Picture post - attempts to capture the Autumn light

Oblique Strategy of the day

"Cut a vital connection."

Oblique Strategy of the day

"Imagine the piece as a set of disconnected events."

How to spoil a nice cup of tea

The latest government suggestion on carbon-cutting is that we all drink UHT milk so that supermarkets won't have to refrigerate it, thus cutting down on energy. I kid you not.

There is not a right-minded person who would come up with this suggestion, and yet it's getting discussed! Have they ever had UHT milk on their cereal or in their tea? Would they make custard or cheese sauce with this disgusting fluid?

I can imagine life without my own private transport, or a life spent in the dimness of a energy-saving-lightbulbed world, or a life without exotic fruits (or unexotic fruit & veg) grown in South Africa and Kenya . . . but a life without fresh milk?

The tea council should put a price on the head of the dimwit who came up with this. It's oddly reminiscent of the Natwest adverts, with junior executives coming up with the most "out-of-the-box" ideas possible . . .

Read the text on the milk portions: "tastes like fresh milk", apparently.

Facebook features

You have to hand it to them, Facebook are pretty good in letting people create new ideas that keep facebookers from getting bored. The newest application I've added to my profile is the Southpark Character Creator. Unfortunately, it's pretty limited in what you can change about the head, so the version of me I created looks nothing like me, but I think it's cool nonetheless:

I also made one of Ian, which looks a little bit like him:


I think I might make Michael Jackson next . . .

Reviews and stuff

How come it's de rigour to record one's album in the USA at the moment? New York, Chicago, . . . they're all at it. It's not like there aren't recording facilities in the British Isles. And surely it's nothing to do with inspiration - because the album should already be written, to a large extent, before the band even gets to the studio.

Anyway.

I saw Control - the Ian Curtis biopic - yesterday evening, and found it to be superficial and disappointing. It really made sense to me that it had been directed by a rock photographer (Anton Corbijn), because there was no depth to the film at all. There was no sense of the tragic in the film at all, and no over-arching narrative either: it seemed to be a series of unrelated events, rather than a story. If there were some themes there, then I didn't find them, and Heather said that she spotted loads of anachronisms in it too: a modern No Smoking sign and a modern litter bin.

There were so many directions that someone could have taken this film, but it did nothing. A music film should have you coming out of the theatre wanting to go home and write songs, but all that was in my head as I walked out was, "Ian Curtis: what a prick." I don't think I should've been thinking, "When's he going to bloody hang himself? I wish he'd get on with it."

All four of us felt this way, which is absolutely contrary to all the reviews, but there you go.

I've also just invested in two new albums: Gulag Orkestar by Beirut (who I'm going to see in Leeds next month) and Fur and Gold by Bat for Lashes.

I already knew and liked some Beirut songs, and while Zach Condon's voice grates on me after an album's worth of songs, there's enough changes in tempo and style to keep you interested. He seems interested in innovation, rather than being quirky for the sake of it, which isn't how Natasha Khan from Bat for Lashes strikes me. Ian had told me that he thought I'd find it very derivative of Bjork and P J Harvey, and he was completely right. Her whispered Standard English voice on EVERY song quickly drove me mad, and I don't think anything she's done struck me as new or interesting. Then again, I haven't bought either Volta by Bjork or White Chalk by PJ Harvey, so perhaps I'm just not into dark, meandering (tuneless?) female vocals at the moment.

What I am looking forward to buying, however, is the new Radiohead album. Like the geek that I am, I will probably part with the £40 required to get the proper boxed edition with all the extras, rather than paying the 49p minimum for a download. I know a lot of less ardent (or less moneyed) fans are annoyed about the lack of a middle-way, but the reason Radiohead are doing this release is to avoid having to wait another few months until their fans can hear the album. A "normal" CD will be out sometime next year, having gone through the usual procedure.

Can't wait.

Oh.my.god.

This is both the funniest and most terrifying advert I've ever ever seen:

http://www.shockabsorber.co.uk/bounceometer/shock.html

Sundays

I hate them.

Sundays are like a strange suspension of time . . .

If only the TV was a little better, it might ease the pain.

Instead I seem to be spending far too much time watching music videos on YouTube.

A Wee Round-Up

Another series of Strictly Come Dancing, another collection of unrecognisable "celebrities" who only inspire outbursts of, "But who the hell is that?" I have to confess that I've been completely addicted to Strictly in the past, but only because I could actually root for someone I already admired - I still think it's a travesty that Colin Jackson didn't win the series before last: that splits-in-the-air move was legendary.

So, let's look at the line-up . . . the only contestants I recognise are Alesha from Mis-teeq, John Barnes, Kelly Brook, Letitia "Sharon" Dean and Willie Thorne. Hardly an A-list cast. Rubbish! At least the judges are worth watching.

Anyway, I don't think I'm alone in saying I'm already suffering from Election Fatigue, and the election isn't even bleedin' happening this year! The Tories did a pretty good job of applying the pressure and now GB really does look like a bottler. In my opinion, he should have gone with it: in these situations, the likelihood of there being a better time is negligible. The economic crash has to happen some time, and the longer Brown leaves it, the more he's pushing his look.

Back to the personal. I spent an hour or so at the NHS walk-in centre this morning. For the second morning in a row I was struck down with an agonising pain in my lower abdomen. Bizarrely it goes away after the ibuprofen kicks in and doesn't return, but the 20 minutes of pain has me writhing around in agony. So Ian drove me to the hospital.

I gave a urine sample, and they ruled out any urinary tract infection or anything like that (they can test for those things in 3 minutes - crazy); I had my bowels listened to, and anything wrong with them was ruled out too; so the only thing it could be is something to do with my uterus. Hilariously, the nurse was looking up potential things by googling "lower abdominal pain", and none of the possibilities are particularly serious, so there you are. I have orders to see my GP if the problem persists, but yet again, I seem to have a mystery illness.

I'm off to bake some brownies.

Ill and stuff

I've been off school, and slept till about 2.30pm. I have such problems determining whether I'm too ill to go to school or not, even when it's really obvious. But then, with school, there's so much guilt attached to being off, because other people have to bear the brunt. I also have no one's contact details from my department, so even though I'd prepared some cover tasks for my classes, I have no idea what to do with them.

Anyway, I started browsing on the internet, and this actually made me laugh. It was on the imdb entry for Chris Farley:

'Innovator of "anti-slapstick" comedy style; ie. man walks into doorframe, curses and screams in pain for long period of time.'

lame lame lame

I've been tired and ill, hence my lack of blogging. My head feels like it's on a spring - I'm disorientated and dizzy most of the time. Which isn't a great way to be feeling when you're stood in front of a class. Unfortunately, my week gets harder and harder, with fewer and fewer free periods, culminating in the most horrific moment of the week: double period with Year 9, last thing on Friday. Nice.

School's ok apart from that and my department is really nice and supportive, but I don't feel like I've gelled there . . . but it could be so much worse. And it's nice not to be waking up hoping I'm too ill to go in (which was the case at my last placement school).

I think I need a nap.

The makers of X Factor are absolutely despicable. They parade crazily delusioned people - even do mini-features on them - not so we can laugh at their singing, but so we can laugh at how fat, ugly, badly dressed or low-class they are. They just had on a whole family of obese people who'd pushed their hideous daughter to compete. Obviously she couldn't sing, but that wasn't what it was about. It focused on how her facial features were stuck in the middle of a huge expanse of flesh. It was a freak show.

Awful.

Is it just me, or is Taylor Dawkins of the Foo Fighters going for a distinctly "Kurt" vibe here? I say 'vibe', however, when I obviously really mean 'complete rip-off'.

This is a promo shot for his new band, and it seems more than slightly odd that he'd want to trade off the fame of his bandmate's dead former bandmate.

Anonymity and that

As a young teacher, I've been pretty careful to make all my internet profiles private: I know how easy it is to find people with just a crafty internet search. So for a month or so I've been reading and commenting on a blog by an "anonymous" screenwriter, but have easily worked out who he is because of information he's disclosed! I wonder if he's aware . . .

Anonymity's nice sometimes though. Last weekend me and Ian were at a friend's party in Manchester and I knew relatively few people there, but I really liked that. Sometimes Sheffield feels so small and incestuous, and I'm not even a socialite or scenester. Recently I've been yearning for a place that feels larger and more alive . . . But at least my students don't live in the same city as me, so there's something to be said for commuting to Chesterfield every day. Imagine having to keep the mask on outside of school hours - hell!

However, it has been going quite well so far. The only group I've had trouble with has been a Year 9 class, set five out of eight. They're not thick or anything; they just don't much like working.

I don't either, but I have to do some now . . . and switch on the heating (is anyone else freezing?)

PS. An American senator is suing God to make a point about litigation. How droll.

Pavarotti RIP

I felt very sad about Pavarotti's death, but I just glimpsed some footage of his funeral on TV, and seeing eight to ten men REALLY struggling with his coffin did amuse me slightly. Lesley Garratt got it right when she said, "he was a giant of a man in every respect", or words to that effect. Nevertheless, his version of Nessun Dorma will continue to bring a tear to my eye.





It's that weird expression on his face after he's finished that amazing long slur. He looks completely bewildered and emotionally exhausted. Amazing stuff.

Miscellaneous

I can't be bothered to dwell on my first school week yet - perhaps I'll do that tomorrow once I start on my prep for the forthcoming week.

I'm feeling quite satisfied after me and Ian planted a load of daffodil bulbs about the place, and tidied the garden up a bit - using the push mower, digging out some dandelions and pulling up some of the widespread herb robert. Then a gorgeous big kitten came into the garden, and I feel extremely guilty for playing with her: I love the birds and I don't want to encourage a cat to come back, especially one without a collar and bell. Speaking of which, there was a repeat last night of Bill Oddie's top ten birds. I felt annoyed that the blackbird wasn't on the list, because their songs are the best of the garden birds, and they also have a lot of character. You've got to like a bird that runs rather than hops.

Gorilla = Phil Collins weirdness

Piglet Massacre

Adam told me about this http://www.thestar.co.uk/news?articleid=3107771 at Megan's party on Saturday, and I was in disbelief. An entire litter of thirteen day-old piglets at Heeley City Farm were killed and mutilated: one was decapitated and another was cut clean in half. Others were cut up and their body parts were strewn all around the farmyard.

It's bewildering that even the sickest person could behave in that way: little piglets are the cutest mammals there are.

Some local businesses have donated large sums of money to help security at the farm, but they need to raise another £5000 in order to install a fence - send your tenner (cheque, of course) to Heeley City Farm, Richards Road, Sheffield, S2 3DT.

It's a shame they have to go to such measures, but I have to say that the last time I took a wander around Graves Animal Park, I was surprised at how accessible all the animals were once the park had shut for the evening.

Anyway, I'm trying to cheer up by watching a docu-drama on Blackbeard. Bizarre.

Dandy Dan RIP

We randomly caught the end of Bugsy Malone on Film Four yesterday evening, and we thought that the kid who played Dandy Dan (centre, above) - real name Martin Lev - looked familiar. So we looked him up on imdb and it turned out that he committed suicide in 1992, aged 33. His death may have had something to do with the fact that he suffered from M.E., but there's very little information about him online. My future viewings of Bugsy Malone will always be twinged with sadness.

hooray for bats

Amazingly, there are far fewer moths in Sheffield than in Newcastle.

I hate moths.

Spiders, I can deal with, but moths - no no no.

Love Bjork

YouTube has changed music so incredibly. But better than being a way to access new material, it's an archivist's dream. Hence I stumbled across this little performance of Unravel by Bjork. Amazing.



PS. If anyone has bought Volta, can they give me the lowdown? I'm a bit skint at the moment . . .

Waterstones: for fuck's sake!

Who is that favourite children's author of Norwegian ancestry who wrote such classics as 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' and 'Matilda'? Yes, the legendary Roald Dahl. And can you get all of his books from Sheffield city centre's only Waterstones? No. What the fuck is going on? You can't get a copy of Revolting Rhymes and you can't buy The Witches.

I feel betrayed.

Radiohead UN-medley

This from Radiohead's blog, Dead Air Space, is ace. Nigel Godrich keeps the splices of reel that get edited out of songs and sticks them all together on a reel. You can hear what it sounds like on the blog under 13 June. Interesting that Godrich doesn't record digitally - or maybe they record the masters onto tape to achieve the final sound . . .

The recording techniques of producers and engineers to get certain sounds is sometimes really fascinating. I was thinking this because I was on the Foals myspace (quite liking their song 'Mathletics' which, despite the title, is only in 8/8 time - nothing math-y at all) and saw this picture of them in the studio:


And like the geek that I am, I was interested to see how the snare's been softened by a shirt and there's a great big blanket over the front of the kick. You can totally hear the effect on the kick, but I'm not so sure about the snare . . .

I love the producer's role in recording. There's a DVD with the version of London Calling I have, and there's so many hilarious shots of Guy Stevens crawling under the piano and clinging onto Mick Jones' leg etc. It's a hard won thing, the right sound . . .

Recently, Google has been letting me down. Twice I've searched song lyrics to find an artist or title, and both times to no avail. It makes me wonder if at some point I've substituted completely different words. I usually hear lyrics weirdly anyway, sometimes to comic effect. On Saturday, we ended up at Penelope's (newly opened former casino adjoined to the Odeon, bizarrely. It had this amazing casino carpet covered in clubs and kings) and Darlings of the Splitscreen played. They're really awesome both recorded and live, and their harmonies and beats are killer. Anyway, I remember thinking one of their lyrics was a little unusual: "my situation is tenable." What a strange thing to sing, I thought, without it occurring to me that I might have misheard. The next morning Ian was singing, "my situation is terrible," and suddenly the world made more sense. However, that song will remain bizarrely businesslike to me. In my head now it's, "my position is untenable."

What a non-story. Shut up, Jess.

I bought 'Easy Tiger' and it's slightly disappointing - if you can purport to be disappointed when you were expecting to be. However, I'm completely in love with the song "I Taught Myself How to Grow Old". I must have listened to it a dozen times today, in addition to having sung it myself over and over after working out some chords. Overall, I much prefer '29'.

This Be The Verse, Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Families are so fucked up, and it's boring me now, like watching the same episodes of "Brothers and Sisters" (whose central axis is the theme of familial dysfunction) again and again. Hilariously, I doubt the family members themselves ever know just how fucked up each of them is. Really, you should ask each person's friends, former friends and boyfriends and girlfriends and then, once you'd filtered out their own baggage, you'd see the damage from every angle.

When I was 17 I thought of going to university in America quite seriously. Maybe if I hadn't got a boyfriend then I would've gone . . .

Crime Scene

I was sat in the garden this morning eating by bowl of supermarket-version-of-special-K, as per usual. Then a mound in my peripheral vision brought my attention to a disturbing sight: a bunch of fluffy grey, white and black feathers. I scrutinised them closely, looking for evidence of a struggle, an assassin (cat? owl?), but to no avail. There was no blood, but some of the feathers were bunched together, like they'd been pulled out in a handful. What upset me is that the flight feathers were clearly too small to have been from a dozey pigeon, and the only birds whose colours match the feathers are coal tit and great tit fledglings. The fledglings are admittedly pretty careless, and wouldn't have lasted very long in a more cat-prone area. But one casualty out of dozens isn't so bad.

Get me: bird detective.

Musicians create book covers

This http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,2139740,00.html is hilarious. Six artists have produced front covers for their fave books as part of a Penguin classics promotion. Beck's is really good, Johnny Borrell's is predictably SHITE and some other guy chose to do Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse because, I quote, "Steppenwolf are such an amazing band." I've been chuckling for about 5 minutes.

Patrick Wolf, Ryan Adams and the nature of music and celebrity

Last Friday there was an hour long show of a Ryan Adams and the Cardinals performance on BBC4, which has made me relisten to the few CDs of his in our house, particularly "29". It was pretty stellar, despite the fact that most of the songs they played were off the new album, Easy Tiger, which I don't yet know or own.

I have some real reservations about those sorts of gigs however: I can't remember the name of the venue, but it looked to be a converted church, and wasn't your average hoi polloi gig. Instead, it appeared that a load of posh people were sat at circular tables with their bottles of wine, watching the entertainment in comfort. I can't put my finger on it, but it just doesn't seem right to play or watch a gig like that - not when you purport to be a rock'n'roll singer.

I felt similarly on the occasions that I've seen Gillian Welch and Joanna Newsom (at the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester and Leeds City Varieties): the Gillian Welch concert was the first I'd been to where I'd felt underdressed in jeans and converse. The folk there were dressed for the theatre, not for a gig. Obviously, you don't want to go mosh or jump around at these folk and country affairs, but I'd like to not feel like I've stumbled into some upper class concert where the audience (note, not "crowd") felt they had ownership over the artists.

I think it's that for most gigs I feel that I paying to see the act, whereas at these more upmarket venues, you get the sense that the artists are being paid to perform. I know that probably sounds like it makes no sense, but I can't really explain the difference any more clearly.

Anyway, Ryan Adams looked scarily clean-cut in this performance, and when he donned his sunglasses he bizarrely resembled a dark-haired Andy Warhol (see picture). He wasn't playing guitar, and so the vocals were honestly awesome, especially on their cover of "Down in a Hole" by Alice in Chains.

All this clean-cut business made me think about how disappointing it is for fans when whichever stars clean up their act. This infuriates musicians massively, because they like to think that their fans are only interested in the music - it's so much more than that!

Hilariously, it's this issue that Patrick Wolf - everyone's favourite young eccentric - has taken exception to. I say hilarious, because for Patrick Wolf more than anyone else, his entire persona is the package that is marketed and sold to would-be fans. Now, having read his fans' speculations on his personality, he's declared that he will resign from the music business because all he ever wanted to do was to make music. Sorry PW, but you can't be so suddenly naive and bite the hand that feeds you. Everyone who has ever liked music knows that it is as much about a cult of personality as musical endeavour.

That's why all us Ryan Adams fans are hoping that he's still as outspoken and interesting as he was when he was "on the edge", whatever that might mean . . .

Dark windows

I was sitting on Ian's homemade bench (picture coming shortly), reading and writing and taking polaroid pictures of things, and then I desired a cup of tea. As I rose, I looked up at the windows of the flat next door, and I saw a figure jump back from the window. This would be the new housemate of the Scottish PE teacher next door, who I haven't met yet. And for that reason, I found the experience of being spied on a little eery. (Also, how boring is it to look at someone reading? It's not like I was wearing a bikini - I'm in a dress and jeans combo!)

Brighton

London Sightseeing

Natural History Museum

Science Museum

Cemetery Polka

Yesterday started off looking gloomy with the distinct possibility of rain, but at 4 o'clock it turned beautiful. This was extremely fortunate as we were making the long journey by foot to the General Cemetery for a birthday barbecue. That's right - a barbecue in a cemetery, right at the foot of the non-denominational chapel (now all breeze-blocked up and macabre-looking) which people more popularly call a mausoleum because that's what it looks like.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun and many of us played boule, which was all the more hilarious for playing down or up a slope, and more often rolling "into the rough". Fun times.

Today is even hotter, and I'm not sure if I can bear to go outside, but I think I will because being British (particularly a Northerner) means my default setting is to become obsessed over every bit of sun and squeeze all possible sun-burn out of the opportunity. (Not really: I'll just find a shady patch and read.)

PS. "Cemetery Polka" is a Tom Waits song.

Hmmm . . . . I watching the Take That Star Stories thing, which isn't as funny as the adverts (the adverts for the Tom Cruise edition are best). This is the opposite to Fonejacker, which is a lot funnier than the adverts suggest (but which the critics hate) . . .

Anyway, I've had a week's "holiday" in Brighton/London (many thanks to Ed and Linda for putting me up for most of the time). I say "holiday", because in these modern times it seems like it's only a real holiday if you leave the country. But then, holidays themselves are often much more stressful than normal life, in my experience, which leads me to think that the notion of holidaying can only be applied to lazy beach-style holidays . . . the kind of holiday that would drive me insane with boredom.

I got mildly addicted to playing Animal Crossing, which is pretty pathetic. We also went to the arcade on the pier and spent lots of 2p and 10p pieces in those ridiculous games (what are they called?), and I got tendonitis from playing some mad pig-race game crossed with air hockey. Some of the most fun we had, however, was throwing pebbles at a can on the beach. That sea air does funny things to you. I also learned a new card trick with which I have since impressed at least 4 people.

Good holiday. Pictures to follow.

Ian bought me this dag-tastic book on learning to drum. It's so eighties it's untrue. But hey, if you need to know how to do a pressed drumroll as opposed to your everyday common or garden drum roll, this is the book you need. I'll have to scan some bits of it in so everyone can appreciate the cheesiness.

There was something else, but I can't remember what it was.

The limits of science

It's sometimes worrying how little scientists know about specifics. At present I'm in quite a lot of pain because (I assume) of ovulation. Apparently one in five women experience this, but for me it's not a regular thing: sometimes it's painful, other times there's nothing, and the pain varies from a mild sensation to full-on curled-up-on-a-sofa agony (actually, it feels a little like trapped wind). Anyway, there's a few theories, but doctors genuinely don't know what specifically causes the discomfort. I find this to be incredibly annoying!

Twas the Heartyeah (www.myspace.com/heartyeah) album launch gig last night at the Grapes. The guys are right: when they play the Grapes they have no technical problems at all, and sound really great. Anywhere else, however, and their set is riddled with electronic difficulties.

They were excellent last night, and so were Calf by Calf, who I'd neither heard of or seen before. The other band were complete pants, to use old skool terminology. I feel a sort of pity for bands who are investing time in playing music which had its day in grotty 16+ clubs seveal years ago. They had a crap name to boot.

Anyway, there was supposed to be an aftershow party at the Runaway Girl, but for some reason the guy playing music there (singing guitar, harmonica, loops) stayed on stage for absolutely ages. He was fairly atrocious by that stage and had started doing lame covers, which his friends found hilarious. The reason I mention this place is not because of aftershow plans going awry (we went home after one drink there), but because being in that place was like stepping into a David Lynch film. I particularly had this sensation when I came out of the ladies' toilet into a sort of antechamber with busy red wallpaper and about 5 doors. I was stood there for a few seconds before I worked out which door led back downstairs, and then when I went back into the bar I realised the whole place was quite surreal: velvet curtains, red and blue lighting, low ceiling, strange convex mirrors on the back wall. Freaky.

No backwards speaking dwarves though.*


*Which is what Ian instantly asked when I told him of the Lynchian bar.

Does anyone else find Roger Federer ineffably boring? He's so strictly business it's untrue, both off and on court. As soon as the Wimbledon final began I immediately lost interest, because there's no trace of humanity (or humour) in either Federer or Nadal. I was rooting for Djokovic, who has a strictly business haircut, but who actually has a personality. I look forward to him beating Federer in the future. It seems to me that a lot of top sportspeople have no personality to speak of, particularly in more dangerous pursuits. Look at Formula 1 or Moto GP. The only remarkable thing about them is just how tedious they actually are. Perhaps, it occurred to me, they need to be like that in order to do what they do. In the same way, many sports competitors must be erring on the weirder side of OCD (we're all obsessive compulsive about some things), because discipline and control are fundamental to what they do. So it's not that surprising that Nadal lines up his drinks bottles with the labels facing the same way and spends moments adjusting his socks, or that Djokovic bounces the ball at least 15 times before he actually serves the damned thing.

At least bizarre obsessions are remotely interesting however. I'd rather that than the dullness of RF . . . and the loquaciousness with which he is greeted by pundits only serves to make him appear more boring.

Give me Venus any day. Some time ago there was a massive Williams sister backlash, which I'm pleased has subsded. I felt that the undercurrent to that was sheer snobbery, and perhaps even a edge of institutional (latent) racism. Venus has always proved herself to be an amazing athlete with true mental grit as far as I'm concerned.

Maybe I've turned anti-mainland Europe?

I suppose I can take my 'Free Alan Johnston' banner off my page now. It's stupid to say I felt so relieved when Ian shouted up this morning that he'd been freed, but bizarrely I really did get a nice feeling in my belly. I'm glad I had that reaction, because once I heard him talking about the whole ordeal I couldn't believe what a humble, intelligent and uncynical person he was - and how phenomenally articulate and grounded he appeared after such an experience. When he was doing the international press conference from Jerusalem, I looked up at the clock and thought, "Shit, he's been talking for 40 minutes!" But I suppose when you've had nothing to do but go over and over the few things that have happened to you, then maybe you would be prepared to talk about it all so eloquently, and be glad of the opportunity to engage in a dialogue at all.

It's a trite thing to say, but I was really impressed with him.

In a completed unrelated matter, I went to see Pirates of the Caribbean 3 tonight, and it was completely ludicrous and had the most convoluted plot since Mission:Impossible, but it was still enjoyable. Possibly I scoffed and guffawed more than I genuinely chuckled or laugher, but hey. You have to take it for what it is . . . which judging by the ending is a filthy, commercial endeavour to extort money from audiences further by extending the franchise to a FOURTH movie. For godsake . . . .

sucked dry

What is it about Sundays? I think it's because I have to go to my new school tomorrow to sort out various things (my timetable, for one), and in the lead up to visiting I've been having uncomfortable teaching dreams. I might start taking bets on how long I'll stick it out.

Skoda update

I was wrong. It was inedible because it had been under studio lights for several days. Apparently it was composted and used on allotments. Cake compost? Weird.

The tasty waste . . .

I'm talking about the over-long Skoda advert in which team of bakers create a huge car cake. The first time I saw it, I wondered what would happen to it, and Ian suggested that the shareholders probably had a party and ate it all.

No. Apparently not. The cake car was actually held together in places by glue, not icing, and as such was inedible. Ridiculous.

Ultra short stories wanted

I'm trying to start some projects with which to occupy myself, and I want to make a zine of 50-word stories written in the sci-fi genre (hopefully, if I maintain an interest, other genres will follow). The rules are that the story MUST be 50 words exactly, but it can have a title which is not included in the word count. I'd also quite like some pictures or illustrations, so any kind of submission would be gratefully received - write as many stories as you want (you could do a trilogy, even). Here are a couple of my early attempts:

The ship's spectrogram flickered and data filled the vast control screens. Kirk Balzac breathed deeply in relief as he strolled over to the door release mechanism. Outside lay the mythical forests of Mophistu. But in the instant that the doors began hissing open, Kirk’s lungs dissolved: he’d forgotten his helmet.

Damien’s heart thumped. The dull beat was the amphibocretonian guards heading their way. He shook the semi-conscious figure on the floor.
“Evelyn, quick!”
He followed her tearful, drowsy gaze: her leg was trapped under the dislodged fluxoradio command unit. He paused momentarily, gave her one last passionate kiss, and sprinted.

Please contribute: I'd be very grateful.

Bollocks

I posted an anti-comments comment on Post Secret, and didn't realise that my comment would link to my blog (google automatically signs me in, see).

If you've come to my blog from Post Secret, I honestly love cats and animals and don't wish to harm them with bleach . . . or anything else for that matter. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, visit www.postsecret.com) That said, I could definitely look after my goldfish a little better . . .

Itchy

Itchy feet and itchy brain. I'm slowly starting to get into more of a rhythm, though. The major problem presented by completing my course is actually stepping off the treadmill, and then, once off, not feeling terrible about not being on the treadmill. Even though I've been doing productive things over the last two weeks, I still feel immensely guilty about wasting my time and not achieving . . . and I think I'm just at the point of adapting. I hope it isn't like this in the Sumeer holidays to come, or I'll only have four proper weeks of guilt-free time to myself.

I don't think my complex is just about being in work-mode though. I remember hating going back to university after the Summer because people would inevitably ask, "So what did you do?" and if you didn't have an amazing story about travelling in South-East Asia or volunteering in Peru, you (well, me) felt completely uninteresting and uncool.

But then, it's the kind of question you ask people when you either don't know them (very well) or you don't really car, and which, annoyingly, you end up asking people yourself when you either don't know them enough to chat to or don't much care about their response. Aren't we all incredibly fake and rude? But it would be ruder not to fake, I suppose. But then, why don't we care? Hmmm . . .

It's alright everyone - I'm ok!

Yes, parts of Sheffield are seriously flooded ("seriously", as in more than 200 people waiting to get winched from the tops of buildings), and mainly in David Blunkett's constituency which comprises much of the low-lying industrial quarter in the north of Sheffield, alongside the River Don.

We're very safe, I think, up on the hilly side. In fact, I didn't even have an inkling that this was going on, as I've been holed up with my cold all day long.

Oh well. Met Check says it'll be sunny tomorrow!

Phew

I'm deleting various tracks that I never listen to off my iTunes for the express purpose of making room for The Sims. Ayway, I've found myself just listening to purely classical music. Sometimes it really feels purifying.

I had an ace day yesterday, shopping and killing bluebottles effectively and such, then I went out for a drink with some PGCE friends and things became rubbish on the way back (not because of of my friends, I hasten to add). Such is life.

How did it know I love Radiohead?

You are sorta emo. You listen to Radiohead and enjoy their eclectic sound, but haven't pushed past into the underground indie subculture. The closest to emo attire that you own is maybe a few band t-shirts and tight jeans.

AreYouEmo.com

To evoke your sympathy . . .

I've felt crap all day. I woke up with a bunged up head and a sore throat, and now I'm dosed up on paracetamol and feeling drowsy and snivelly. This isn't a good way to feel when your house is infested by bluebottles. I walked into the kitchen before and felt so defeated by the tens of bluebottles buzzing around the window that I got the hoover and sucked up the vast majority. Yes, ALIVE. The irritatating thing is that I have no idea how they're getting into the kitchen. They're such disgusting creatures. But I suppose their purpose is helping things to decompose is a valid one. What surprises me is just how long they're around for. How many eggs then maggots does one bluebottle spawn, and how many maggots does it take before a carcass is soft-material free? It's both disgusting and fascinating, like a toddler intent on scrutinising dog turds.

What do you get if you cross Christian Bale with Cliff Richard?

Ziggy from Big Brother! Am I the only one who's noticed this? (Yes, I know I decried BB, but I have a lot of time on my hands now - what's a lazy girl to do?) Seriously, he looks like Christian Bale with longer, bleached hair, then he begins to talk and his mouth makes Cliff Richard-type shapes. Maybe there's a bit of Macca there too. Tres unsexy.

I forgot

Look how much my Yorkshire puddings rose! It's ridiculous! It meant they didn't taste quite right. Nice though.

Update

I feel extremely groggy today, so I took one of Ian's hayfever things to see if it was that, but I still feel heavy in the head and have a sore throat, so I'll put it down to illness instead.

There's just been a massive downpour here - only ten minutes or so, but at times so heavy that the rain bouncing off the ledge outside comes up through the open window 3 and a half feet up. I love torrential rain, particularly when it's accompanied by thunder and lightning. There's just something satisfyingly cathartic about it. Plus it gives me the excuse to laze around rather than actually tax my brain cells and do something.

I have been doing some things though:
* I've lost count of how many bluebottles I've swatted.
* I've trussed up the tomatoes out back (that's what I was doing when the rain came a-tumbling)
* I've become mildly addicted to Facebook and then filled with anxiety at the idea of having to communicate with many of the girls from Fenham's "Catholic mafia" (as they have been termed by a family member)
* I've made a grate for the drain outside (I'm trying to block off rat access points)
* I foam-filled the rat runs behind the washing machine
* I potted plants up
* I made an ace CD sleeve for a mix-CD I made
* I spray-painted a tall lamp stand that me and Ian found which will become a coat/hat stand in the future.

Actually, that's probably about it. In fact, I've been horrednously slack and therefore bored. I was so bored the other night that I ended up cutting a fringe into my hair. It doesn't look too bad though:


My eyes look extremely scary in these pictures, but you can also make out my freckles which are much more visible this year. Bless.

I'm going to go and take some paracetamol I think, then I'll pretend I'm motivating myself to do something, when actually I'm just going to make a cup of tea, dunk biscuits and watch TV.

Unfortunately there are no pictures of how ace I looked as Alex from A Clockwork Orange at my end-of-PGCE party! Gutted. I'll post other pictures soon though.

Arrivederci.

Now I'm REALLY in a mood

As if it isn't bad enough having to prepare an extremely boring presentation for a college day tomorrow, two terrible things have happened: -

1) They killed off Stingray! How could they?

2) Scrubs no longer has the 6pm slot on E4 thanks to Big Brother.

It's enough to make me scream . . .

And another thing

I was shocked by the ending of Desperate Housewives last night. I can't believe that Edie Britt would kill herself. I know they were working on developing her vulnerability and that, but suicide? Please. I hate it when shows don't obey their own internal laws . . .

RIP Edie.

Birds

Yes, birds. I could watch them from the "study" window for hours. They're just sparrows and blue-tits, but I like them. It's nice to have some wildlife for a change: it was depressing having to throw out bird feeders last year because the seed inside had gone mouldy - so many cats made for a trepidatious (is that a word?) bird population. It's good for us too: they pick off the snails and slugs. Speaking of which, while repotting an honesty plant I found a slug egg, squished it between my fingers and it squirted into my eye. Nice. Karma, perhaps, for taking pleasure in killing so many of its brethren . . .

Script Frenzy

I'm very excited about this. I keep having lots of script ideas and, I have to confess, I've already started on a couple of things despite the fact that you're only allowed to work on the project during the month of June.

I described the project to my younger sister (aged 19), and she was completely bemused by the idea that you'd want to write a script for no reason at all.

If you're creatively minded in any way at all, I urge you to sign up: www.scriptfrenzy.org. I've already written more (and of a higher quality) than I have in the past god-knows-how-many-months put together. Creative writing, that is. Not the snore-worthy stuff of PGCE-styled academia . . .

On which subject: how come the half term is almost over? Life is soooooooo unfair. After this brief holiday I don't know how I'll be able to stand the tedium of two weeks' of school . . . the abject misery ahead . . .

And the Big Brother gimic for this year is . . . .

An all-female starting line-up.

I just channel-hopped past E4 and was surprised by the number of girly-girls in their early twenties. Not that I watched it last year, or the year before for that matter, but it looks like Channel 4 have managed to cook up a recipe even more dull than anyone could ever have anticipated.

Snore.

In the GCSE Anthology there's a poem called Vultures, in which there's a description of the commandant at Belsen with "the smell of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils."

This came into my head because wherever I go, the odour of rotting rat permeates the air, very much like the smell is stuck in my nose. It's really revolting.

On top of that I don't feel well. I've had two lessons this morning thus far, and in each I almost cried and almost fainted. (Actually, at one point I felt like pretending to faint, just to get the little bastards to pay attention.) I'm not sure whether it's just tiredness or actually something wrong with me. Either way, I don't feel up to yelling at a class.

I can't believe it's only Thursday.

10.5 days to go.

For those who are interested . . .

. . . dead rats smell like rotting cabbage. I gained this knowledge when I came home from school, immediately noticed the stench, then noticed an unusually large gathering of bluebottles. I was scared to move the plinths to look under the kitchen units, but when Ian came home we did, but thre was no rat to be found. There are, however, holes in the flooring so we assume the body(ies) are below.

Ian's dad has informed us that it'll take ten days for the carcass to dry out, but the smell is already vomit-inducing, and I seriously won't be eating anything at home if it gets any worse. Ugh.

Busyness

Yesterday I got a job - hooray! It's at a very high achieving school, but no one appeared to be snotty and the head of English described herself as a heathen, which I liked. I felt very strange once I was offered the job, possibly because the day was so informal and I hadn't even taught a sample lesson. I mainly feel relieved with a mix of trepidation and anxiety . . .

The Weekend

On Saturday I got shouted at by a woman with an autistic child at Chester Zoo. She obviously assumed that my squinting face was a screwed up expression of disgust at her ugly, whining offspring, but it wasn't. The zoo was good though. We could have watched the baby chimps playing for hours, and the bat cave is amazing too.

Also on Saturday I had to partner with the very drunken singer from HCdeP at his dad's 60th birthday ceilidh. Quite hilarious. Ian's dad almost danced for the second time in his life, but he chose the most complicated dance of the night and got fed up with the ridiculously ill-explained instructions and gave up. Almost history in the making.

Update over.

12 working days left.

Get in.

Unwelcome House Guests

This is a week late as I've only just imported the pictures off my camera.

I was drying my hair on Sunday morning, and heard Ian yell out. I thought he was cleaning the bathroom and had probably knocked something over, so I carried on. Then he came into the room looking pale and shaken.

This is who he'd encountered in the cupboard under the sink whilst looking for cleaning sponge:


It was dead, of course, and, as you will have noticed, it's a full-grown rat and not a mouse at all! Poor thing. I was surprised by how soft it's fur looked and how squirrel-like it's head was. Pet rats are completely different creatures and are more like large mice (RIP Snoopy).

Anyway, thought I'd share that delightful picture with you.

Morons

I'm referring to my next door neighbours. No, it's not because they're PE teachers: I'm not quite as prejudiced as that. Nor is it because they randomly roar out like they're playing Smackdown or some such console game. No, it's because they have to constantly bombard us with their crap taste in music at random periods: Hard-Fi, Stereophonics, Bon Jovi, Oasis, Jamiroquai, music to make your stomach heave. What does one do when aurally assualted in this way?

History

I'm no sentimental, but Blair's resignation really does feel like the end of some epoch. And not just because all the TV stations have already put together montages and obituary-esque "This is Blair's legacy" pieces (which, in obituary fashion, they'll have had together for the past two years). I think people do have short memories, and though many things today need improvement (dentists, public transport, education, house prices, the slide towards the semi-privatisation of everything . . .), things are better than under Major (ha! remember him!) and much much better than under Thatcher (when is she gonna die so we can start street partying?): Northern Ireland, NHS waiting times, minimum wage, general spread of affluence, green issues (at least they're on the agenda, though sickeningly, Cameron's probably responsible for that) . . .

Anyway, it just feels weird. I suppose it's because TB has been prime minister throughout my proper mental development and struggle with maturity (granted, I'm not there yet) and blah blah blah: from the age of 15 to 25. Bizarre.

I wonder what people will think of *now* in ten years. I doubt it'll be what the BBC's pouring out on News 24 at the moment. Speaking of which, I probably scared the people in the shop downstairs earlier. I was watching News 24 to catch up on what had actually been said in the speech, but instead I got an interview with George Galloway. It was so melodramatic and irritating that I suddenly and involuntarily shouted, "Oh, fuck off!" and switched channels. I surprised myself with my outburst.

So.

Only 20 days to go. Sssssssssssss. (You know, as in the end of "Yessssss")

music on adverts

Sometimes the people choosing music get it spot on. You find the whole tune on the internet, and that short section used is the only decent bit of the whole song. You wonder, how the hell did they find that amazing bit amongst this crap. I'm speaking of "Release Me" by Oh Laura (some car advert I think--sounds a bit like Regina Spektor) and "Away From Here" by The Enemy, currently used on the ER advert. So disappointing.

Like, OH MY GOD, that, like, AMAZING 90s TV show My So-called Life is gonna be released on DVD in, like TWO WEEKS!!!

I'm debating whether to pre-order it from Amazon or not. It's only £26.70, but will it spoil all my fond memories of how fresh, different and gripping it was? I want to see it, but at the same time I don't. What a dilemma . . .

My mood is along the lines of, "I really fucking can't be arsed." I just can't be bothered with all the grief of trying to teach children. I'm knackered and I have no life, and for what? There's no reward as far as I can see. As I drive to and from school, instead of making last minute mental adjustments to lesson plans, I get distracted by the flowers and foliage on the way. I was admiring a roadside pyracantha just before and thinking how lovely it would be to work with plants rather than young people. Or perhaps people at all for that matter, because I'm not sure anyone actually changes all that much. To see that, you just have to sit in a room of PGCE students and see how everyone messes around in different ways while the tutor tries to speak.

Roll on the summer. Except I haven't got any plans for summer yet because I haven't had time to investigate or organise anything . . . still, at the moment just lazing around and having some sleep sounds perfect.

After today, twenty-four days left

What a relief that is. It's still five weeks, I suppose, but I'm almost there: just one final assignment to go, then a length of time to be spent collecting evidence for the damned 'standards', and I'll be done. If only I had a job lined up . . . I recently emailed in an application for yet another Catholic school, and hilariously I have heard nothing. There seem to be a myriad positions going though, so sooner or later someone has to give me a job, I just hope that it's in a relatively okay school.

Anyway, I had a visit from my tutor on Monday: he had to observe me, then observe my mentor feeding back her observations to me. They told me my language was too complex: I'd used "stereotype" and "2D" with Year 9s. They're 14 for God's sake!

Oh well.

Hurrah

Finally, a decent day! Today I don't feel like such an atrocious teacher (though in reality, it had nothing to do with the quality teaching, and everything to do with kids actually behaving themselves), which makes a nice change.

Still, I endeavour to not discuss teaching at all tonight, and instead to enjoy roller disco. It's been a while since I've seen Pink Grease, so it should be funny. I can bet that if I do hire skates I'll be sick of them within minutes . . . the question is: to wear ye olde fashionede skates or to wear rollerblades?

Self-help

There's only 30 teaching days to go until the end of my placement, but I've finally ordered myself a copt of "Getting the Buggers to Behave". Why couldn't we have had an informative session on this at university?

Football

I'm knackered. I was so tired yesterday that I more or less slumped in front of the TV from the moment I got in, and then when I should have been planning, I became involved in the Man U/Milan game. It was a great game and I was totally gripped, but while I was rooting for Man United, I didn't overly care about the outcome. Tonight is a different matter: I really don't want Chelsea to beat Liverpool, and this means that unless Liverpool hammer them from kick-off, then I won't actually enjoy the game. I think football's often best observed from a more neutral, objective perspective.

On a football-related note, the death of Alan Ball is really sad, and listening to his son talking about him on the radio almost made me cry on the way to school.


Free Alan Johnston

I put the Alan Johnston image on my page because I don't feel that his situation is getting as much attention as it warrants. There has been massive coverage of other hostage situations, and this case seems to barely make it into the first few pages of a newspaper. Some serious investigation and interference needs to take place to actually bring his family some proper news.

Misc

I endeavour to get some Paris pictures up soon . . . watch this space.

Today

I survived today (despite having tiny cried-out eyes this morning), so I'm feeling better at present. I won't mention school except to say that this morning I was late (for briefing) because I got very distracted while eating my breakfast.

As readers will know, I discovered mouse droppings and a horrible smell of animal urine when we moved into our flat. We put down poison, and while the urine smell remained, sometimes vague and sometimes very strong, we found no further droppings. So we thought maybe we'd been mistaken about the smell and there was something wrong with the sewer (I say "we", but in actual fact I never deviated from thinking the mice were behind it).

So, I stood in the kitchen this morning, eating my rice crispies, when there was a sudden "eeek!" and a scurrying-thump underneath the floor. Then silence. Ian insists that the poison only thins the blood rather than killing the mice in an excruciating manner, but I'm doubtful.

Anyway, it just goes to show that the poison hasn't worked at all, and our kitchen will stink of wee for the forseeable future. What can be done? I think I'll ring the estate agents tomorrow and put my foot down . . .

How could I kill a thing like this? Because it stinks! Plus humane traps are useless because a house mouse wouldn't survive in the wild even if you were to release it far far away . . .

Unsuccessful

And my mental preparation hasn't stopped me from feeling utterly worthless and crap.

Why do we do these things to ourselves? Stepping out of your comfort zone is one thing, but being under this much stress is ridiculous.

If anyone can think of alternative futures for me, please please share them. I'm off to drown in my self-pity.

Gardeners' World

While I was sat around at the school, Ian sent me a text that made me laugh out loud. We'd watched Gardener's World on Friday, which is really badly put together and pretty uninformative. For some reason, when one of the presenters took off her red coat and threw it to the ground, the camera zoomed in on it and stayed fixed on the coat for what seemed like an age! It was so funny. Anyway, the gist of Ian's text was that on the BBC forums there's a thread devoted to the discussion of this. Unfortunately, I can't find it, but it amuses me nonetheless.

45 mins until 5 o'clock. I still feel peculiar. I'm thinking that perhaps what I thought was nerves is actually illness.

I think the reason I'm dreading the call so much is because I'm waiting for the awkwardness of being told I don't have it, and the feeling that I was completely unworthy and/or an embarassment which accompany that.

On that note, I think I'll check the TES website for other jobs . . .

Interviews...

I've come back from an interview at a school in Barnsley, and I shall hear the result before 5pm apparently. I was massively nervous, and people kept talking to me as though I was displaying huge signs of anxiety, though I wasn't aware myself that I was acting in any strange way. I found that pretty strange. In the final interview though, I must've come across as completely overwhelmed by nerves, and I just wasn't able to take a grip and make myself less nervous. That said, I think I came out with some okay responses, and I managed to absorb a lot of the ethics of the department during the day that I hopefully spouted back at them effectively.

I'm preparing myself for the worst though. Just so I'm not an emotional wreck by 6 o'clock. Of the two other people that were there for the English interview (there was a Maths interview
too), I don't think one was what they were looking for, but I can imagine that the other would fit in fine. He seemed to be a capable, self-assured and amiable fellow, and I always feel that older men have the advantage in this situation, because of the dominance of young women in English teaching. That's not to say that men getting English teaching jobs haven't been very good teachers--I'm sure they are!--but it all goes to make a really good package. And I don't think my nervousness would have made an attractive alternative. Oh well. (Do I sound like I've convinced myself that I haven't got it yet? That's my intention . . .)

The one very interesting aspect of this experience was that we all had an additional interview by a pupil panel of four year eights. Amongst their questions, they actually asked the most taxing question of the whole day: if you were a biscuit, which one would you be and why? I said I would be a jaffa cake, and burbled some laboured metaphor about being multi-layered and multi-faceted, or some such garbage. If anyone wants to share with me what they would have said, I'd be delighted!

Anyway, I think I'll go and occupy myself and work harder on visualising the phone call that tells me I've been unsuccessful and that I was far too nervous. Given that I've only had one such phone call I don't know why I feel like I've received a succession of bad responses, but there you go. That's my positive outlook for you.

Revolting Rhymes

Some parents are complete idiots. I'd hate to teach their children.

Waterstones in town doesn't have a copy of Roald Dahl's 'Revolting Rhymes' so I was looking it up on Amazon. Check out some of these reviews:

"I bought this from amazon a few weeks ago, and was alarmed when I read the first rhyme, and found Prince Charming calling Cinderella a "sl*t". Returned the book immediately.Have rated it with stars for the quality of writing. Dahl is funny, but this one isn't for younger children, and has no business being in this section."

"Although I thought this book was humorous in parts, I found some part to be a little inappropriate for the younger reader. I found some of the storys to be a little voilent [sic] and unsuitable for children. More suited to the young adult market."

Imbeciles! They don't know their children at all!

Is anyone else horrified by this?

Earn money from your blog

Let your blogging pay off with relevant ads from Google AdSense.

When being a trainee teacher, are you really supposed to lose the will to live on a thrice-weekly basis?

The interview is on Monday, and it's just going to be full of bullshit, because I genuinely feel like a crap teacher.

The idiotic thing is why? I know loads of stuff about English and literature, I'm passionate about them, and I enjoy working with kids.

I think the problem is that teaching is taught to us as if we should extract information out of the kids and help them find out themselves, rather than actually give them information. On the contrary, the best lessons I've done have been when I've actually taught the kids the information that they're meant to have. This is the fault of a number of things in education: the National Literacy Strategy, SATS & league tables, the emphasis on the skill of literacy, the lack of use of whole-book reading etc etc.

My discipline management skills have fallen apart the last two days. I need to find my grid, colour in the boxes and count the hours I hae left.

On a positive note, it's the weekend! Thank fucking God.

Idiot kids, Bryan Ferry and Nazi architecture

Crap day, pretty much. I was "teacher in role" for a Year 7 drama lesson. I was the abbot of the monastery and they were the monks. Fairly amusing, but the kids were rowdy. Immediately after I had the same problem with Year 8, who had been great with me up until they realised they could be shit. Only about eight of them, but it's enough to make life difficult. Then, joy of joys, one of the weird Year 9 groups last thing. One of them told me I shouldn't be a teacher because my lessons are rubbish. I would agree, except that I had been asked to do some boring P.E.E. (point, evidence, explanation) work with them by the head of department. Tomorrow's lesson should be more fun.

Anyway, I've been reading Monday's Guardian, in which I was completing the sudoku puzzle (only on Medium and it still puzzled me). I can't believe Bryan Ferry calls his studio the Fuhrerbunker: he's a complete cretin. On that basis, it doesn't surprise me that he made favourable comments about the Nazi's design ethic. There are so many better ways of expressing such things: in fact, the Nazi posters aren't radical, they're completely of their time. Some of the British and Soviet posters are amazing from that period in time, which leads me to think that Ferry does actually have a soft spot for fascism.

I have a particular dislike of Nazi architecture. The former Luftwaffe headquarters in Berlin has an eery quality to it: it's so blocky and regular. It encapsulates a lot of what makes me shudder about the Nazis.

The plans for the insanely large Volkshalle would be hilarious if they weren't so grotesque: elements of classical architecture are stretched and enlarged to the point where the features can't possibly work on any scale. It was a hideous conception, and one of the ideas that clearly shows Hitler for the madman he was.

Bryan Ferry. What an idiot. Listening to Love is the Drug and Virginia Plain will never be the same again.

Good day today. I only had two teaching groups but I stepped up the pace in their lessons and they were responsive and such so I'm happy with that, especially as I felt all woozy at the start of the day.

Our washing machine has finally been fixed too. Woo hoo! Though I did quite like going to the laundrette on Sharrow Vale Road a couple of weeks ago. It felt quite retro and/or American. I can't believe how few laundrettes exist these days . . .

I'm not well. I feel very strange indeed, which is always accompanied by great feelings of guilt. As in, if I'm well enough to sit at a computer or do other stuff, how come I'm not well enough to go to school. I start to think I'm making it all up, or that I'm exaggerating how I feel to form an excuse. But the fact is, I'm not physically up to the drive to school, let alone the hustle, bustle and general stress of the school day.

To aid my stressed-out brain, I've marked out the days left at school on my big free NUT planner that's stuck on the wall above this desk. I started from the final day, marking every weekend with the number of days until The End. This will stop me from wasting precious minutes counting the days on a daily basis (which, believe me, I would do). So I know that there are 36 teaching days until the end of the course. That may sound like precious little to people with proper jobs, but it actually sounds like heaps to me. In terms of hours of teaching it's 102. What I might do is print off a page with 102 little squares on that I can colour in at the end of each day.

102 hours. That's only four and a quarter days.

It's like the trip to Paris never happened, except we have a fridge magnet and some ticket stubs to prove it (the ticket you get for the Pompidou Centre are pretty cool: I recommend anyone to visit. I do not recommend you visit the Eiffel Tower. It's surreal to look at it at night from far away and think you've been up it, but after waiting for ages in the heat to ascend it, it's a bit of an anticlimax.) I'll upload some pictures soon, if my computer can handle the weight of them . . .

Back to it, slacker.

Bored

I've been holding on for the holidays for more weeks than is mentally healthy, and here I am, two days in, bored stupid. I still don't feel that I can start a project because I should be getting evil school stuff out of the way. I hate that feeling. It's like swatting away a persistent bluebottle.

I've run out of ideas for music I want to download too. Please give me your musical suggestions, particularly if it's new music. I was listening to a bit of !!! (Chk chk chk) before, which is okay, but they seem to have jumped on the indie disco bandwagon. However, that's where it's at currently. I was also disappointed by the other Klaxons songs. I can't get "Golden Skans" out of my head and think it's amazingly written and arranged, but the others are all so mediocre.

On a musical note, I was going to get a drum lesson tomorrow, but Ian's refused, even after he said he'd teach me how to play some stuttered rhythms. So I'm in a bit of a huff on that front. His bass is never around either, because Dan (bassist in The Yell) uses it for practices. Instead, we have a ridiculous number of guitars around the house: electric, electro-acoustic, acoustic, child-sized, steel, fretless . . . I could go on.

I am desperate to play loud music with someone, and now, when I finally have time, no one seems available. It stinks.

I'd also like to know what anyone made of Factory Girl, as I was intending to see it this week, but apparently it's bombed so badly that no where in Sheffield is showing it. Unsurprisingly, you can't see Inland Empire in Sheffield either.

I'm so bored. I don't want to watch a Channel 4 documentary about men who've had their dicks chopped off, but there is seriously nothing on TV.

Would you believe it? After almost a month in the new house, Tiscali have finally deigned to supply the broadband we pay for. I say that with a certain amount of guilt that something which does not matter in the slightest in the great scheme of things, matters overwhelmingly in the unimportant present.

Anyway, it's the Easter holidays, and I'm already wasting my precious free hours by doing nothing except hanging around in my dressing gown, watching crap children's TV with a cup of tea and generally thinking. That said, yesterday I repotted a load of houseplants and made a cool fabric noticeboard which uses elastic strips to hold stuff.

The mice are still problematic. The poison's been down for a week, and there are no signs of further droppings, but sometimes I walk into the kitchen and the stench of ammonia is horrific. But sometimes the smell isn't there at all. I sprayed the areas I assumed were smelly with bleach to neutralise the odour, but it seems to have returned. What else can we do?

In other news, we've made good progress on the allotment, which looked like this a few weeks ago:



Yes, a veritable woodland animal haven. We've already seen a gigantic wild rabbit, though according to other plot-holders, there's also a big fox that keeps the rabbit-population in check. We've cleared much of it already, just by chopping down all the brambles, an activity that has already caused some not insignificant muscles to develop in my arms.

Daytime television calls, however, and I will resume blogging later.