No phones, newspapers or bagpipes at the dinner table

The holidays brought a visit from the parents. Sitting down to our first family meal of the visit, cooked by the dear mother (I clearly paint such a pathetic picture of myself these days that she feels the need to cook on my behalf, bless her), something smelt very wrong. Now, knowing of my mother's strong aversion to anything mildly 'off' or out-of-date (and mud and sand and bad smells and rude noises), it couldn't possibly be the food, could it?

"What's in this?" I asked.

"Oh, just some chicken, lemon, stock, herbs, and some cream I found in the fridge."

Dad and I exchanged horrified glances.

"What?" mum asked.

Little did she know that but an hour earlier, I had been asking of my father, "Is this cream off?" - and he who would manfully eat even the mouldiest of cheeses and the most out-of-date of yogurts, gave it a sniff and a cautious dip of the finger, through the solidified layer and past the fuzzy mouldy rim, and declared it unfit for human consumption. Even dad wouldn't eat it. (Ok, so it was technically a month out of date and had been open since the date of purchase, but I couldn't bear to throw it out; cream isn't cheap, you know, and the pot was nearly full.) We simply didn't dare tell mum and preferred to let her enjoy her dinner instead. Plus, I don't think it was the cream that smelt funny anyway; I thought it was the thyme and tactically informed mum thus. Dad and I adopted a diversion strategy from any further criticism of the dinner and suggested that we partake in wine with the meal, and I produced a couple of bottles of rosé.

"Which one, dad? You know all about wine."

Dad studied the bottles and assertively made his choice.

"Why that one? Is it from a particularly good region? Will this one complement the chicken better?" we asked of his expertise.

"Nope," came his cheeky grin, "this one's a screw cap and we can get into it faster!" Such a connoisseur.

Even alcohol couldn't divert mum's attention from the strangely-flavoured food.

"In hindsight," said she thoughtfully, "I wouldn't have put in the thyme."

"No, just the effort," was my quick-witted reply. I crack myself up.

 

The next night, after a day ambling around Shaftesbury's famous Hovis Gold Hill and a rather nice pub lunch during which we all three were doing one thing or another on our mobile phones, we were ready for some post-dinner pub action. (Well, I was only just recovering from the usually-unheard-of lunchtime half pint of ale; I don't normally like to drink in the day, it makes me sleepy - but I was drowning my sorrows of having just learnt that my Easter holiday volunteering in Snowdon had been cancelled; so THEY were ready for more booze, and I was struggling to keep up.) We sat in the pub (thanks to mum fighting her way through the rugby-watching crowds to procure an extra chair) and each found a newspaper to read. Dad ordered one of each of the available ales, then sat hunched over with his hands cupping his ears as he tried to mentally complete the chess challenge; mum was reading something so high-brow she had to keep asking me the meanings of half the words; I was left with the Salisbury Journal. After a while, I got a text inviting me to join a few friends at another pub. Leave was granted and the parents and I reconvened at home a couple of hours later.

I would like to inform that I had been very sensible and only had a J2O in the second pub; I cannot say the same for the prudence of my parents.

"Can have some Weetabix?" slurred my father. I was just about to point out his inebriated condition to my mother as he sloshed milk all over the kitchen table, when she too entered on the hunt for cereal. At eleven o'clock at night. My parents with the munchies, while I'm imbibing tea. As mum tucked into her second bowl of Cornflakes, I decided now would be a good time to ask of them what kind of man they could see me ending up with. They exchanged knowing we've-clearly-just-been-discussing-this glances and my dad bravely answered, "None."

"NONE?!" I shrieked. "Am I really so hideous and unbearable that you can't see me ending up with a suitable man ever again?!"

I like to think that it was just the alcohol that slowed my parents' efforts to counter my proposal...then they eventually explained that I am apparently now so very independent and unable to bear the company of others for too long, am so picky, can't stand men who are either too keen or not keen enough, and have been working jolly hard on my man-hunting over the past year, that they have decided I'm now unmarriable. And that if I ever were to find someone I deemed worthy, it would be within the next couple of years; after that, I would apparently become so comfortable with spinsterhood that I'd shun the notion of partnership for good.

"Good job you've got your grandchild then, if that's to be my destiny!"

Cue a rather apposite text from the ex-bf agreeing wholeheartedly with me on my proposed theory of child-rearing involving no phones, newspapers or bagpipes at the dinner table.

"Looks like he'll have to do then, won't he?"

Headlights chicken

I'm technically on half term this week. I say technically, because the college have a bizarre system in that we lecturers aren't automatically entitled to all the half term holidays off; we have to book it off as leave (which we're only allowed to do during school holidays). So I was actually in college on Tuesday...and I was the only person there. Such was my listlessness and lack of motivation to get on and do next term's planning, that I instead cracked out the wet wipes and took an inordinate amount of pleasure from giving the communal computer and peripherals a thorough wipe down. No more sticky mice for me. I take pleasure from picturing the look of delight on the face of the next person to use the computer. (I really am in the wrong job, aren't I? My cousin pondered - 'So what do cleaners do to procrastinate?' which tickled me.)

On the way home I lost a game of 'headlights chicken' 7-2, very poor show. Headlights chicken is a game I like to think I invented, but I surely can't be the only person who plays it. It involves simply driving along in the dark with full beam headlights engaged. Then, when you see the glow of the lights of an approaching car around a bend or over a hill, I like to see who will be 'chicken' first and go to dipped lights. If I dip mine first, I've lost, and if I dip after they have appeared and thus dazzle the driver, I lose too. I just wasn't on form.

I managed to spend all of fifteen minutes at home to gobble a pre-cooked chilli before speeding off in the other direction to try out a different orchestra, this time in Warminster. It was fun being the only second violinist and playing such classics as 'March of the two left feet' and 'Portrait of a flirt', but decided it might be a bit much of a trek to make a regular commitment (especially given that the A36 was closed for line painting on the way home - does anyone pay attention to those 'Road closed at nights' signs? - it took me over an hour to try and navigate my own way home, too stubborn was I to follow the 'Diversion' signs, but I did get to see some pretty spectacular snowdrop sights on my country diversion, and rediscovered the Ginger Piggery.)

Lost at 'headlights chicken' again.

For the greater good

I decided that if I can't get another job, then I'll just work for free. Got to be better than sitting around at home all day. So firstly, I took it upon myself to be the prime ambassador for my Morris Dancing group's recruitment drive. I emailed all the local papers suggesting what an interesting article it would make for one of their reporters to come and have a go at a practice night and write up the experience from a newcomer's perspective - one of whom actually agreed! I had also managed to persuade a cameraman I met recently at a party to give it a go (I'd like to think his acquiescence wasn't JUST 'cause he might fancy me). So buoyed up was I by my own success, that I took along a celebratory cake. I had come close to persuading Chippendale, a fellow hasher, along to practice too; but again, an excuse was eventually presented - in his words - "My wife, Sex Slave, does the Lytchett Striders every Thursday with Dirty Bitch and we only got one car...but don't write me off just yet..."

Having proffered the excuse of lack of roadworthy transportation at the last minute, I didn't let the young newspaper journalist get away with it that easily, and picked him up to take him to the practice. To his credit, he pranced around with them best of them and did a pretty good job of it, along with Joel the cameraman. I somehow managed to successfully juggle my two young men and make sure they felt welcome and had a good time. I even let Joel plant his goodbye kiss on my cheek - the things I do for the Morris. (Although I did politely decline his invitation to join him skiing the following week.)

The other way in which I was more than willing to whore myself out for the greater good was in agreeing to write a couple of articles for the very newspaper that had sent along the young prancing journalist (I'll whip his job from under him yet). The funny thing was, I'd lined up a meeting with the paper's co-founder, who just happened to be the same reasonably handsome young man whose office window I used to walk past when I lived in Wilton the previous year, casting the occasional flirtatious smile in his direction. My admission of this sparked no recollection on his part. I am now pretty sure he's gay.

It hasn't been all work and no play, however; this week I have been brewing my own beer. An issue arose, however, upon realising I had miscalculated (ok, not bothered to calculate in the first place) how many empty bottles I would need, nor how quickly I would need them. Taking samples and recording the specific gravity of my two vats full presented me with the challenge of needing to find something to put it all in for the secondary fermentation, and fast. A fellow middle-aged morris dancer heroically came to the rescue with his enormous plastic barrel (a gesture made less heroic, however, by the fact that he let himself into my flat without knocking while I happened to be sitting on the loo with the door not quite shut).

I still needed more bottles, though. It was late, and it was dark, and I really had nothing better to do on a Valentine's Day night (the Snowbobbing group I had signed up to on the internet had been cancelled), so I nipped out to check my recycling box. Nothing; I'd been on the sloe-gin-and-tonic last week. So, headtorch affixed, I crept around the street, braving the rain and howling winds, surreptitiously raiding my neighbours' recycling boxes. To my dismay and disgust, it appears that the only things my neighbours digest are wine and the Telegraph.

Those who can, do; those who can't, teach

There's been a fair bit of stress this week!

For a start, we had the dreaded Ofsted inspection at college. Reduced to a state of blind panic and floods of tears last time this loomed, I had a totally different approach this time. For a start, being one of hundreds of teaching staff (as opposed to one of four) rather takes away the sense of accountability. Furthermore, I was beginning to get a little complacent at work, and actually needed a bit of a kick up the proverbial backside.

 

As expected, I didn't sleep well (mainly, actually, because I was overcome with a compelling urge to arrange doo-wop songs into four-part harmonies in my head, fantasising about forming some kind of a cappella group). On the way to work, my car started juddering again after splashing through a particularly deep puddle; I knew it was the coil, as it had been the previous time ("put a condom on it, that's what we do" a colleague helpfully suggested).

 

The morning during which I was told to expect a surprise visitor (whose job it is to waltz in, try to find as many things we're doing wrong as possible and waltz back out, judgement formed) was a nightmare. I had a class of 16-18 year old puerile motor vehicle students who quite frankly didn't give a toss about my maths lesson on comparing the relative merits of dole allowance vs. various weekly wage amounts (I was tailoring it to their ambition - to live off the state!), nor the English lesson in which, like it or not, they had to give an assessed presentation to their peers on a topic of choice. I was very grateful that no inspector walked in to see one student's PowerPoint slide stating 'Some people are good at motocross, some people are shit' (profound, Connor!). The unusual absence of classroom window through which to peep (not to mention the 'Quiet - examinations in progress' sign I put on the door, heh heh) may have just proved off-putting enough, for no visit was forthcoming. Not that it made any difference to the stress levels that day; the difference was, I never got to breathe a sigh of relief upon showing an inspector out. It must have rubbed off on the students, for Lewis was having none of it and refused point-blank to do anything I asked.

 
"Come on Lewis, come and sit over with the others so we can watch the presentations together," I cajoled, putting my hand on his arm.

"That's sexual assault!" he proclaimed, backing away.

"Yeah, and you like it," I muttered, which at least generated a laugh out of his mates if nothing more.

It was disclosed by another student that I reminded them of 'that French woman in the car in Mr Bean's Holiday' (note to self - Google this, and if complimentary, award merit points accordingly), which reminded me of the time that, on my very first university teaching practice, one little girl told me to my delight that I looked like Halle Berry from James Bond. Me! A Bond girl!

 
"But doesn't she have brown eyes?" I queried of my then-boyfriend.

"Yeah...and she's black!"

I have no idea what the kid was thinking.

To add to my stressful week, young Ali was not in a great mood for his private tuition. Driving him home from school, listening to Led Zeppelin as has become our custom (I get him to tell me the track titles from the CD case; he doesn't realise I'm just getting him to read), he informed me that I have visible hair on my upper lip (is this what it's like having kids?). There was then a stand-off during our session in which I refused to let him go to the toilet (familiar work-avoidance tactic) unless he at least attempted to work out 7 subtract 3. He threatened to tell his father on me.

"Ok then, let's go and tell him," I bluff-called, knowing I'd have the father's full support; which, thankfully I did. The answer of 4 was derived with almost magical rapidity, and Ali's bladder duly relieved.

On on!

Decided to blow away the cobwebs with a refreshing hash (no not smoking, not today; hashing as in off-road trail running). It was great to see some old faces - Bogman, Blowjob, Nipple Plucker, and our hare (not rabbit, Tom) for the day - Codpiece (I got away lightly being nicknamed Prickly Puss - don't ask!).

 

Being inordinately early (entirely thanks to Tom; as if I'd ever be on time left to my own devices!), we nipped into the pub to keep warm, and Tom caught me examining my face in the mirror.

"What are you doing, Gem?"

"It looks like I'm wearing eyeliner. Must be that mascara from last week. Now I match you!"

Tom was wearing eyeliner. Don't ask.

He peered into the mirror, frowning at his own reflection.

"Don't frown," I instructed him, smoothing his forehead with my thumb, "it's giving you lines."

"Oh, shut up...it's just like having a girlfriend, only without the sex!" Oh Tom, bless you and your quotability.

 

Hash hush was called; we gathered round for our briefing; and following the customary ribbing for my performance of unconventional warm-up stretches (you mean, not everyone can bend over and put their nose on their knees?), it was 'on-on' across a swamp. And on, and on, and on the boggy trail for seven squelchy miles. We tackled galloping ponies, electric fences, river crossings (sans-bridges), and a period of separation and getting lost somewhere in a forest (luckily I clung on to a guy with a GPS who insisted the pub was 'that way') until we were 'on-inn' and drinking welcome-back shandy back at the pub. Then I got chucked out of the pub - missing the punitive* 'down-downs' - for bringing in my own flask of tea (I really am poor at the moment), so Tom and I journeyed back to his for a nice plate of hot haggis and our customary argument about what constitutes 'good' music.

Got home to discover a couple of messages from some decent-looking men on a dating website; nice one, even if I am currently avoiding getting involved with new men (trying to find myself, gain independence as a single person, all that pathetic post-break-up crap). Treated myself to one of my favourite films ever - 'Bridget Jones' Diary' (I know, what a cliché). Funny; once I craved to have a lifestyle as interesting as hers; now I do, I'm not so sure it's all it's cut out to be.

 

*Yeah, I have a thesaurus, and I'm not afraid to use it!

The silver fox

Have just got back from a pyjama party storytelling session at the primary school. Not normally my bag, especially since I no longer work there, but upon telling little Ali's dad about it following our private tutoring session, and witnessing Ali's enthusiasm to attend (today he's interested in books - don't blink, you might miss it!)  it was evident that dad had no inclination to spend the evening dressed in his pyjamas enjoying stories with his son.

"I'll do it if you pay me," I offered - only partially joking. He gave it some thought.

"How much would you do it for?"

"Thirty quid," was my reply, following some quick mental calculations around my hourly fee and petrol money.

"Ok...if you're sure..."

"I could really do with the money."

 

So it was settled - Ali came back to my house to watch TV ("What? You don't have an X-Box?!") and enjoy my chilli con carne before heading back to school to enjoy his stories, behave like an angel, and not even kick off when all the hot chocolate had run out.

 

Upon depositing Ali back with his father, I was invited to stick around for a beer. Given that a) I reckon the dad fancies me*, and b) his wife was away on business, I decided it would be wiser to make tracks and head on to my next excursion - rock choir trial (it rocked).

 

*On my last day working at Ali's school, there were no farewells more awkward than the one with Ali's father. After professing much thanks and appreciation for all I'd done for Ali (all deserved, of course; for once Ali'd had a teacher who could more or less manage his behavioural difficulties, even if the exasperation drove her away in the end), there was a pretty awkward handshake...his hand neared mine, mine went forward to meet it, then somehow due to the limpness of our hands and the enduring eye contact (thus not paying attention to the mechanics of the handshake itself), I don't know how it happened, but somehow our fingers became intertwined. We smiled uncomfortably and eventually remembered how to shake hands properly and, ahem, professionally. I reckon he thinks he's a bit of a silver fox...but not to this little vixen :)

Just the look I was going for

I figured that the NEED to bottle my sloe gin this morning was a good enough excuse for being late for work. It's original, if nothing else, and I can't promise I didn't try some either. A great way to start the working day!

 

The fire drill at work proved a good excuse to hobnob with a fellow musical colleague (and we had on the same shoes!), who took the opportunity not to sneak in a quick fag like most of the others, but instead to present me with Mozart's Mass in C Minor with a view to me potentially trying out for the choir. Spreading the score atop my open palm -  "Right, you be soprano, I'll take alto, you can be tenor, and you, bass," nodding towards the other foundation department members and clearing my throat in readiness. One gave me a look of fear; the other, disdain. One can but try. Plebs.

 

I decided to be very brave after work and let one of the students loose on my hair in the purpose-built teaching salon. "I'll have highlights, please!" I declared with a little more glee than I had originally intended.

 

"Anything else other than highlights?"

 

"Well - do whatever you like. Do whatever you think's best." She should know, right?

 

The girl presented me with an array of coloured tufts of hair from which to choose. Crumbs, when I last did this (some thirteen years ago) I'm sure it was just blond or brown. I suffer from option stress. So bewildered was I that I almost chose purple in my panic. The manageress, clearly observing my burgeoning state of alarm from across the salon, flew across the room and rescued me, suggesting three much more sensible colours of varying shades of blond. That would do nicely.

 

Some three hours later and the girl was finished. I had long given up hope of being able to catch the Warminster Philharmonic Orchestra's rehearsal (one of many orchestras and choirs I am scouting out this week and next with a view to potential membership). Granted, I had got a head massage and wash out of it, which I wasn't expecting, but had naively trusted that the girl's being a) a hairdresser [in training], and b) teenaged, might have resulted in something more attractive than a 'ginger 80s Blue Peter presenter' according to Tom, with no attempt made to mask his laughter - who only invited me round, I suspect, through some vulgar curiosity upon learning (via a text sent from the loo - I like to be time-efficient) that I had spent three hours to end up looking shit. The blow-dried, wispy-straightened, orange-streaked, be-fringed mess that was my 'do' was so amusing that I promptly went home and took photos for posterity and a source of future amusement for the dark times.

 

After knocking back a glass of wine, a sleeping pill and a laxative (I really had eaten too much goose and cake over the weekend), I was soon ready for bed.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

So, life's been a bit of a struggle lately, and I figured what better way to drag myself out of a depressive slump than to write about it and make light of it? It'll force me to see the funny side of things; and failing that, it'll force me to get off my arse and do things worth writing about, in the very least. Finding pleasure or amusement in life's little happenings is just a matter of perspective, isn't it? Something I seem to have lost sight of lately...

 

Job one of the day was to make use of yet another day off (working part time is only fun if you have things worth doing on your days off...which I currently don't). So a trip down to the job centre to find something fulfilling (not before doing a bit of shoe shopping online - a great pair of shoes equals a great deal of happiness, no?). Only to be greeted by the most unhelpful 'assistant' possible, who handed me a leaflet and told me to go online, sorry, no help for career changes here, we're just a job centre. So with renewed determination, it was off to the Army Careers centre instead. Surely they could find a way to harness my enthusiasm, assiduousness  and lust for adventure?

 

A better story here, at least - although being female means my options are rather limited; not even feminine charm could help me here.

 

"You'll need to have your BMI checked out - we do have a minimum level," the burly woman informed me.

 

"I play rugby?" I offered, aware of my petite frame causing potential hindrance and amusement. I duly stepped on the scales, for once glad of the weekend's over-indulgence - in the name of dad's birthday - of roast goose dinner, chocolate pudding and birthday cake. Not often in life will a woman step on the scales and will them to present a greater mass than might normally be representative. I had my height assessed, and again, I paradoxically wished my 5'1" frame to compress at that moment to afford me the BMI I'd need to prove I was tough enough for the army. Thankfully, at a BMI of 18.49, I was just over the minimum of 18 (I made a mental note to continue eating cake).

 

"You could join the 655 squadron air corps, helicopter section." Sounded good enough to me; perhaps a visit next week would be in order.

 

Next, onto Tesco to top up on a few essentials. In the queue - "You're making me jealous," commented the balding gentleman in front.

 

"I'm sorry?"

 

"Hair," said he, nodding conspiratorially towards the two cans of pink deodorant on my section of the conveyor belt. "Making me jealous," he returned with a knowing smile. "Right..." Weirdo.

 

Now, they say there's no such thing as a free lunch, but I beg to differ. Particularly as my final task for the day was to enjoy a pasty and a hot beverage of my choice at one of a chain of pastry bakeries that I had been commissioned to 'mystery shop'. I activated sleuth mode and made my order - carefully worded - accordingly. Thankfully, the young man attending to me got full marks on his service and his upselling. This is possibly rather incongruous, but I'm always rooting for the person I'm sneaking on - I have a degree of sympathy for shoddiness in the workplace (within reason). I decided to ignore his illegally rolled-up sleeves and instead assess whether or not he might be flirt potential. Too young, I decided in the end. But easy enough on the eyes to enjoy with my cappuccino.