"She Must Try Harder"

Reports. Currently the bane of my existence.

Even you are not a teacher (and presumably most of you have not been born with unfortunate desire to spend the bulk of your waking hours coercing those hormone saturated little buggers into seeing further into the distance than which of their friends is currently posting pictures of themselves pouting at a camera on the Book of Faces) then l am sure you will remember the dreaded day that your report card would land with a doom laden thud on your doormat, or, worse still, when you would have to physically place the wretchedly thick envelope in your parent's hand. The day when you found out that your Science teacher had clocked every single time you had attempted to reshape your eyebrows with a Bunsen burner. That your English teacher had not considered the collection of notes to your best friend about how much you longed for Gregory Smythe to finally touch your breasts appropriate practice for your 'persuasive writing' coursework. That your P.E teacher thought that your attempt at creating a new sport, 'Netty', a combination of Netball and Rugby which generally resulted in broken noses, split lips, and your opponent suspended on a goal post, was less a moment of sporting genius than an example of not-so-subtle revenge on the school bitches. As a child, l generally spent those days hiding behind curtains or under sofa cushions until the inevitable tornado of my mother's anger had calmed. At least enough for her to have stopped searching for vacancies at the local nunneries.

But now, the power is my hands. Whilst the task of report writing is tedious in itself, particularly when it involves filling in an A5 sheet for over 330 pupils in the space of three weeks when 'Copy and Paste' is VERBOTEN by the powers above, l do truly take great pleasure in being able to praise those students who have worked hard, and to write derisory comments about those who l have had thoughts about setting alight since the start of the school year. The hardest to write about are the ones who l can't actually remember having ever taught. Even when l look up the photo, l could swear on my life they have never set foot in my classroom.Which is either a sign of the early onset of Alzheimers or that the child has spent a entire year of art lessons disguised as a table leg.

It doesn't matter whether the report you are writing is good, bad, or indifferent, every teacher has to learn the art of communicating their true thoughts and feelings in a phraseology and language that is subtle enough to pass muster by not only the school management, but also the parents themselves. Indeed, writing, "Little Johnny apparently loses the ability to control his hands the minute he picks up a pencil" or "It is a shame that the effort that Gertrude puts in to the application of her drag-like make-up is not translated into her use of paint" is likely to end up in an unfortunate court case, and an irate bull-dog of a father eating your liver for breakfast. Neither pleasant nor desirable, nor a good career move.

So, instead, you use phrases such as the following: "She has made huge progress this year" (Transl: She has mastered the ability to draw a straight line); "He is often distracted in lessons" (Transl: Every lesson he spends more time looking at girl's breasts than his work); "To improve she must use neater pencil marks" (Transl: Her work looks as if she has shoved a pencil in her nostril and attempted to draw with it); and, "He does not put his full effort into achieving his full potential in tasks" (Transl: Despite taping a pencil to his fingers, sitting him facing a blank wall, and forcing him to listen to Cheryl Cole on repeat, he still refuses to do any work whatsoever). The last one is not true. Honest. At least, it was System of a Down, not Cheryl Cole. And his ears only bled a little.

In fact, my parents have kept all my report cards, and  l recently re-read them in a completely different light. In my mind, l was a pupil beloved of all my teachers, even my History teacher who took every excuse to 'jokingly' knock me on the head with a hardback book. According to these reports, it is lucky that l escaped school with my limbs intact, and without ever have been hung from a gym ladder and repeatedly beaten with a hockey stick.

On that note, l am going to stop being distracted by memories of Gregory Smythe and the overwhelming stench of his father's Old Spice, cease listening to Frank Turner on repeat and dreaming about Dave Grohl, and am definitely going to finish writing these damned reports.  See Ma? I am trying MUCH harder.

 *Okay, just ONE more listen...

Things l now know.

It has been a while since l last wrote a blog post. It was under another name, in what feels like another life. I shall spare you the gruesome, gut wrenching details, safe to say that the episode in question shall simply be known as 'The Heartbreak'.

A positive event then, and l could ramble on in some life affirming, pump your fist in the air, 'my cancer is cured and l want to make sweet love to every flower l happen upon' type of way. Unfortunately, all that malarkey makes me want to regurgitate my chicken chow mein and form a model of Dante's seventh circle of hell. No, the hours l have spent piecing myself back together are worthy of Humpty Dumpty himself, and have taught me only one thing: basic survival. Therefore, as the Ray Mears of broken hearts, l am about to selflessly share a few tips that may help you through, should you end up in a similar, unfortunate, and unexpected situation.

1.) I am not one for promoting binge drinking as such, but you will need alcohol. In excessive amounts. You will dance into oblivion and sink into a sweet sleep. You will imagine yourself as Grace Kelly amidst adoring suitors. You will be numbed from the heartache and sit on kerb sides stealing strangers' kebabs at 3am. You will rediscover the laughter you thought had been erased from your bank of emotions. It will feel fantastic. But you must be prepared for the feelings of self loathing the next morning, as you peel yourself off a random bathroom floor with one shoe missing completely and the other sailing on a sea of vomit in the toilet bowl, whilst you clutch a cone to your chest on which you have drawn a remarkable (in its abstract qualities) likeness to your ex.

2.) You will need a soundtrack to your pain. You won't be able to listen to any of the music you already own as it will most likely provoke unwanted and rather torturous memories of happier times. So you will find songs that sum up your current emotional state succinctly, listen to them/sing along to them endlessly until someone around you has the sense to misplace the CD and your I-pod in the recycling bin. Under the dead cat and mouldering teabags.

3.) Take up a violent sport. Squash, hockey, rugby, it doesn't matter which. I took up rugby. The reasons are threefold: firstly, the adrenalin and fear of having your body crushed by another human being who is frankly the size and weight of an iron water tank instantly outweigh any other concerns your brain might be occupied with; secondly, the inevitable physical pain of broken bones means that although you are still crying into your breakfast first thing in the morning, it is lessened by the screams of pain you utter as you attempt to scoop soggy Weetabix into your mouth with shattered fingers; and thirdly, the amount of drugs thrust into your arms by the ladies of the NHS to relieve the afore mentioned pain also induce a peaceful sleep, free from the anxiety dreams of attacking your former lover with a dustbin lid and a vacuum cleaner in a quite inappropriate, yet strangely satisfying, manner.

4.) In your vulnerable and tear stained state, it might seems callous to utter the words 'Internet Dating', but l heartily recommend it as therapy. It is a quick fix solution to one's otherwise battered and bruised ego. You can flirt shamelessly via email, and the second party does not need to know that at that precise moment you are sobbing along to 'Mumford and Sons' (or whatever your music choice), wearing your ex's hoodie (still trying to locate his 'smell' in the armpits) and chocolate stained jogging bottoms, sipping lukewarm cup-a-soup as you have lost all will to live like a human being and not as an animal. You are not interested, of course, but  the attention will DO YOU GOOD, as my mother used to say about liver and onions. If you do it well, you may even get a free meal and/or trip to the cinema to boot. Then you can delete the emails and start all over again with a new victim. Mercenary? Most definitely. But curative nonetheless.

5.) My final tip is to throw yourself into an addiction to trash television. There is plenty to choose from: Strictly Come Dancing, X -Factor, One Tree Hill, Desperate Housewives, Glee, Waterloo Road, Skins, This way is Essex, Gossip Girl. The list is endless. You need it. It will rot your brain but the desire to escape the seeming mire of your own life can only be satisfied vicariously through the mewlings of Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell as they bitch fight about Cher's ability to give blowjobs to the floor staff. If nothing else, it will give you something to distract the supermarket checkout staff with as they insist on commenting on the food in your basket. "Chocolate. Wine. Crisps. Tissues. DVD. Broken Heart is it?".

Indeed it is, my dear, indeed it is.