In for a penny... (have I exhausted all the clichés yet?!)

I had no idea that my New Year’s Eve offload onto my blog (usually strictly reserved for my humorous take on everyday situations) would prove so cathartic. The three-day retreat on which I took myself to clear my mind after the intensity of Christmas cost the same as three sessions of counselling, but proved so much more effective. And after five years’ counselling and psychotherapy (on and off), I should know. My partner appreciated the space, too!

Such a success was the sublimation that I’ve decided to give it another go. I expressed my frustration towards my ex and his overbearing position in our relationship; now for some context. It’s only fair, after all. To this day I am still trying to make sense of it all and toggle between my feelings of sadness, anger, disappointment, failure and guilt. I did what I thought was the right thing at every turn and it still turned out messing up both my life and his.

I met Jon when I was 16 on a night out – my then boyfriend’s 18^th birthday, at which he didn’t want me present. I found out why later when I saw him kissing someone else. Jon was more than happy to be the salve on that wound as I turned to him for comfort. We exchanged email addresses (how very postmodern!) and he very shyly asked if we could meet up again sometime. He seemed so sweet and self-deprecating. I had patched things up with Phil in the meantime, but it was nice to make a new friend. Not only that, but Jon’s degree subject was the same as my A-level, so he turned out to be a very useful revision partner!

Phil was a bit of a mess. He was already undergoing treatment by a psychiatrist and I naively thought I could help fix him. He had severe depression and self-harmed regularly. I just wanted to love him better. But being as mentally unstable as he was, he couldn’t return that love and instead used the term of affection as and when it suited him to fulfil his needs. He also couldn’t keep it to himself as I suspected – and later confirmed – that he was also involved with someone else (underage) who became jealous of our relationship and sent me torrents of spiteful messages on MSN messenger (remember those days?). Phil also held me responsible for his self-harming, saying that I had to make sure he didn’t have access to knives, be available on the phone at all hours of the day and night, and threatening between desperate sobs to end his life when I found it too much to bear and suggested that I might be better off without him.

All the while, Jon stuck by my side, listened to my struggles and was a shoulder to cry on. After eight months, I finally gathered the courage to end things with Phil once and for all. Jon tried his best to convince me he would make a much better boyfriend and always treat me as I deserved, but I told him that my feelings for him were purely platonic.

I might have turned to my parents for advice and comfort, but ours was not a relationship in which we communicated about our feelings, nor even the fact that I was beginning to get depressed and desperate myself. Besides, they had their own problems. They didn’t notice that it had been months since I smiled. Jon supported me through this.

I might have turned to my best friend, but she was becoming increasingly distant until one day I had a phone call to say that she had attempted suicide and was being treated in hospital. I read her suicide note which I can pretty much recall to this day. I felt like such a terrible friend for being so wrapped up in my own problems that I hadn’t noticed the extent of hers. Jon supported me through this. (Thankfully, she made a full recovery.)

I might have turned to my lifelong childhood playmate and next door neighbour, who was one of those people about whom you would say was so close it was like having a brother. We made dens, built go-karts and camped together in the garden. But one day on a bike ride, there was a collision between him and a lorry. He was broken and brain damaged and in a coma before he died a week later. Jon supported me through this.

I had my own unfortunate RTA that year, too. Just four days into owning my first moped, I was on my way to college when a school bus decided not to give way at a junction to the main road on which I was travelling, and knocked me off and into the middle of the road into the path of an oncoming car, which thankfully stopped in time. Physically, I was fine (the moped was a write-off though), but the shock and trauma left me with an anxiety around roads and traffic that lasted for years later. Jon supported me through this.

My anxiety extended to being around people and crowds after I left my friends on a night out to go home early. Walking alone through a dark alleyway in Nottingham (stupid, I know), I was pinned against a wall by a man and my money was demanded. (Call me stubborn, but my sense of justice overtook my sense of fear and rather than yield to him, I called over the help of a passer-by, and while my assailant was momentarily distracted, I managed to pull away and run as fast as I could…to Jon’s house, where he eventually managed to calm my hyperventilating panic.)

It was becoming quite clear to me that this world was a shitty and dangerous one in which turning to Jon seemed to be my only means of survival. Jon reinforced this point and promised to always look after me. I wanted to end my life to end the continual and recurring pain for quite some time, but Jon somehow made it seem worth living. I grew dependent on him, which he encouraged, drawing me away from friends and family until he became my all. How could I ever be angry with him when he saved my life, asking for nothing in return?

And after all that, surely finally becoming his girlfriend was the least he deserved. Not once had he let me down, but instead cared for me with patience, maturity and dignity. I was in awe and in debt. What could this noble young man, three years my senior, want with poor, helpless, foolish little me? I was honoured and flattered by his attention, and months of wooing finally paid off. He gave me an ultimatum – that this friendship could no longer continue due to his feelings for me, and it must be all or nothing, so – not being able to bear the thought of losing him and the friendship I had come to rely upon – I agreed to be his girlfriend.

With Jon’s help, I got my life back on track, managed to pass my A-levels and go to university. I was so happy there, and loved living by the seaside and gaining my independence. It wasn’t all plain sailing – we did break up for a few months after a discussion in which I shared the uncomfortable truth that I felt that, in some ways, we were too dissimilar for a long-term relationship to be successful (me – “Variety is the spice of life!” Jon – “All change is bad!”), but we soon got back together after having missed each other so much. I couldn’t picture a life without him, difficult though it was at times.

We spent most weekends together during my four years at university. I didn’t really have any friends – in lectures I found myself sitting with the mature students all twice my age, and, well, weekends were spent with Jon, so I didn’t need anybody else. Besides, as Jon frequently reminded me, I was not capable of making or maintaining friendships because I was “socially retarded” – an observation that over the years transgressed into “autistic” – which, of course, I believed, and became a self-fulfilling prophecy for many years.

Jon was my mentor and my best friend. My confidence was so broken that I felt incapable of making decisions without him. I consulted him on everything. When our opinions differed, he could always persuade me with logic that his was the correct one. He was so much more wise and intelligent than I. Even when, again, I suggested that our relationship would not last due to some fundamental personality differences (and besides, I had begun to get very close to and fall for someone else much more similar to myself), Jon used logic to explain that he was absolutely the best partner for me. I couldn’t argue with such impenetrable logic. Even when I overstepped the boundaries with my new ‘soulmate’, my remorse was sufficient that incredibly, Jon forgave me, took me back and never mentioned it again. How could I ever repay him, and where else would I ever find someone who loved me so much he could tolerate my indiscretion with such dignity and absolution, especially after all he had done for me? I never forgave myself for hurting him, and vowed to spend the rest of my life making it up to him and being the girlfriend he deserved.

I only realised after we split up that this was probably the cause of a great deal of insecurity for Jon (I always thought he was so composed and confident), which explains a lot of his domineering behaviour towards me after we moved in together, a natural and inevitable progression once I had graduated. He kept my confidence at a manageable level and ensured the perfect balance between making me feel special and loved versus keeping me modest and in my place. It suited us both that I should avoid repeating mistakes and subdue my appearance in order that I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. I didn’t mind wearing baggy clothes and cutting my hair unattractively short. In fact, it seemed the worse I looked, the more Jon praised my rare and mature disregard of society’s expectations of attractiveness and femininity. He was proud of me being a tomboy, and I craved his praise and affirmation. He encouraged my appearance with such comments as:

“You look like mutton dressed as lamb in that outfit.”

“You should get rid of your going-out clothes – you’re not going to have an opportunity to wear them again after all, are you?!”

“That leather jacket makes you look really scummy and working class.”

“Your shorts are too short…it’s not very classy, is it?”

“You look like a tart dressed up with those earrings and make-up on; that’s not the girl I married.”

“If you wanted to go on the Gok Wan ‘What not to wear’ show, I would forbid you, because it’s just not you, and if you insisted, then I couldn’t be with you anymore, because it’s not the person I married – you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

I couldn’t fail to see the error of my ways and feel ashamed of my superficial desire to look nice.

He also helped me to elevate my position in society in order that I could integrate better with his upper-middle-class family with its ancestry of manor houses and ‘old money’. Encouragements included:

“You should try to speak with a more Southern accent, it sounds much better; you don’t want to sound common, do you?”

“I insist that our children go to private school like I did…you’d be a much better person if you had, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re such a malco [mal-coordinated], you would have done more sports if you’d have gone to private school.”

“You need to learn the value of money.”

“You don’t know the difference between poor- and high-quality products because of your upbringing.”

I desperately wanted to please him; I tried to become the person he could love even more, and the person I felt he deserved. I loved being a part of his family and became more and more distant from my own (Jon helped me to screen calls).

My confidence was also carefully regulated in other ways:

“When I get home after talking with intelligent people all day, it’s nice to come home to you and switch off.”

“I don’t enjoy running or cycling with you because you’re not good enough to keep up. I don’t want to do it with you, and when we have children, I won’t want to do it with them either.”

“You’re crazy and no-one else would put up with you.”

“You need me. I’ll always look after you.”

“You’re just rebelling; you need to grow up.”

I absorbed everything he said without question and humbly tried to better myself and prove myself worthy of his love and attention – which, when it came, was so good it was addictive.

Clearly there came a point when I started to question his doctrines and think for myself. I felt I had become brainwashed into turning myself into his idea of a perfect woman – I wanted to be perfect, and I wanted him to have perfection. I loved hearing his praise and how he would proudly tell his colleagues he had the perfect wife who always kept the house clean and tidy, had the dinner on the table, behaved with decorum at all times, had quirky and interesting hobbies and was such fun to be around. Jon didn’t change me; I changed myself. After six years of living together it became second nature until I didn’t really know who I was anymore, or why. All I knew was, deep down, something felt a bit wrong.

After a year of distance growing between us through him working on his PhD, I began to realise that actually, I didn’t NEED him anymore. My confidence was growing and I could survive without him. I could cope running the house and looking after the dog all by myself, as well as supporting myself emotionally. I realised it would be healthy for me to begin to make friends to fill the voids when he was absent, and join me in the many activities that I yearned to do but for which Jon refused to accompany me – little things like going on a day trip, excursion, bike ride, funfair, to the beach, a party, local events. I also realised that if we were going to start a family soon, I had better make the most of the time I had left before the responsibility of children. However, as I begun to branch out, Jon began to panic.

I had never been to the local funfair and asked Jon to accompany me. I had long since given up on even asking Jon these sorts of questions – he always said no – but I thought it was only fair. Of course, he said no, so I informed him (for the first time ever – rather than requested his permission) that I was going to go, and I had a couple of friends to go with. I imagine he didn’t think I’d actually go through with it. When I did, he was so upset with me on my return that he wouldn’t speak to me. The next morning, he was desperate to make me realise how much I had upset him. I didn’t feel I had done anything wrong, but Jon felt differently, and would not let me leave the house for work until I had acknowledged how much my childish pursuit of fun had upset and unnerved him, and moreover, apologised for upsetting him. I was so used to yielding and apologising, but for the first time in years, I stood up to him. I stood my ground and reasoned that while it was a shame that he was upset, I didn’t feel I had done anything wrong nor had anything to apologise for. But Jon couldn’t cope with this. He needed an apology and for me to admit that I was wrong, otherwise I couldn’t go to work. In the end, I had to apologise, because a class of children waits for no-one, but I was very upset when I got to school and felt that something about the whole exchange was very wrong.

The rest is history. We unravelled, I moved out, and he refused to see me or speak to me ever again. It was like losing a limb. After having relied upon him for half my life, he was suddenly gone – it was a huge shock, from which I’m still not sure I’ve recovered, five years on. He gave me so much, and I repaid him by stringing him along for a decade and breaking his heart. Obviously we can only do what we think is best in the circumstances, but that doesn’t stop me examining my actions at every turn and trying to work out at what point I went so very wrong. I don’t know if I need to forgive him for making me abandon my sense of self, or if I need him to forgive me for following my head when I should have listened to my heart. At least I have learned some lessons along the way. Despite a rubbish couple of years during my teens, life, on the whole, is actually ok, and it is what you make of it. I have learned to be myself, speak my mind and follow my heart. And we all know where that has led me!

 

A problem shared...?

I hate being unfairly cast as the bad guy and I don't know why but the whole thing still hurts so much, even after five years apart. The last thing my ex-mother-in-law (to whom I was extremely close) said to me was, "I agree with my daughter - I want to rip your fucking head off." Yes, I left her son, but people don't just leave relationships if they can see a way through their problems, which I couldn't. Besides, I left him, but he divorced me and ended up with the house and most importantly our beloved spaniel, Merry - both of which I allowed him as I didn't want to hurt him any more than I had to. I wish their opinion of me was fair and informed, as I went from being a surrogate member of the family from the tender age of 16 to being despised and never spoken to again (or allowed to see Merry - my baby and, at the time, my best and only friend).

When we were engaged, I assumed that Jon and I would settle down and start a family straight away. It's what I wanted and I said I wanted two children before I was 30 which he seemed to think was a fair enough compromise. However, when I expressed my desire to get started pretty soon after we were married, Jon freaked out. He actually got angry with me for pressuring him - but I thought that after 7 years together we were ready.

Then the worst thing happened - Jon forbade me from bringing up the matter, saying that I needed to grow up and prove myself ready, and said that for every time I brought it up from then on, he would delay it by another year. What was I supposed to do! Couples are supposed to talk through their differences and difficulties, not blackmail each other into keeping schtum. Every time after our wedding that someone brought up the question of us having children, I was afraid that they would jeopardise my chances, and quickly explained that we were far too busy enjoying life and pursuing hobbies for that sort of thing yet. True, we were very tied up with hobbies - his shooting and gamekeeping and mine morris dancing, beating, rugby, choir, as well as being a workaholic teacher - but this was to keep occupied because I didn't have a baby, not the other way round.

So I spent the next 6 years patiently waiting for Jon to finally declare that he was ready and all the while proving myself to be as homely and maternal as possible, sacrificing how perhaps I would have liked to have enjoyed my 20s for fear that Jon would declare me unsuitable to bear his child and deny me what I so desperately wanted. I just wanted to be someone's mummy. I behaved how I knew he wanted me to; I got rid of party clothes at his behest; made my life revolve around him and tried to be the best wife I could be.

Eventually it was tentatively discussed and Jon reluctantly agreed that he would be ready to start trying for a baby once he had finished his PhD. I bought a baby record book, started making baby clothes and got my contraceptive implant removed. This was supposed to be exciting, but Jon did not approve nor support me and again said I was getting ahead of myself. But I was poised and ready for my patience and sacrifice in this now 12 year long relationship to finally pay off.

After a year or so of Jon working all the hours God sent (daytimes, evenings, weekends - no holidays or quality time together; he didn't even accompany me when I had eye surgery in London, nor permit me to come and visit him on our 4th wedding anniversary or his birthday when he was working away for two weeks): Jon declared his PhD deadline...which came and went...he needed an extension of a couple of months. I didn't see the harm in starting to try for a baby anyway, what difference would it make. But Jon was adamant that he was only prepared to do one thing at a time. He was testing not only my patience but my sanity now.

We went to a wedding at which his brother and new wife were also present - as they excitedly patted her heavily pregnant abdomen, I burst into tears. After their baby was born and we went to visit, Jon didn't even want me to hold the baby - he didn't trust that I could do it properly and insisted on helping me by shielding its head with his hand (which I got his brother to photograph so that I would later believe that this did really happen). Did Jon really believe me to be so incompetent and uninstinctive? I had done alright in raising our gundog puppy - our 'practice baby' - satisfactorily, and even allowed Jon to film me training her so that we could discuss and improve on my weaknesses.

I held on for the new PhD deadline...which came and went...Jon needed yet another extension. I knew this couldn't be helped if his experiments hadn't gone to plan, but I was suffering in the meantime. I couldn't conceal my feelings any longer and I spent an evening sobbing in the bath, Jon knowing exactly why but insisting I had to be patient for just a little longer.

And that's when it hit me - what next? I still believed - just - that Jon would eventually bestow a child upon me (although now without enough time to have the two before 30 that we had agreed upon - I would have been 29 at the earliest with the first). But I felt certain that once Jon no longer had this hold over me, there would always be something else. I knew he wouldn't trust me with our baby - he didn't even trust me to open a bottle of champagne - and that I would be prevented from mothering according to my instincts. What kind of mother could I be, then, if I was constantly torn between doing what felt right vs doing it how Jon wanted (rightly or wrongly)? He had no reason to be any better than I at raising a child, no more so than training a gundog - I was the one who read the books and sought advice; neither of us had owned a dog before.

That's when I realised that, for the sake of the child I was yet to conceive, I couldn't see it being possible without immense conflict with Jon. They say that becoming a mother makes you more assertive - it was starting already (or 'rebellion' as Jon told the relationship counsellor). He had already declared 'non-negotiably' what kind of schooling he wanted his child to have; what else throughout our lives was he going to dictate? I couldn't see a way out other than to get out.

This was the worst of our relationship. In every other aspect, you could say that he was, and we were perfect; you couldn't have found a more loving and devoted couple, settled contentedly in the countryside in a lovely house with promising careers and a dog I loved so much my heart could burst. This is what makes it so hard to accept my decision - but was any of it real anyway, or just a fairytale concocted of control and possession on his part and desperation on mine?

Plenty of science, but no chemistry

I'm blogging again; this can only mean one thing: I am once again single. And in the absence of willing male ears to avidly listen (and point out my use of split infinitives) as I recount the trivialities of my day, I resort to writing my blog. Not to mention that life is invariably less interesting without a romantic relationship on the go, and the yawning gaps between work and hobbies need to be filled somehow if not with texting a beloved and excursions with the aforementioned, therefore I am reduced to kidding myself that my life really is interesting and amusing in my typical blog humour fashion.

 
Not entirely sure if we're 'broken up' or 'on a break' (aren't relationships and all the possible labels confusing?!), I decided to make the most of my freedom by once again casting myself shamelessly out into the ocean and becoming one of those fish of whom there are (apparently) plenty. I began by signing up to the local Science Museum Singles' Night. Imagine! A room full of intelligent, well-bred, quirky young men, all vying for my attention and the opportunity to impart their scientific knowledge and views upon me in the light-hearted atmosphere of scientific game-playing. If there's any chemistry to be found, surely this will be the place?!
 

I joined the queue in great hope and anticipation, yet within moments of entering had almost all hopes of finding Mr Right dashed. That horrible feeling of everybody-here-knows-something-except-me flushed over me as I realised that I was - by far - the youngest attendee here. At least half of the men I could see were old enough to be my father. After dipping into the toilets to ask my reflection what on earth I was doing here and receiving only a smiling shrug in reply, I decided to make the most of it and jolly well enjoy myself.

 
The evening began - according to the strict timetable - with Mingling. So armed with my charm and my smile, mingle I did. Looking desperately around the room for even a sniff of an appropriate suitor, my eyes were met by those of another 'youngster' clearly as bewildered by me. We honed in on each other and I asked if he could recommend any of the activities. He - Simon - directed me to a reactions testing board and asked if I wanted to play collaboratively or competitively. Anyone who knows me will not need telling which I chose!

After this and similar activities, around which all 100 participants revolved (with Simon becoming less of a companion and more of a well-trained dog-at-heel), I had deduced that despite being the most appropriate prospect in the room on account of a) his age, and b) his level of attractiveness, Simon was not the man for me. His pallor suggested weekends in playing computer games (not the hiking and adventuring for which I had hoped), and the dismay I felt at having beat him at a) the jump height competition, b) the 10m sprint race, c) the rowing machine race, and d) the reactions test, the only thing that could save him now was a side-splitting sense of humour and an impossibly large penis.

 
The evening was made worthwhile following a very interesting show in the planetarium and a delicious curry, during which I gained two new conversational companions, Charlie (60-ish) and Peter (40-ish, whom we all concurred looked like Martin Clunes). I surprised myself by coming up with my fair share of answers in the After Dinner Quiz (thank goodness I've read Dickens!) and thoroughly enjoyed the anthropological philosophies that Charlie had to offer regarding how men and women choose their mate. After having discussed travel and my plans to venture to Mongolia (that's not even in here for humour), Charlie became the first successful man to obtain my contact details, after promising to send me DVDs of Kate Humble in Mongolia.

 
After having given Peter a lift home (I was overcome with goodwill on overhearing him planning to call for a taxi and realising he lived on my way anyway) - and declining the offer to extend the evening in a bar with him - I returned home to find a rather charming email from Charlie:

"Hadn't been expecting to find myself seated next to someone whom I would happily volunteer to be her sherpa while she traverses the Mongolian plains unencumbered with a heavy rucksac and, more importantly, with such a lovely sparkle in her eyes."

Bless.

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.