One Year On

Still I miss you

Still I think of you

Still I feel it

Still I wait

For the day

I will not

Unforgotten.

Tomorrow it will be three years.

The date is a scar, the loss remains poignant.

I sometimes wish that l could

Feel the weight of you in my arms

Smell the warmth of your skin

Watch you sleep.

I often wonder

What your future would have held

Whether you would have had my dark eyes or his green

My offbeat humour or his sense of injustice.

I know that

Everything l had would have been yours

That love and pride would have consumed me

But that l didn't have the strength to give you them then.

Cherished as my first, you maybe my only

Always remembered, a shadow ever loved

Irreplaceable.

Tomorrow l will shed your tears

Flowers on an empty grave.

"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...

Packing Pandora's Box.

I have moved house countless times in my life. So familiar is the task of packing and unpacking boxes and bags that l think l could take it up as a profession. Indeed, l would not be surprised to hear that the staff at the local supermarket think l have developed some kind of cardboard fetish, or that l am attempting to reconstruct the Eiffel Tower in my back garden. My house is starting to resemble either an illegal sweat shop, or the hovel of a sculptor. The boxes may even be starting to reproduce.

Some of these house moves have been ones of joy, and others have been performed under duress and amidst floods of tears. Some have involved a convoy of cars filled to the brim with boxes, some with merely a suitcase and a toothbrush.

All have had their moments. The family cat escaping from its basket in the front of the car and scaring my mother out of her wits. Swinging a van sharply around a tight corner to hear a mirror smashing against a set of drawers which consequently meant l was picking shards of glass out of my knickers for weeks. Trying to pass off the 'buzzing' sound in one box to a friend as an electric toothbrush, which was awkward and embarrassing for us both.

The impending move is bitter sweet. Packing away objects that were part of a different existence. Re-reading old letters. Sorting through books and films that provoked week long discussions. Knowing that these memories may never be unpacked. The joy of treasured moments, and the sadness of the loss.

However. There is often a moment when, sifting through your belongings, you re-discover a long lost love.

Turn up the volume. Grab some bubble wrap. Leap about in your slippers. Enjoy.