help of the holy Ipad, I never really rise before 9 in the holidays. Sleeping from midnight to 9.30 suits me much better than going to bed early and getting up for 7ish. Unfortunately I haven't as yet found a school that would allow me to roll into work about 10am - it doesn't really fit the job.
I've figured out I have two speeds. (1) Crazy busy and (2) Lazy cow. In the height of my busyness I achieve so much, always. I juggle jobs and studying and everyone is still fed nutritiously and the house is clean. I am currently running on Lazy Cow speed however and nothing is being achieved, at all. I just drove to the shop to buy a sandwich as I couldn't be arsed to make one myself. Seriously. It must have taken more time/effort and energy to drive to the shop and buy one but it felt like the Lazy Cow option and I took it.
So I'm revelling in my sluggishness at the moment. The only problem is that all good things come to an end and jeebus isn't it a shock to the system when they do? This time in two weeks I will be halfway through a session of inset at my new job that started at 8.30am in the morning and I will have had to have delivered my kids to Wheathampstead beforehand. From where I'm sitting at the moment you might as well ask me to climb Mount Everest, that would be easier. The sensible way to tackle this problem would be to have earlier and more sober nights in the last week before real life starts again, thus training me back into the real world. However, I know that I will be hanging onto the sloth by my fingernails and drowning the idea of actuality in buckets full of champagne. Hmmmm.
I need to rev my brain back up into gear as it is also the final year of my MA for which a cool 20000 words is expected. I wrote 12500 words this year but if you held a gun to my head at the moment and asked me for any more than about 10 of them I really don't think I would be able to help you.
I'm sure I'll get there, we all do in the end. I must be going now anyway. There's place mat on the table with crumbs on that I've been working up to wiping for a couple of hours now. I reckon I'm nearly up to it. Happy Days.
Monday, 18 August 2014
Monday, 11 August 2014
The Circle of Life
I have just recovered from the worst two-day hangover of my life. I thought I was going to die. Seriously. I was having heart attacks, kidney and liver failure all at the same time. It was unpleasant. This immediately followed 14 days of hardcore drinking, even by my standards, so it was well deserved.
It got me to thinking about the hideous injustice of not being able to drink forever as you could in your twenties. Why can things just not stay the same forever? Much as I am afraid to admit it, I am officially getting old.
After Zak has asked me to jump in five times with him in a row in the pool, I was bored shitless. I used to do that for 10 hours straight as a child. When did I get so boring?
Stu and I haven't partied like that on holiday since pre-kids. It was brilliant, but I am also enjoying eating vegetables and drinking water today. That would NEVER have happened before. I would've been downing a bottle of vodka and crying over the fact my holiday was over. Does this mean in ten years I will be one of 'those' women who has two white wine and sodas and that is quite enough? I don't think so. I bloody hope not. I don't want to go clubbing anymore, definitely not. What will I have lost over the next ten years? Surely I can't go off pubs? Maybe I need to make the most of them in what is left of my thirties, just in case.
I wonder sometimes about what our holidays will be like when the kids have left home. I really hope we are still able to have fun by then. I can't ever see me becoming seriously into sight-seeing or walking or anything that isn't lying in the sun and boozing but you never know.
Shell was telling me the other day about a pill that is being developed at the moment that simulates being drunk without actually drinking any alcohol. You can then take another pill that stops it immediately with no hangover. Sounds like the answer to all my problems but the problem is that is doesn't sound that fun really! The best drunken nights are the ones that sneak up on you without warning, not a pre-medicated decision. Plus, I know I would never get around to taking the second pill and would end up drunk and disorderly forever...
So, I will continue with my detox for a few days. I have some seriously alcoholic pals coming to visit on Friday night so it will be all over by then. That is followed by three child-less days so I reckon next week I will be mid-anxiety-attack-seriously-about-to-die-any-minute-now all over again.
At least I'm prepared this time. ;-)
It got me to thinking about the hideous injustice of not being able to drink forever as you could in your twenties. Why can things just not stay the same forever? Much as I am afraid to admit it, I am officially getting old.
After Zak has asked me to jump in five times with him in a row in the pool, I was bored shitless. I used to do that for 10 hours straight as a child. When did I get so boring?
Stu and I haven't partied like that on holiday since pre-kids. It was brilliant, but I am also enjoying eating vegetables and drinking water today. That would NEVER have happened before. I would've been downing a bottle of vodka and crying over the fact my holiday was over. Does this mean in ten years I will be one of 'those' women who has two white wine and sodas and that is quite enough? I don't think so. I bloody hope not. I don't want to go clubbing anymore, definitely not. What will I have lost over the next ten years? Surely I can't go off pubs? Maybe I need to make the most of them in what is left of my thirties, just in case.
I wonder sometimes about what our holidays will be like when the kids have left home. I really hope we are still able to have fun by then. I can't ever see me becoming seriously into sight-seeing or walking or anything that isn't lying in the sun and boozing but you never know.
Shell was telling me the other day about a pill that is being developed at the moment that simulates being drunk without actually drinking any alcohol. You can then take another pill that stops it immediately with no hangover. Sounds like the answer to all my problems but the problem is that is doesn't sound that fun really! The best drunken nights are the ones that sneak up on you without warning, not a pre-medicated decision. Plus, I know I would never get around to taking the second pill and would end up drunk and disorderly forever...
So, I will continue with my detox for a few days. I have some seriously alcoholic pals coming to visit on Friday night so it will be all over by then. That is followed by three child-less days so I reckon next week I will be mid-anxiety-attack-seriously-about-to-die-any-minute-now all over again.
At least I'm prepared this time. ;-)
Friday, 4 July 2014
I don't do sick...
...I don't. I really, really don't.
Before I had children I perfected the art of avoiding sick of school trips by positioning myself always next to the window on a coach and then inviting a complete keeno teacher (normally a trainee or an NQT) to sit next to me. It is quite likely that the aforementioned unfortunate seat-partner had been pretty much ignored at work by me until this point and so was pleased that I was being so friendly. Little did they know that the moment a pupil vomited, they were purely my buffer to that situation. Happy days. Worked a treat.
Unfortunately, you are then a Mother and there is no buffer. Well, no buffer that is going to efficiently enough clean puke stains from your house...
Zak started vomming at about 7pm last night. Mummy had just returned from the pub, (such lucky children), and Daddy sent me up to see Zak as he was feeling sick. It was his class assembly today and he is not a natural performer so I thought he was suffering from nerves. We were having a lovely cuddle in bed and I was giving him a pep talk about it not mattering if things went wrong, he forgot his words or he wasn't loud enough, thinking I was making it all better; when he threw up all over both of us. Not nerves then.
No more grim details, I promise, let's just say there were four hours of grimness following. This is one of our busiest weekends of the year (of course). Zak's assembly was today then I was straight up to London for a financial meeting with my Dad and a piss-up lunch. Tomorrow is Sebi's first stage school performance, which Stu's parents are down for. Then Sunday is Zak's birthday BBQ and Monday is his actual birthday and party. He couldn't really have timed it better.
Or course I was going to sacrifice a snazzy lunch in London with pretty much my favourite person on the planet today if Zak had been really ill. I was totally prepared for it at 11pm as I settled down for the night expecting not to be asleep for particularly long. However, as I woke up at 7am this morning I figured out the worst could be over and I might in fact make it. Of course, if Mummy and Grandad are out on the piss, Granny is always available. It worried me slightly that mid-retch last night Zak was gasping at me:
"You... must.. phone... Granny..."
"No darling, it's ok, Mummy's here."
"But Granny always looks after us when we're poorly..."
Yikes. At least we all know where we stand.
So I now only have 72 hours or so to watch Sebi like a hawk to see if we can get through weekend-of-the-year with no further sicky disasters. Knowing Seb, he will save it up for mid tap dance tomorrow, just in case the focus is off him for a second...
Before I had children I perfected the art of avoiding sick of school trips by positioning myself always next to the window on a coach and then inviting a complete keeno teacher (normally a trainee or an NQT) to sit next to me. It is quite likely that the aforementioned unfortunate seat-partner had been pretty much ignored at work by me until this point and so was pleased that I was being so friendly. Little did they know that the moment a pupil vomited, they were purely my buffer to that situation. Happy days. Worked a treat.
Unfortunately, you are then a Mother and there is no buffer. Well, no buffer that is going to efficiently enough clean puke stains from your house...
Zak started vomming at about 7pm last night. Mummy had just returned from the pub, (such lucky children), and Daddy sent me up to see Zak as he was feeling sick. It was his class assembly today and he is not a natural performer so I thought he was suffering from nerves. We were having a lovely cuddle in bed and I was giving him a pep talk about it not mattering if things went wrong, he forgot his words or he wasn't loud enough, thinking I was making it all better; when he threw up all over both of us. Not nerves then.
No more grim details, I promise, let's just say there were four hours of grimness following. This is one of our busiest weekends of the year (of course). Zak's assembly was today then I was straight up to London for a financial meeting with my Dad and a piss-up lunch. Tomorrow is Sebi's first stage school performance, which Stu's parents are down for. Then Sunday is Zak's birthday BBQ and Monday is his actual birthday and party. He couldn't really have timed it better.
Or course I was going to sacrifice a snazzy lunch in London with pretty much my favourite person on the planet today if Zak had been really ill. I was totally prepared for it at 11pm as I settled down for the night expecting not to be asleep for particularly long. However, as I woke up at 7am this morning I figured out the worst could be over and I might in fact make it. Of course, if Mummy and Grandad are out on the piss, Granny is always available. It worried me slightly that mid-retch last night Zak was gasping at me:
"You... must.. phone... Granny..."
"No darling, it's ok, Mummy's here."
"But Granny always looks after us when we're poorly..."
Yikes. At least we all know where we stand.
So I now only have 72 hours or so to watch Sebi like a hawk to see if we can get through weekend-of-the-year with no further sicky disasters. Knowing Seb, he will save it up for mid tap dance tomorrow, just in case the focus is off him for a second...
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Like Father...like Son-in-Law
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7593336.stm
I've always laughed in the face of articles like the above, which profess that women tend to marry people that resemble their fathers. I am beginning however to laugh on the other side of my face...
Stuart took his Father's Day present back to Marks and Spencer yesterday, (how rude, who doesn't need a pair of Mr. Men socks for every day of the week?), and returned with a really nice checked shirt. A really nice checked shirt that looks as though it came straight out of my Dad's wardrobe.
I have always thought that Stu and my Dad were polar opposites, even though they have got on very well. In the way that dogs begin to look like their owners over time, or owners begin to look like their dogs, I feel this son-in-law is becoming more like John Stocker every day.
There is a general intolerance of rude, drunken, swearing people in pubs. This is unfortunate for me as quite often my default stance in a pub is rude, drunk and swearing.
I think my Dad forgets the blood link occasionally, or believes that male fellow feeling is more important. When I meet him for a drink, even if he is the one who has arranged it, I am often greeted with: "your husband let you out then did he?" I know he only does it to wind me up - so it annoys me that it still does manage to slightly irritate me.
So I will monitor any future shopping decisions by my spouse with interest, quietly. I will only ever get involved if he follows the dodgy fashion decision of bright blue crocs with beige socks pulled up to the knee. There are some things that only my Dad can get away with.
Who knows, maybe the boys will bring home someone who resembles me one day? I think that may be the point that Stu flies our happy nest. One of me if more than enough for any man to have to put up with I think.
I've always laughed in the face of articles like the above, which profess that women tend to marry people that resemble their fathers. I am beginning however to laugh on the other side of my face...
Stuart took his Father's Day present back to Marks and Spencer yesterday, (how rude, who doesn't need a pair of Mr. Men socks for every day of the week?), and returned with a really nice checked shirt. A really nice checked shirt that looks as though it came straight out of my Dad's wardrobe.
I have always thought that Stu and my Dad were polar opposites, even though they have got on very well. In the way that dogs begin to look like their owners over time, or owners begin to look like their dogs, I feel this son-in-law is becoming more like John Stocker every day.
There is a general intolerance of rude, drunken, swearing people in pubs. This is unfortunate for me as quite often my default stance in a pub is rude, drunk and swearing.
I think my Dad forgets the blood link occasionally, or believes that male fellow feeling is more important. When I meet him for a drink, even if he is the one who has arranged it, I am often greeted with: "your husband let you out then did he?" I know he only does it to wind me up - so it annoys me that it still does manage to slightly irritate me.
So I will monitor any future shopping decisions by my spouse with interest, quietly. I will only ever get involved if he follows the dodgy fashion decision of bright blue crocs with beige socks pulled up to the knee. There are some things that only my Dad can get away with.
Who knows, maybe the boys will bring home someone who resembles me one day? I think that may be the point that Stu flies our happy nest. One of me if more than enough for any man to have to put up with I think.
Thursday, 26 June 2014
Pay it Forward
I am not community spirited by nature. It's not technically my bag. Ask any of the Mums at the school gate who pee their pants over asking me if I have volunteered for the school trip/am attending the camping night/am doing a stall at the school fair. No, no and NO. Missing my kids' Sports Day for the first time today though made me a little bit sad but I wasn't beside myself by any means. Particularly as my parents had arranged their 8 day holiday in between the end of the times that I needed them to pick up the kids when I was examining and play-directing, and today, when neither Stu or I could make Sports Day due to work. We did find out a couple of days ago however that as Stu's meeting had been cancelled he could actually be at Sports Day after all. My text message to the parents in Italy went something along the lines of this:
'GOOD NEWS - Stu's meeting has been cancelled and he can now make Sports Day!
BAD NEWS - You have arranged your entire holiday around this! Stay on in Italy?!'
My Mother obviously got her own back on me by coming and watching anyway and then feeding back through my Father in the pub this evening: 'I don't think we should hold out for the Olympics for the Ward boys.' Miaooowwwww (but fair ;-))
Anyway, I digress. I popped to Budgens on the way home as I realised we didn't have any mushy peas to accompany our fish 'n chips - sacrilege. The middle-aged, middle-class lady in front of me was obviously embarrassed as she put forward her burgers and croissants and handed over a fiver saying that she didn't have her purse with her and she hoped she wasn't going to be 'financially mortified'. Financially mortified she was as it came to £5.15 and she tried to put the croissants back (savoury over sweet, every time, totes agree). I piped up that I would give her the 15p and she honestly acted as if I had just given her a kidney. We are so bloody British. I'm not even sure if I would have given her the 15p if I didn't have two glasses of wine in my belly, but I should have, regardless. I'm not telling this story to be a wanker. 15p is 15p and to any of us it means nothing at all but we should take these chances of showing we live as a community of sorts when we can.
I must say more than anything to my boys, 'Be kind'. Am I always kind? No. Absolutely not. However, I am generally kind to anyone who has not proved themselves as a fuckwit or a cunt, and I cannot bear meanness, particularly childhood nastiness. 'Be kind to anyone who isn't a fuckwit or a cunt' is probably a little too advanced for even my children however.
I must thank you all, for being kind to me in continuing to read my blog through the bother of having to sign up/create accounts etc. etc. It is a personal thing to me, that I love doing and I am grateful that so many people have shown interest and bothered to keep on reading. Be sure I will give you lot 15p any time, without a second thought, or even one glass of wine in my belly...
'GOOD NEWS - Stu's meeting has been cancelled and he can now make Sports Day!
BAD NEWS - You have arranged your entire holiday around this! Stay on in Italy?!'
My Mother obviously got her own back on me by coming and watching anyway and then feeding back through my Father in the pub this evening: 'I don't think we should hold out for the Olympics for the Ward boys.' Miaooowwwww (but fair ;-))
Anyway, I digress. I popped to Budgens on the way home as I realised we didn't have any mushy peas to accompany our fish 'n chips - sacrilege. The middle-aged, middle-class lady in front of me was obviously embarrassed as she put forward her burgers and croissants and handed over a fiver saying that she didn't have her purse with her and she hoped she wasn't going to be 'financially mortified'. Financially mortified she was as it came to £5.15 and she tried to put the croissants back (savoury over sweet, every time, totes agree). I piped up that I would give her the 15p and she honestly acted as if I had just given her a kidney. We are so bloody British. I'm not even sure if I would have given her the 15p if I didn't have two glasses of wine in my belly, but I should have, regardless. I'm not telling this story to be a wanker. 15p is 15p and to any of us it means nothing at all but we should take these chances of showing we live as a community of sorts when we can.
I must say more than anything to my boys, 'Be kind'. Am I always kind? No. Absolutely not. However, I am generally kind to anyone who has not proved themselves as a fuckwit or a cunt, and I cannot bear meanness, particularly childhood nastiness. 'Be kind to anyone who isn't a fuckwit or a cunt' is probably a little too advanced for even my children however.
I must thank you all, for being kind to me in continuing to read my blog through the bother of having to sign up/create accounts etc. etc. It is a personal thing to me, that I love doing and I am grateful that so many people have shown interest and bothered to keep on reading. Be sure I will give you lot 15p any time, without a second thought, or even one glass of wine in my belly...
Sunday, 22 June 2014
Having my Apron Strings Cut
A lot has changed in Sebi over the past couple of weeks since his birthday and he is not afraid to share it. There have been a few pleasing mealtime moments where he has poked in one, previously scorned carrot or piece of cucumber and then told us quite definitely, with a look of wonder as to why we are surprised:
"But of course, I eat carrots/cucumber now, I am FIVE."
Oh, of course, silly me. His Top Hat teacher had the same experience when she tried to help him undo his tap shoes, as she does every week. She told me that he looked at her extremely scathingly as he delivered her the same line.
I can't say I have noticed huge changes in my life since turning thirty-seven from thirty-six, but maybe the leaps are less great these days, or maybe I'm not trying hard enough.
My baby does not exist anymore. My Mum told me the other day that Sebi had confided in her that he needed Mummy to stop calling him 'her baby' as he really was, most definitely, five now. He had a long discussion with me the other day as to whether he needed to change from being called 'Sebi' to 'Seb' now that he was a year older. I thought it was probably unnecessary, and could become a little complicated. He could then become 'Sebastian' when he was six but I think by the time he hit ten we may well have run out of suitable variations. I think I may have to knock 'Sebi-Woo' on the head however...
I went to Sainsbury's to buy a new rucksack after Uni today and had a moment of nostalgia that a year ago I would have plumped for the 'Thomas' one without a second thought but today I had to weigh up the relative benefits of 'Spiderman' versus 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles', neither of which are particularly my areas of expertise.
I'm beginning to realise that I'm not always top of Sebi's list now in every single part of his life. This should be no rude shock, I know, but I have had five years of being THE person who must be on his team/first person drawn in his picture/last person he sees at night and first person he sees in the morning. These days it isn't quite so crucial. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there is anything attractive about Mummy's boys but I was just expecting the cut to be slightly more gradual... I'm bracing myself for no more kisses on the lips and lap-sitting becoming a distant memory.
I know however, that we are still peas in a pod in so many ways. When I picked him up yesterday from Top Hat, straight after my MA, I couldn't help but think that the things he was poncing about doing at 5 were pretty much the same things I had been poncing about doing half an hour earlier at 37, and apparently I'm getting a clever degree for it...
I decided to practise his songs with him in the bath when we got home and launched enthusiastically into the chorus of a 'High School Musical' number. Instead of joining in, Sebi eyeballed me and asked me fairly politely if I could 'be quiet as it sounded better with just him singing', you've got it, because he was FIVE now...
"But of course, I eat carrots/cucumber now, I am FIVE."
Oh, of course, silly me. His Top Hat teacher had the same experience when she tried to help him undo his tap shoes, as she does every week. She told me that he looked at her extremely scathingly as he delivered her the same line.
I can't say I have noticed huge changes in my life since turning thirty-seven from thirty-six, but maybe the leaps are less great these days, or maybe I'm not trying hard enough.
My baby does not exist anymore. My Mum told me the other day that Sebi had confided in her that he needed Mummy to stop calling him 'her baby' as he really was, most definitely, five now. He had a long discussion with me the other day as to whether he needed to change from being called 'Sebi' to 'Seb' now that he was a year older. I thought it was probably unnecessary, and could become a little complicated. He could then become 'Sebastian' when he was six but I think by the time he hit ten we may well have run out of suitable variations. I think I may have to knock 'Sebi-Woo' on the head however...
I went to Sainsbury's to buy a new rucksack after Uni today and had a moment of nostalgia that a year ago I would have plumped for the 'Thomas' one without a second thought but today I had to weigh up the relative benefits of 'Spiderman' versus 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles', neither of which are particularly my areas of expertise.
I'm beginning to realise that I'm not always top of Sebi's list now in every single part of his life. This should be no rude shock, I know, but I have had five years of being THE person who must be on his team/first person drawn in his picture/last person he sees at night and first person he sees in the morning. These days it isn't quite so crucial. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there is anything attractive about Mummy's boys but I was just expecting the cut to be slightly more gradual... I'm bracing myself for no more kisses on the lips and lap-sitting becoming a distant memory.
I know however, that we are still peas in a pod in so many ways. When I picked him up yesterday from Top Hat, straight after my MA, I couldn't help but think that the things he was poncing about doing at 5 were pretty much the same things I had been poncing about doing half an hour earlier at 37, and apparently I'm getting a clever degree for it...
I decided to practise his songs with him in the bath when we got home and launched enthusiastically into the chorus of a 'High School Musical' number. Instead of joining in, Sebi eyeballed me and asked me fairly politely if I could 'be quiet as it sounded better with just him singing', you've got it, because he was FIVE now...
Saturday, 14 June 2014
Hope Springs
So there was a seriously Sticky Situation this week when my Year 8 pupils stumbled across my Sticky's Situations blog! Ooops. I cannot actually believe I have been such a naive dickhead up until this point to think that children don't bother googling their teachers... Fortunately Kate overheard the giggling at what we think was an early juncture in the proceedings and I managed to navigate my way around the school firewall and shut it down, quickly. Jeebus. Big lesson to be learnt there, mainly that 13 year old boys may find it relatively amusing to read about their Drama Teacher's sex life and learn that she likes to say 'Fuck' a lot.
FUCK!
The craziness that has been threatening for months is peaking right now. The play is on Wednesday and Thursday next week and we are rehearsing pretty much every minute between now and then. The kids are dropping like flies. The low point of yesterday's rehearsal was one of the cast breaking his wrist. Great. He cheerfully waved his plaster cast in my face this afternoon at the school fair and I'm trying to convince myself it adds extra depth to his character... Another parent caught me at the fair to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the Dress Rehearsal tomorrow as he had a temperature of 104. I guess that is a pretty good excuse. However, when the Dad jokingly said to me that it was funny but the boy still wanted to attend, I'm not sure he expected me to fix him with a steely stare and say that if the boy was that committed to his art then who were we to stand in his way? Luckily, I managed to chuck in a fake laugh just in time so he may have thought I was joking. I wasn't. As for the child who isn't coming due to a fencing competition...please don't get me started. According to HIS Dad, it will be fine as the play is AGES away. 95 and a half hours to be precise.
FUCK.
It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine. Kate was in Tesco one morning at 7.30am last week and texted me to ask if I would like anything. "Gin and valium" I replied. I brought my own bottle of tonic but I think she thought I was joking. I'm sure 7.30am in the UK is gin and tonic drinking time somewhere in the world!
The boys I'm directing, I haven't taught before and if I'm honest I don't think they find me that funny. I don't think I am particularly funny either at the moment. I am dog tired. I have threatened to cut off someone's hair for fiddling with it too much, asked someone else to put their socks back on due to foul smelling feet and had a distinctly sticky situation yesterday when I threatened to shove a broom that was being messed around with up... and I managed to stop myself just in time and change it to 'shove it up into a cupboard'. Phew. I had yet another nasty moment the other day when the Headmaster popped in to see how it was all going and I am really not sure if I replied: "It's going to be brilliant", or, "It's going to be fucking brilliant". It's a good, good job that I'm leaving, if they think the play that I'm directing is 'not very Lochinver' then I think we are all realising that I'm 'not particularly Lochinver' either!
FUCK!
The craziness that has been threatening for months is peaking right now. The play is on Wednesday and Thursday next week and we are rehearsing pretty much every minute between now and then. The kids are dropping like flies. The low point of yesterday's rehearsal was one of the cast breaking his wrist. Great. He cheerfully waved his plaster cast in my face this afternoon at the school fair and I'm trying to convince myself it adds extra depth to his character... Another parent caught me at the fair to tell me that his son wouldn't be at the Dress Rehearsal tomorrow as he had a temperature of 104. I guess that is a pretty good excuse. However, when the Dad jokingly said to me that it was funny but the boy still wanted to attend, I'm not sure he expected me to fix him with a steely stare and say that if the boy was that committed to his art then who were we to stand in his way? Luckily, I managed to chuck in a fake laugh just in time so he may have thought I was joking. I wasn't. As for the child who isn't coming due to a fencing competition...please don't get me started. According to HIS Dad, it will be fine as the play is AGES away. 95 and a half hours to be precise.
FUCK.
It will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine. Kate was in Tesco one morning at 7.30am last week and texted me to ask if I would like anything. "Gin and valium" I replied. I brought my own bottle of tonic but I think she thought I was joking. I'm sure 7.30am in the UK is gin and tonic drinking time somewhere in the world!
The boys I'm directing, I haven't taught before and if I'm honest I don't think they find me that funny. I don't think I am particularly funny either at the moment. I am dog tired. I have threatened to cut off someone's hair for fiddling with it too much, asked someone else to put their socks back on due to foul smelling feet and had a distinctly sticky situation yesterday when I threatened to shove a broom that was being messed around with up... and I managed to stop myself just in time and change it to 'shove it up into a cupboard'. Phew. I had yet another nasty moment the other day when the Headmaster popped in to see how it was all going and I am really not sure if I replied: "It's going to be brilliant", or, "It's going to be fucking brilliant". It's a good, good job that I'm leaving, if they think the play that I'm directing is 'not very Lochinver' then I think we are all realising that I'm 'not particularly Lochinver' either!
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