Politics for a change

Prescott's growing on me.

The problems with saga-based romance potential

Let's call him David. I met David on the first day of our university interviews. We walked through the gate together, having found out that we came from the same part of the world. Over the next six years, I've discovered that he's stubborn, over-sensitive, a stickler for his brand of politeness, smarmy, manic depressive and severely lacks a sense of humour. He's also allergic to eggs, skinny and has an appalling mother.

We rowed for much of college. Then Jamie started lodging with him, so I see him all the time. I started thinking that I didn't want him to think I was a bitch any more. I wanted him to think better of me, just because I like to be liked, I guess. I bought his sister a congratulations card when she got into Oxford. Just tried to be nicer to him. I quite enjoy winding him up. He's asking if I want to have a drink with him on Friday, which I can't do anyway, because I'm watching the Big Brother Final with Jamie. Whether this is him just wanting to be friends or if it's meant to be a date, I don't know yet whether I want to go there.

Conquest of Mess

I'm trying to make my flat look a little bit less abandoned. May even stretch to dusting later. Couldn't urge myself to do it until today - it's taken all week to recover from Spain with the kids. The tour was eventful this year, to say the least. We witnessed a knife attack and subsequent arrest (and even furtherly subsequent nudity of the offender when his trousers fell off), one of the young 'uns was slapped in the face by a tiny Frenchman and one of the big 'uns almost did a striptease down the aisle of the coach along to 'You Sexy Thing'.

Spent Sunday and yesterday traversing the country to go to the wedding of a colleague (ugh. Hate that word), where I only really knew her. Apart from the Israeli dancing, was more bored than virtually ever before by the whole affair. I'm vowing never to go to a wedding alone ever again - it's just depressing. Jamie was invited, but the charge of potential weirdness was valid in this case. We keep getting invited to things as if we were a couple by my friends. Not useful.

So now I think I'll nip across the road to buy blutack, coat hangers, candles and a new plant to replace the one that finally died while I was in Spain.

The Curse of Clothes

Clothing is a serious problem for teachers. I got the heeby jeebies earlier this week reading a column in the TES. Seems that some schools object to their staff wearing anything with short sleeves. Wonder how they're dealing with the heat stroke epidemic.

At my school, anyway, the dress code's pretty straight-forward for men (we only have about 25 anyway), being suit and tie, as one might expect. For the prodominant female population, however, the decision isn't so easily made. No one other than trainees in their first week, NQTs in their first month and heads of department upwards wears what you might describe as office-smart, i.e. matching suit and blouse efforts. Everyone else comes in a variety of different flavours.

Take the officially award-winning best-dressed teacher: she admits to there being no difference between her evening wardrobe and her work wardrobe - she goes for the layered, sparkly, gypsy look with incredible shoes. Nice, but effortless only for her.

Then you've got the standard: dark trousers (usually black - teachers wear a hell of a lot of black) and a range of tops depending on the weather. The plague of suit-shorts prevailed for some time this year in certain quarters. Obviously, the standard for PE teachers is different.

Now, on INSET days and mufti days, this system is abolished. Everyone turns up in jeans (including the head) and my head of department wears her Dogmatix t-shirt. Conversely, you can tell when there's a parents' evening that day when everyone turns up looking slightly better cared for than usual.

Whatever you wear, you're still subject to judgement by the children, who don't hold back on venting about one's poor fashion choices. I admit that throwing their petition for me to go on 'What not to wear' across the room was a little childish, but they got the point. They haven't commented since.

A break in the deluge

The rain seems to have subsided for now. Got drenched four times last week walking to and from the station - which saved washing my hair, of course.

Currently staying at home for a few days. Am woken up at half past eight every morning by the builders next door, who're putting in a loft conversion seemingly right above my room. Somehow, my brother manages to sleep through this.

Amazing how time passes when you have nothing to do other than read and watch Big Brother. Sad about Posh George, by the way. As will Jamie be when he gets back from his latest not-so-far-flung destination.

Ophelia the Cleanin' Demon

When your books are falling on the floor, it's time to make a stand.

I'm not feeling too chipper at the moment. Living on one's own in London is just obnoxiously expensive, of which I'm reminded regularly every month. I don't even really understand how I manage to spend that much. Must devise a budget. Secondly, we discussed timetables for next year on Friday. The horror of eleven classes of twelve year olds is not to be underestimated when added to three extra-curricular classes. The only saving grace of the whole thing is that I'll only be teaching one yr 9, for which I'm thankful, given how much I loathe that entire year group.

Doing the whole big cleaning thing today. I'm shite at the whole domestic thing - no energy during the week and no inclination at the weekend. Also can't bring myself to walk along the corridor to get the hoover, in case I have to interact with the other inhabitants of the building. Not that I'm antisocial or anything... I just don't like talking to people. So there's lots of dusting and dustpan and brushing and sponging involved. Makes you appreciate seventeenth century maids so much more. Not that I've ever had one.

And exactly how many more lame Caesar/Sezer jokes can Big Brother produce??

Oo - Monday

Carrying on the book theme for now, this is what I have on the pile of books waiting to be read:
Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling, Ross King
The Ptolemies, Duncan Sprott
In the Company of the Courtesan, Sarah Dunant
Caesar, Adrian Goldsworthy
Machiavelli: A Man Misunderstood, Michael White
Three's Company: Alfred Duggan

Back to the dull horror of trying to sort out the main lower school trip today. Given that there are actually very few arrangements to be made, i.e. we're not taking them abroad and there's no coach to worry about, there are still an annoying number of forms to fill in. I hate forms. They require definite answers.

Oo - Sunday

Books bought: 5 (oh dear). One of these is a present, though... does that help?

Discovered a fab independent bookshop in Hampstead (opposite Hampstead Heath station) called Daunt. Almost everything (including some fiction) is divided into country of origin or theme. For example, one might find guide books to Rome, Machiavelli and Virgil all under Italy. There's a cave for children's books at the back, which I'd have been dead excited about when I was six.

I'm suffering a severe lack of bookshelf space. You see, if the spare wardrobe were to be moved out, I could probably fit in another bookshelf on that wall...

Everything's all pink and sunny

Thanks, Chris!

I love local elections: means school is closed, so I've not had to wake up at the crack of dawn and have had time to get my hair cut at last. Felt under some strange kind of obligation to have it long for Des's wedding, but will only end up feeling bitter. Much nicer having it short, even though it'll take ages to liven up every morning. Doubtless Mother will hate it.

Former Flatmate is leaving the school to return to the land of kilts and haggis. Horrid though it sounds, I'm quite glad. I haven't been able to bring myself to have a proper conversation with her since we moved out, just in case she mentions the bastard her boyfriend. You never know - the next head of Business Studies (hmm... B.S. - telling) might be male: that'd make a change.

Interesting biological discovery made this week: I have a dorsal gangylion (sp.?) on my right wrist. I'd never heard of these before, but apparently they're a kind of cyst, and will go away over time. People in the past used to hit them with a book. I tried this with the spine of 'Introducing Cicero', but only ended up with pain.

Loving the summer weather, although I really need to go shopping for a suitable wardrobe to cope with it!

The New Attic

There's a reason I've been away for so long - no internet connection in the new attic until today. Surprisingly, I haven't gone totally mad without one - and, indeed, I've done much more interesting and useful things, like painting.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife

Hurrah! Ophelia's quite excited, as Desdemona and Demetrius are getting married!!!

More importantly, Ophelia gets to be a bridesmaid, and is thus important enough to talk about herself in the third person.

While celebrating, Ophelia also debates the conundrum of what to wear to Jamie's New Year party....

Happy 50th Post!

Less than a week before the gruesome twosome move out. Changes are afoot. Mother spent the entirety of last week nagging me about sorting out removal men, which I did yesterday. Spent twenty minutes arranging things with the amusingly named duet of PJ and Raja for next Monday. A week, and then no more Obnoxious Flatemate EVER. Wonderful.

Fled the flat at half past midday to find coffee and hunt out a present for Jamie. Bought Michel Thomas's Spanish course, too, as I'm back on interpreting duty in July in Barcelona with the band. Learning the language from scratch sounds a bit dire, but it's a lot better than being nurse and thus responsible for vomit and sanitary towels. Last year in Italy, we had a steady procession of at least four girls who hadn't come prepared and one boy with a nose bleed that lasted the whole journey from London to Lake Garda.

Rather pleased that Pullo and Vorenus in Rome turn out to be real. Was re-reading Colleen McCullough's books and came across them unexpectedly, then looked up the right bit in De Bello Gallico. It's V.44, if you're interested. They're in the wrong legion.

A two-pronged plug is a very odd thing

Hmm. It seems Jamie has found the entrance to my lair.

I'd like to say that I did know you had tonsilitis, but only after that post, if you recall. And no, this wasn't meant to be secret, it's just you don't use msn, so it never came up in conversation.

Blurgh. Three year 8 groups tomorrow. Ugh.

Have gifted myself some lovely, fluffy socks from Gap. One of the things in which one can find true joy is a pair of comfy socks. Or three, in various colours of stripe. I have a theory about feet and hands: if you keep them the right temperature, everything else will follow. It takes longest to get blood to them, so, theoretically, if they're right, everything before them has to have been right. A slightly tautological argument, but thus it stands. Hence, if you're too hot in bed and you stick your feet out, it solves the problem. I have terrible trouble with sleeping bags: I can't roll the bottom up under my feet, so they get cold and I can't sleep properly.

Fled from flat to shop with H and discuss Desdemona's terrifying dress sense (tee hee). Since S is still under house arrest, Des, it's going to have to be you who gets married next. We've got it all planned out - that and H's dream house complete with stripper barracks and boudoir (which she pronounces quite strangely).

Everyone is going out with Dutchmen. R (can't remember whether I've mentioned her. Trainee Accountant) shagged one last the night before last (6'4") and Jamie announced that one of our mutual friends was out on a date with another one last night (height as yet unrevealed). Bah. I want one. Failing that, a Roboraptor.

Hmm. Listening to the Goblet of Fire soundtrack. Jarvis Cocker seems to have rhymed "spectre" with "out to getcha". That's been a hum of mine since I was 8. I've always thought it was crap, but never been able to eradicate it from my memory. Apparently I'm a songwriting genius after all.

Gotta love painters of chubby women

Reubens definitely had better taste than most men of today. That's all I'm saying. Every single woman he painted definitely has a less than svelte midriff.

Having posted my gown to my jolly pal in Plymouth (she gets to wear it for her school awards thingy - pah), I thought I'd go and see about the only major exhibition left in London that I haven't seen. I've taken to doing this on a Saturday, to get out of the vicinity of the fuckwit. Said Obnoxious Flatmate and I seem to have come to an unspoken understanding - literally. We simply pretend we're invisible to each other. The exhibition was pretty good.

On the way, went on a Christmas present research mission. Mother's pestering me and threatening to ring at seven tomorrow morning if I don't come up with some ideas. I'm thinking a Nintendo DS... to make up for that Gameboy I never had. :p

Prospect of Tranquility

A descision has been made. The Gruesome Twosome are moving out on the 18th of December. Now, since we all have to hand in our keys together, that means I am too. Thus, dear readers, that means we have less than a month left in each others' (not sure about that apostrophe) company. I've managed not to exchange a single word with Obnoxious Flatmate all week, which has improved our relationship immeasurably.

Isn't Goblet of Fire awesome? The acting has improved, the CGI is spectacular, and Alan Rickman looked like he was wearing Armani. Felt a bit cheated by the brevity of certain bits, such as the World Cup, but in general, pleased with the film. Shame they skipped the blasting of the rose bushes, though. Much funnier than the previous three, also.

Jamie has a sore throat, despite which he manages to moan about it quite manfully, i.e. a lot. Kept him company yesterday while he sat on the sofa ensconced in a duvet and blanket watching crappy TMF number ones.

Just had coffee with H. Apparently S's father and brother have found out about her secret boyfriend and put her under house arrest so that she can't see him. Her mum's in Sri Lanka sorting out a bloke for her middle sister, and won't be back for a couple of weeks, so S is housebound in the company of two hurt, suspicious men. Said boyfriend, as I think I've said before, is actually eminently suitable - it's not like he's a non-Tamil unemployed guitarist or something. However, the menfolk remain as yet unconvinced that he isn't just after a visa. Very Jane Austen.

Desdemona has far more fun than me. It's not fair. All I have to look forward to is the year 11s going on study leave at the end of this week.

Bah.

3-2

Watching the game against Argentina. Bloody hell.

Now why couldn't they have done that in the last World Cup?

Make the brushstrokes go away...

Saturday seems to have been designated art and chillaxing day. I usually creep out of the flat at about 11, trying for as little interaction with the gruesome twosome as possible - managed no speech at all today. Glorious feeling of freedom hits me as I walk up and down the hill to Costa, where I avoid ex-Year 11s and buy a small vanilla latte. I used to get an almond croissant as well, but the combination of those two and trains doesn't always turn out well. First sip of coffee produces an almost post-orgasmic glow. I try to speak to people as little as possible.

When I was at university, I craved company all the time. Couldn't stand to spend more than an hour on my own. Never would've imagined desperately needing a day out of contact with anyone. The longest conversation I've had today was with the woman who entered my membership details into the Tate computer.

The Degas etc exhibition was very good. Much more satisfying than Munch at the Royal Academy. Going round to Jamie's tomorrow for lunch and an Almodovar film about bondage.

Six Weeks til the End of Term

Fairly banal week. The problem with teaching is that one feels the grind of doing the same thing at the same time every week more profoundly, methinks. Happily, the schedule changes every year.

Highlight of the week was the first episode of Rome. Apparently my head of department recommended this to Year 9 (13 year olds)... oh dear. What struck me most, unexpectedly, was the opening credits - no blaring trumpets and creatively animated Pompeian graffiti. All the more excellent for not being anticipated. Accuracy's generally good, other than shifting the death of Caesar's daughter back two years. I loathe Octavian (should really be called Octavius at this stage, but I'll let that go), so well done Max Pirkis for making him seem an utter tosser. Raaah. Having Mr Collins (David Bamber) play Cicero was a stroke of masterful genius. The two characters are very similar, which I'd not considered before: sycophantic, yet self-important. Perfect.

One of my form has invented a religion: Ishism. We've decided that we'll all espouse this and its principle creed of having as many relgious holidays as possible. I'm going to Oxford to see Helen and watch fireworks tomorrow. In the rain. And I've left my umbrella at school.

Ungh.

Well, this is depressing...

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