Monthly Archives: February 2011

The teacher’s got no control

So another working week rolls round, once again beginning with a hideous bus journey into Ascot, complete with braying children from various schools across Berkshire. Most depressingly, I am now starting to know them by name, from the not-particularly-pleasant experience of hearing them discuss their sexual exploits. Ugh.

I don’t think I fully appreciated the lack of children on my commute last week, during the bliss of half-term. I could listen to lo-fi, chilled tunes to gently ease me into my day, without hearing the high-pitched wailings of the 16-year old harpies who haunt the back of the bus. I could crack open one of the ridiculous amounts of Library books stashed at home, and quietly read on my way to work, without being distracted by boys scrawling crap graffiti on the backs of chairs and trying to draw on each others faces.

I don’t mind kids being kids, in fact, I’d actually encourage it. I visibly beamed with pride when a bunch of the lads drew an incredibly anatomically correct cock (complete with anthropomorphic cheeky grin) on the steamed up windows last Autumn. Eavesdropping on two of the younger girls who always sit by the stairs discussing how one of the boys in their Geography class was always calling her ‘fat’ made me want to cuddle them up and tell them not to worry about it.


I will never know, nor understand. Perhaps that is the way it is meant to be.

God, I’m old.


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Tears and a curse

It’s no secret that I’m fond of a good old cry.

For me, it’s usually an instinctive reaction to an overwhelming emotion. A sudden rush of empathy for another human being,  desperation at bad news or literally crying with joy. I’m a soppy old cow really. Despite some tears being shed in embarassing circumstances*, I credit my predilection for a good old blub as one of my more endearing qualities. It’s cathartic, provides an emotional release in much the same way as riotous laughter (another of my favourite things) and by all accounts it’s good for you.

Jo Brand recently made a programme on crying which I caught on BBC Four. Whilst I agree on all accounts that the outpouring of tears now a staple of primetime talent shows leave me unmoved, I did get on the defensive. Crying is great!

Strangely enough, I’m struggling to remember the last time I had a good cry. I’ve shed a tear or two so far this year, most specifically at a friend’s appalling behaviour on a night out (my tear ducts lubricated by shots, no doubt). But I’ll confess it’s been a while since the floodgates properly opened, complete with cheast-heaving sobs, mascara-stained cheeks and a snotty nose.

I suppose it’s almost masochistic to want to make myself cry, but I fancy it. Thusly, tonight’s shopping will consist mainly of gin and then I will watch some chick flick guff to see if it inspires a good old sob. Then again, the last Harry Potter is out in July and I know that is going to ruin me. Sigh.



*I cried at Rugrats in Paris at the age of about 18. My younger brother sat and watched me with dismay.

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Are you happy with yourself?

2010 was just a stupid year. It really was. It began with hugely painful break-up of a relationship that only I was invested in and ended with various members of my family hospitalised for both trivial and life-threatening maladies. Argh.

I’ll concede that some lovely things did happen; post-break up adventures with friends I’d been guilty of neglecting, moving into my own place, weddings, more adventures in Crete, a birthday week of happiness and repeat visits to Scotland (always a winner in my book).

Other than that, I was of the opinion that 2010 and all the crap it brought could go fuck itself. Up until the day I took this photo:

My former landlords and now very lovely friends got married right at the beginning of August, during the summer I was utterly dreading. I spent a couple of days up in the Lakes for the occasion and it was just fabulous; the wedding, the ceilidh, the surroundings and the company. I sat in the grounds after the ceremony and had an overwhelming sensation that despite how awful things had been up until that point, everything would be okay. Everything was fine. If it wasn’t fine, I could just strap on a pair and make it fine.

2011 has had a much more positive start and for the first time in a while, I’m pretty content. Itching for adventure, but good. Happy almost. I stumbled across this photo this morning and the subsequent glow of happy has kept me cheerful all day. I don’t imagine it will last, I have a commute through Bracknell to look forward to after all.

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Deer Catastrophe Waitress

The deer! The deer are back!

Despite the mundanity of my day job, I work in a very lovely building with very lovely grounds. In these grounds, random animals often decide to take a stroll. Today, the deer made an appearance. I’m trying not to get too excited at their arrival. I mean, one could speculate that spotting them means the inevitability of spring, the promise of a new season and adventures the year has yet to bring me.

In reality I think it has just distracted me long enough from having to explain for the thousandth time to a dimwitted member, just how EXACTLY a Library works.


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Drinking gin with the telly on.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time this week being drunk.

And I ought to confess it has been fabulous.

The drinking began this week as dutch courage and finished as an almighty ‘fuck you’ to my working week.

Not since my heady student days have I spent a working week in the fug of a hangover, blearily stomping through each day only to liven up in the evening, ready to crack open the rum and sing at my altogether bad-influence flatmate. I obviously won’t make a habit of this – alcoholism isn’t the most becoming trait of a single lady. But it has been FUN.

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For the price of a night with me, you’ll be the village joke.

Sometimes, I look at myself and think “fucking hell, you are utterly ridiculous.”

Despite my predisposition to completely overthink every aspect of my life, I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say I do genuinely manage to stumble through life in the most chaotic way possible.

Take a recent example: rather than asking a gentlemen if he wanted to go for a drink sometime, I engineered a situation in which I would be in the area to make it all the more convenient. You know, rather than going out on a limb and just asking. The night before this meet up, I got completely ratarsed and stranded in east London, miles away from the destination of said drinks, which in turn was a place I genuinely had no other reason to be at.

Rather cleverly, I managed to repeat this again this weekend, which involved me sending very drunken texts, arranging an impromptu meeting and subsequently passing out with inordinate amounts of rum imbibed to combat my nervousness. I wake up with a hangover that would slay a dinosaur and approximately 45 minutes to make myself presentable. Not an enviable task, I assure you.

It turned out to be a pretty interesting day as it goes, but for some reason I do tend to make my life incredibly difficult, for no real reason.

However, it does mean that most aspects of my life make for great anecdotes – my love life in particular. I ought to chronicle them, pass them down the generations. My kids can look back and have a glimpse into the life of their complete buffoon of a mother.

Still, by most of my friends reckoning, I don’t think they’d have me any other way.

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Dream one, you had a whole lot of fun with a comedian

To put it bluntly, I’m a comedy whore.

I’ve always been a massive fan of British Comedy, whether stand-up, sketch show or sitcom. I was often pretty snobby about what I liked, but now I reckon it’d be easier to name what I hated, rather than list everything I like.

Over the past year I’ve been making a concerted effort to go and see more live comedy. I’ve really been restricting myself to more well-known comedians, as I feel guilty dragging other people to indulge in my own whims. Still, it’s been pretty good going. I’ve seen some excellent shows (Sean Lock, Josie Long) which left me gasping for air at the end; and some mediocre shows (Jason Manford; Frankie Boyle*) which weren’t quite worth the ticket price, but its a pleasant way to spend an evening.

Tonight, I had the pleasure of Mark Watson entertaining me at the Hexagon, and disappointed I was not. Such a brilliant evening, from the typing to the audience as people were filling the seats, to the threat of being chased, I spent the whole evening giggling like a loon. Mark’s bumbling demeanour is so incredibly endearing and watchable, so it’s no real surprise that he has a loyal following of “Watsonians” over on his blog

He’s now been steadily blogging everyday for a year now, which I’ve been avidly following and a very lovely little community has built up around it. I wouldn’t say I’m part of it (I’m too chronically shy to commit myself to anything like that) but because both he and his fans just seem SO NICE. I did something I wouldn’t ordinarily do.

I tweeted him.

To my utter fear and amusement, Mark mentioned this when starting the second half. I had basically said that I very much needed a wee, but since Mark had threatened to chase people who get up during the performance, I tweeted him to say would it be perverse if I saved up said wee, in the hope of being chased.

Clearly eager to set up a chase, he refused to reveal my identity, until the very end of the show. I had managed to not get up and wee, since that would be very embarassing indeed. While he mentioned he was impressed and disappointed that I had made it through, my flatmate started flailing her hands in my general direction, leading to a very public grilling on my need for the conveniences and various attempts from the audience and Mark to scare me/laugh me into weeing.

Redfaced from embarassment rather than holding back a flood of urine, the show ended. I weed, queued and met Mark, who dutifully signed my book, posed for a photo and was generally just as lovely as I had presumed. Besides, if I hadn’t have thought he’d be so nice, I never would have drawn attention to myself, or my useless bladder.

*Possible blog topic. Not that the internet hasn’t already commented on him before…

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