"All change please, this train has reached its destination."

I have an extremely short attention span. So short l spend my 40 minute commute to work constantly switching between radio stations to avoid any chatter whilst eating toast and gawking at other bleary eyed drivers. All at 70mph. In the dark. It will therefore come as no surprise that my 17-odd year long driving history is littered with minor (and not quite so minor) accidents. I shall soon run out of insurance companies that are willing to insure me for less than a bar of gold.

I just get bored easily. Always have done. Hence the 3 month hiatus in writing. I have nothing new to say, bad or good. I could regale you with tales of learning to surf (more time was spent learning how to get sand out of various orifices), consumption of gin (walking into a glass door in the middle of a packed bar), and rugby injuries (a hand that turned entirely black for 2 weeks), but it would be nothing that l have not said before. In truth, my life is pleasant and l am happy, but l have never been content with the status quo.

When l felt like this as a child my mother thrust me into an overall, sent me out with my wellies on, and told me l was not allowed home until tea-time. I inevitably would end up late, covered in mud, periodically twitching from hours spent playing with electric fences.

As a teenager this boredom was alleviated by altering my appearance. Cutting my hair, dying it bright colours, getting a tattoo, piercing various parts of my anatomy until l got so desperate for change l shaved off all of my hair. I looked like a satanic Buddhist monk (?). My mother refused to acknowledge me for an entire week.

The changes were more drastic in my early twenties. When that familiar feeling of ennui settled on my shoulder I would quit my job, pack up my bag, grab a passport, and travel, seeking adventure and challenge in unfamiliar faces and landscapes. Until I ended up in Australia, bankrupt with no work permit, and having to crawl back to the UK with my tail between my legs.

Indeed, becoming a teacher was in no small part due to my need for constant stimulation (*snigger*) and challenge. But now my feet are beginning to itch again (metaphorically speaking. No fungal infections here thank you). My life lacks a specific direction, and l feel motionless. But I can smell change in the air, and l don't know what, where, or when, but l am ready for it.

It just won't be shaving off my hair.

And the winner is....

I must make a confession. One month ago l committed a crime more abhorrent than any l have committed before. At least, not since l eliminated an entire nest of mice with a glue gun and glitter. But that is another story. No, this was much worse.

 I had a moment of empathy for Gwyneth Paltrow. *If you need a vomit break, please go now*

Yes, for a brief moment l felt l had a millimetre of common ground with that smug, Madonna-befriending, yoga-mat toting, macro-whatever diet munching, wife of the whining Chris Martin. Specifically, her nauseating Oscar moment.

Now, it was not that l had a significant wardrobe oversight, and wore a corset designed for an ample couple of breasticles as opposed to a couple of enlarged nipples. Either eat some meat, Gwynnie, or invest in a gel bra. Nor did l subject millions of viewers to a sobbing,  rambling, rather desperate 'speech' that resulted in the same millions of viewers reaching for the nearest bottle of morphine to numb the pain.

I did, however, receive my first ever sports award. As one who was always chosen last for the team at school, this was an overwhelming event. So much so that l guarded my shield fiercely for the rest of the evening, growling and baring my teeth at anyone who dared to come near. It was my bedfellow for the night, and remains so to this day. I may even buy it a special red velvet cushion. Apparently l am supposed to give it back next year. I may emigrate instead.

But it must be my year. For a couple of days ago, l received another award, from the lovely Frisky Virgin herself.

This is a dangerous award for someone who enjoys a power trip as much as l. The reason l became a teacher was the opportunity to meld young minds on a daily basis. It still amuses me to 'embellish' certain information within the classroom, and for it to be returned, often verbatim,  in 30 pieces of homework. If you ever bump into someone in a few years time who is convinced that flamingos only have one leg, or will argue that polar bears are Grizzly bears that have been interbred with the DNA of a chameleon, it is likely they have been taught by myself.

But l digress. This award means l have the power to change three (only THREE?) things to make this world a better place. Realistically, it would take me years to get this world ship shape and bristol fashion, but l suppose l have to start somewhere.

1.) 'My Bad'. Anyone uttering this phrase should be placed in stocks and have soiled nappies aimed at their open mouths with giant catapults. I have no idea where this phrase originated, but it is usually said in an offhand, abrasive manner that implies an apology that is absent of any sincerity whatsoever. But that is not my main bug bear. It is that it makes no sense. My bad what? My bad cooking? My bad piano playing? My bad smelling fungal infection? Either finish the sentence properly or learn how to apologise in the correct manner.

2.) Caravans. In this day and age, l see no point to caravans. They are a somewhat unsatisfactory compromise between tents and hotels. Flimsy walls, uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, an inescapable 'toilet' odour, minimal cooking facilities, and cold showers. They cause more traffic jams than any other vehicle. When parked en masse they distort the natural order of nature. They need to be annihilated. I suggest employing teams of ninjas to push them off the cliff tops on which they are perched, one by one. This should send out the appropriate message.

3.) Bad tattoos. Admittedly, this may be subjective, but since l am currently wearing the Overlord cape l am making the rules. Any persons found with tattoos on their chest, calves, thighs, neck, face, fingers, breasts,stomach or buttocks will be forced to wear plasters (band aids for you American citizens) over said body art, lest it be offensive to the Overlord's eyes. There shall also be restrictions on the subject matter. As this list of banned items is rather extensive, and includes everything from names of children to dolphins, all tattoo artists will be appointed by her Overlord, and will be required to submit all designs for approval. It should be noted that anything deemed 'Celtic' will automatically be burnt and a scream of frustration will be heard across the land.

Small changes, but not insignificant.

Oh, and apparently l am supposed to pass this award on too. So, lucky subjects, here goes. Although it will do you good to remember the afore mentioned story of the mice. I have glue guns and glitter a-plenty for those who forget who the TRUE Overlord is.

Have fun:

Mr Condescending

For Everything, A Reason

Left Alone With A Full Moon

Sarcastically Bitter

The Barreness

You Don't Need A Cock To Rock