Monthly Archives: November 2006
I’m fed up of pretending to teach and basically being an expensive cover supervisor. I do not see the point in really bothering very much to crack the whip and make the kids get through the work set; quite frequently I figure keeping them inside the four walls of the classroom is an accomplishment in itself.
When kids ask me if I was perfect at school when I complain about their behaviour I always answer in the negative- I didn’t do my homework every time, I used to slack off, etc. However, I would never take the piss out of a teacher, try and fuck with them and get away with stuff and I would always show respect to whomever was teaching me. I would also not need to be asked six times to be quiet.
It pisses me off to think that there will be teachers who think I have no classroom control abilities- Its simply because i’m supply and do not know the kids or the system. I often find it tough to keep kids quiet and on task so I basically give up; there’s only so many times you should have to wait for the kids to stop their conversations so that you can speak- ZERO.
If it’s the choice between letting the kids talk in the background whilst I try and explain and having to stop and wait every 20 seconds or so eventually I go with the former. Then of course the kids who were engrossed in their own conversations repeatedly ask what they are supposed to be doing as they don’t know, I get annoyed at their rudeness and my repetition and my anger levels go up- although I am very conscious to keep it in check and patiently explain the task the three or more times they need to attempt to grasp it.
So if i’m going to avoid the situation where I spend 30-45 minutes out of an hour lesson just trying to get through the explanation and tell the kids what to do, I give up. The way I see it is that it’s only one day so what’s the point? Let them talk all lesson if they want, let them finish their homework. They don’t pay any attention to me because i’m supply, female and young- “Aw. She’s only a couple a years older than us!” (try ten years, you waste-of-space) so what the fuck can I really do?
I took a day off today so I could visit my old placement school to work on their website. I was essentially working for free as I didn’t accomplish very much of what I set out to do (not through any fault of my own) which was frustrating. I’m spending at least fourty-five minutes tomorrow morning travelling to a school filled with fairly crap kids when I could be spending ten minutes travelling to “supervise” crap children. A lettings agency has fucked me over.
I couldn’t find the Topshop underwear I was after. I’m getting a sneaking feeling I care for MW#1 in a way that he does not care for me, and there’s not much I can do about it apart from feel glum and think too much.
It’s all bollocks, bollocks I tell you.
I call SHENANIGANS.
Fuck this. Fuck wondering if, when and why.
It’s making me fucking mad. And it’s making me swear a fucking lot.
I’m going to mentally put my fingers in my ears and go “la la la” and pretend I do not care. That’s right, you heard me, I DO NOT CARE.
P.S. Of course I am lying. I am just fed up of being left.
For all of youze in the know- things are back on track with me health wise. Party. With painkillers. WOO. Anyway, I had a shite day at a school today but I ended it taking my first bath at Caversham Princesses’ (i’m more of a shower person usually)…
I stretched out in the hot water and sank in until my face was an island in the foam. I ran my fingers slowly along the furrows of my dampened hair. I massaged the arches of my feet and I leisurely meandered my body brush across my sodden skin.
I listened to the radio, I delighted in some delicious poetry, I giggled, I pondered, I relaxed. Le sigh.
After feeling fairly glum about things the poetry renewed my faith in humanity and recharged my brain. I mean, ultimately I may be left twisting but reading poetry about the weight of a man or the delights of kissing whilst slowly turning red in the hot rose and geranium-scented liquid was wonderful. Just a half hour at total ease. Gah.
Hot Zombie poledancer lick my flesh: UNDOREDOsqueezed.mov [from]
I spent a good half hour or so snorting with hi-larity over the Christmas gift edition of Style in the Sunday Times this weekend. Ridiculousness at every turn- £141,000 for a necklace or £700 for a giant crystal and gold pineapple anyone?
However, there were some lovely things to behold within, which is why I kept re-reading the bloody thing, or should I say kept staring at the pictures. Things of such improbable beauty like these Topshop undercrackers (which I shall hopefully be perusing on Wednesday) and this oak leaf ring commission by Robinson Pelham:
I don’t really have anyone to wear the beauteous undercrackers for apart from my bad self nor do I have the £1500+ for the ring nor do I really wear jewellery. Muy excellentay…
Man trouble is a most amusing guide to the reasoning behind not buying males the presents you think they’d like (but if I had the cash I would definitely buy him the Stormtrooper outfit assault on his manhood or nay), whilst The Gentleman’s guide to scanties is an excellent guide for steering those males away from buying underwear that is purely for them.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy dressing to titillate (or as best I can manage) but it’s just nice to receive a present that is designed to make you feel comfortable and give you the best chance at being teh hawt as possible, rather than spending time wandering exactly what bits of your anatomy are hanging out where. The unwrapping is the reward for the gift giver if the gift is suitable…
More lingerie fun: Anatomy of desire and After Dark
How I got to this webpage I really cannot recall. All I can say is it’s perfectly safe for work as it consists of pictures of online bingo players. Yes, it’s laughing at people. I’m a bad person.
Main Street Bingo Hall
Clips of all the James Bond title sequences and Saul Bass title sequences [via]
Still haven’t seen Casino Royale. Or sorted out the non-happenings with MW#1.
I have however been spending some quality time in the bathroom multitasking doing the twist and grinding whilst outfitted with Zen, pants and vest to Everlast (Black Jesus), Ludacris (LFSGGW) and Kelis (Bossy).
I have also been sliding about to Sinatra and Julie London. Her version of “Ev’ry Time I Say Goodbye” is a song I want to slow dance to under a softly spinning ceiling fan in Hawai’i; “Go Slow” what I want to listen to as I’m swept through the dark in my lover’s automobile. Sigh.
As I write this I am drinking a tequila sunrise made from jose cuervo, orange juice and grapefruit squash. Klassy.
“Sex junkie looking for a dealer/You can play the leper girl and I can play the healer”
Unemployed again as yesterday but i’m feeling less achy and for once in my life less whiney. Honest. I can climb into bed and snuggle down with Patrick and feel less anxious.
This is probably because I got to have some quality sleep when I went back to bed after i’d given up on a job for the day, I got mental and emotional stimulation looking at leaves when I walked to buy stuff for tea (the colours and shapes you see) and I had a pie for lunch (and no puking)…
Quite an uneventful day but a day where life felt good, even if I was unemployed, technically homeless and getting excited about leaves.
The strange life and loves of a Monky. Occupational hazard.
I am currently pondering my internal workings, the remainders of my birthday cake on the plate next to me and the whole “situation” with everyone’s favourite manwhore. The internal workings issue is not for public consumption (those who need to know, know), the last slice of cake is being consumed as we speak and well, it’s not like the MW#1 issue is going anywhere.
Busy attempting to keep everything light and breezy and non-committal in my head and give space to the point I might appear disinterested. I focus on staying resolutely undemanding, detached, not bothered- but of course I have a few demands I think are plain human and not those of the stalker I am always paranoid I could appear, am not detached and am bothered…
I’m tired, concerned, my bones ache…
Have now moved away from the cake and on to the delights of springbok biltong whilst I attempt to understand my tax situation and fill in forms… bye bye birthday… I’m just feeling extra self-indulgent and grumpy this evening. For once it’s not “just the way my face hangs”- the permanent frown etched on my face really is something to beware of.
Here is a poem that I think comes as close to literary and artistic perfection as is possible:
Now Love that dissolves the limbs shakes me,
Sweetly bitter unvanquishable creeping thing.
It’s written by the Sappho and of all the poetry I have read so far it is the one piece of text I think important enough to consider getting inked into my skin. It is beautiful.
Wondrous poetry ahoy in Robot Wisdom’s Solace: Textbook of Romantic Psychology
Bed. Patrick. Hug.
So turning 26 was not overly eventful but was a good day nonetheless. I got to see all my nearest and dearest and eat some pie and drink some drink. I also got to throw up after three of said drinks and was home with Patrick by 11.45. Boo.
Another of my own parties that I leave early… I suck. The highlight of the evening was of course seeing everyone; it’s rare that so many of my friends get together in one place and it always reminds me of just how awesome they all are and how lucky I am to have them as confidants.
Caversham Princess; Bobby Convey; M; Nitram and associated randoms; McCy; Leia Ewok Village; Woods, Tiger and MW#1… sigh. Just brilliant, the lot of them.
I am crap at keeping in touch with people I know; maybe I need to have more soirées to corral all my friends…
Looking back at previous birthday shenanigans the evening was fairly genius even if it did lack a birthday kiss (as per usual), the incomparable MW#1-2, lesbians & poppers and some skinned knuckles.
I also received a vast and wondrous selection of gifts, cards and hugs… all ridiculously generous. Bless you all.
Things have been rather quiet of late here. I’ve got much better access to the internets, have met up with Dave, been to more schools and have many things floating about in my head to rant about but for various reasons I won’t post up my internal ravings.
I’m just tired I suppose and am concerned about a few things. Basically, i’m feeling fractious and require pacifying. Eugh.
Birthday outing Friday- I must decide on what to wear. I’m open to suggestions…
Dear me… two glasses of red and i’m feeling warm and tactile…
When I feel clean and warm and dry when i’m in fresh clothes and recently showered I enjoy sweeping my hands across the skin that covers my hips and waist. The area of fat that gently swells over my pelvis that’s streaked with translucent strands of cellulite and pokes out inappropriately when i bend over- the not quite right area- well, it feels kinda good.
I guess its like my stomach- never going to win any prizes for muscularity or beauty, but feels good to the touch. Soft and giving. At odds with the lack of stereotypical femininity I suppose; the softer reality of what I try and be, the failure.
It’s not failure of course, nor is it weakness; it’s just a part of me that needs a little attention and acceptance. So I can say I don’t think my fat is overly bad and that I quite like the feel of it (if not the look); I enjoy the feel of my body pretty much from my head to my toes. As long as I am able to move and feel I will always carry with me something that will comfort. Hooray.
Two glasses… I’m a cheap date as everyone knows…
Due to my alcohol consumption i’ve come to the conclusion that i’ve not been doing enough kissing of late. I mean “proper” kissing, where you delight in the texture and pressure and variety of sensations lips can produce. Deep or shallow, light or rough, one lip or t’other etc etc. I’m always so surprised when I receive a passing kiss i’ve barely time to reciprocate…
I suppose i’m just lacking the passionate kiss, the kiss where you ignore whatever is going on around you and your partner, where you close your eyes and take deep breaths and take in the smell of the warm body pressing against you.
It’s different from sex- it’s different intimacy-wise I suppose. Two glasses of wine and i’m all “woe is me” because I get the feeling that I need to be kissed… dork-o-rama. Of course, I don’t just want the kissing- I want the fingers through my hair and fingers gently sliding across my hips…
Woe is me…
This is a card made for me a couple of days ago by one of my ex-sixth formers who was concerned at my lack of a significant other.
He made it wallet-sized for easy reference and laminated it with tape so that when I “stood on street corners it would be okay”.
The thin fabric shifts gently as he runs his fingers over the folds
As he pulls it onto his body Up over his head
it grows warm from
his internal workings
secure within soft embrace
Supple barrier fighting existence of other
Of sun and storm, of labour and loss
He buries his face
filling his senses with scent not quite his own.
Entwined, unmoving under scarlet swathe
fabric swells with each intake of breath,
Falling slowly across immovable contours.
He murmurs sorrows deep into the fibre,
Keeps them safe between warp and weft.
The blanket sighs soothingly, contentedly
As he reflexively pulls her closer
Further away from arctic climes
Cocooned under my blanket on the sofa
Wearing my cunning lumberjack hat and fluffy socks
Skin smelling of MW#1
Getting this spell checked by Firefox 2.0 as I type
Getting an enormous sense of achievement on customising Firefox (and again)
Listening to Justin asking me what would I do if he wrote me a love note that made me smile with every word he wrote and Ludacris threatening to put me in the back seat of the ‘Llac again and rip off the Magnum packagin’
Flinching as fireworks burst outside my window
Squinting as my contacts begin to dry
Another late night call to MW#1’s… when I got there he and the whiskey he had imbibed told me that I didn’t give myself enough credit for how pretty I was; things were another story upon waking.
Hmmm… MW#1 curled up resting his weary head in my lap…