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...

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

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.

Diamanté, tight leather trousers and excessive hair gel.

I apologise in advance for the Euro-centric theme to this post, specifically for those of you who hail from lands further away than, say, Azerbaijan (No idea if that is a real country? It IS. I know, l was surprised too. And had to Google the spelling.). However, l suggest you read on. It will be a cultural enlightenment for you. Honest.

One Saturday night every May sees me seated in front of a television screen for 4 hours solid, wearing a Union Jack leotard and cape ensemble, complete with tattoos of Our Royals on each butt cheek, waving a flag in one hand whilst sporadically cramming themed snacks into my slacked jawed mouth. Not, as l am sure you would naturally infer from my description, to watch a Royal wedding, nor to support our hard-working but ultimately trophy-phobic sports teams. No. It is SO much better. It is the Eurovision Song Contest.

It is the night when 25 out of 43 countries that come under the currently drooping umbrella of Europe send their best singers to compete in a song contest. One song, specially composed for the night, and voted for (hopefully) by the rest of the continent. Considering the hype, you may suppose that the prize is something breathtaking. Perhaps all the money the IMF has to offer. But no, they win the honour of hosting the event the following year. With all the expense it incurs. Although, on reflection, that may be why Greece put forward a duo of a  rapper whose speech seemed hindered by the fact that his tongue had grown into his cheek and a manboy who had a voice with emotive qualities of a horny peacock attempting to seduce a reluctant hen. Using a vuvuzela. Attached to a loud hailer.

But l digress. For those of you unfamiliar with this whole event, here follows a brief breakdown:

Two presenters - Usually ex-singers or presenters who have been dragged out of a cupboard somewhere. Fake-tanned, botox-ed, and hair dried to within an each of their lives, and told to 'be funny'. They aren't. Ever. They inevitably make you want to do what you did with your Barbie and Ken, ie., remove their limbs and replace them in the wrong holes, tie them together head to toe, and put them in a piping hot oven. Or was that just me?

Performers - A selection of Europe's finest musicians, apparently. Which may be why the charts are dominated by artists from the US of A. From guitar strumming, checked jacket wearing octogenarians, to teenagers bouncing across a laser-lit stage wearing enough diamanté and neon to blind an astronaut, to those 'alternative' kids who wear cheap leather and lots of angst ridden eye-liner but at the end of the night like nothing more than a cup of tea and a hug from their mum. Each of them giving their all on a stage with a backdrop of flashing lights, cheap graphics, and a crowd of flag waving, badly dressed (think sandals and socks) Europeans. They perform songs of the quality that make you feel like you are being aurally abused, whatever the genre they choose. The staging and costumes are the standard of your average infant school talent show - all glitter, glue, sugar paper and staple guns. They can be split into three categories. Either the countries are going for the straight female/gay vote by sending out their hunkiest young males wearing unrealistically tight trousers that will rip at the hint of a lunge and enough hair gel to rebuild Japan. On the other hand, the straight male/gay female vote is won by placing a selection of nubile young females on stage who wear dresses that, what they lack in material, make up for in adhesiveness. The third category is the nationalist vote, which can only be won by singers who had hits centuries ago, sing about 'the good ol' times' in their national language, and who, when the camera pans backstage, have their hand up the skirt of one of the afore mentioned young ladies.

Crowd - As described above. Oh, also, they can't dance. Or maybe that is unfair, perhaps moving two seconds behind the beat, one leg in the opposite direction of the other, whilst waving ones hands manically counts as dancing.

Commentator - An Irish comedian who bitches about outfits, presenters, performers, and crowd like xenophobia never existed. Basically, like the majority of the UK population, pretends disdain about the whole event whilst secretly obsessing about it, knowing all the statistics, and phone voting for Jedward to a loss of over £100. Don't judge me. I love the fact they can't even jump in time.

Representatives - After the performances have taken place each country nominates someone (usually a minor celebrity) to give the results of the votes in that particular country, They have one minute to do this. Without exception, each one attempts to catch the eye of a movie producer in that time. Women with hair the height of the Eiffel Tower, men with over-plucked eyebrows. This will be their one moment of fame. Literally. The next time they receive that much attention will be when they are trying to sell incontinence pads on the local shopping channel.

Add in some fireworks, and there you have it. This is what passes for entertainment in this eccentric continent.

You need it n your life.

But as a word of advice, stay away from the themed snacks. Apparently roast beef, Camembert and schnitzel pizza followed by Edam, paella and beetroot flavoured goulash does nothing for your digestive system. Who knew?

P.S - Azerbaijan won. That's how l know it exists.

Singing the Blues.

The holiday blues. If l could play more than three chords on the guitar without my fingers seizing up into arthritic balls, and if l could sing without seemingly summoning all the male cats in the neighbourhood for a cheeky mating session, then l would be a-strumming and warbling my woes to any unlucky souls who happened to pass my way.

Yet, here l sit in a shorts, a little tanned, salt on my skin, attempting to lift my spirits by learning the dance routine to Lady GaGa's 'Telephone' from You Tube. No, l have not decided on a new career as a backing dancer. I have no spatial awareness, and controlling all my limbs at the same time without causing carnage requires a huge amount of concentration. In truth, the only work l would get would be in village pantomimes where Prince Charming is played by the local boss-eyed, moon-faced, cowpat-wielding idiot. And then only if l wore a donkey costume and sat in a bath of horse shit and baked beans for the entire show.  But l digress. In truth, the tan came from a bottle (Non-sticky and Streak Free? I think not my friend. I have tide marks across my body that resemble some sort of tribal war paint. I fear that exposing my inner thighs, forearms, or feet in public may inadvertently start the Third World War). And l am merely salty from a rather strenuous game of squash. Too much information? I care not. As for La Gaga? When darkness falls l shall turn the music up loud, turn off the lights off, and dance around my kitchen wearing nothing but rubber gloves and a pair of Onion Goggles waving my glow-stick App around like l just don't care. My own version of singing the blues, as it were.

For, from tonight l will not be:

1.) Going to bed in the early hours of the morning after watching back to back episodes of The Only Way is Essex, laughing hilariously at the total ignorance and idiocy of perma-tanned, fake breasted, gleaming toothed residents. While simultaneously wondering what cup size would suit me. Would 40HH be too much? It could only be a bonus on the rugby field. Either as a distraction or as extra padding.

2.) Drinking alcohol as if in training for a member of the AA. I may try and convince myself (and most people around me) that l am attempting a version of Super Size Me with cocktails instead of the Golden Arches, however, the lack of film crew or video equipment usually gives the game away. Apparently the video function on the phone doesn't count. Who knew?

3.) Greatly increasing the likelihood of a hose pipe ban this summer by embracing fully the luxuriousness of non-time restricted baths and showers. A shower to wake up, followed by a bath for a couple of hours whilst l watch a film on the laptop l have precariously balanced on the toilet lid. Dangerous, l know, but l find the threat of electrocution oddly liberating. Then a trip to the gym to play in the jacuzzi, steam room, and another shower. Then, if alcohol has not been consumed, a bath is required to enable one to fall easily into slumber. On the downside, l seem to have developed the puckered skin of an 80 year old seasoned smoker. Not a look that rocks with denim hot pants and bikini tops. There has been a audible sound of retching as l stroll down the street.

4.) Living a WAG lifestyle on a vastly inferior income. You know it is serious when the global institution that is your bank deigns to call you up personally. At 4am. On Easter Sunday. Not to offer you a golden Easter Egg, as you might assume. No. Quote - " Could you tell me the amount of your last purchase and the name of the place it occurred?". " £145 in the Drunken Monkey you say? And your card has not been stolen? Okay, lets set up an appointment with your bank manager". Slightly unnerving, particularly when drinking mojito straight out of a jug.

5.) Waking up sprawled across a duvet on a friend's sofa bed, smiling smugly as l listened to them getting grumpily ready for work, nursing the Sky Plus remote in my hand, poised for that morning's omnibus of LA Ink. Mind you, nor will l be receiving a swift but well aimed kick to the head as l casually demand a mug of tea and slice of buttered toast before they leave the house.

These things will become a distant memory, replaced by the political debate at 6am, walking to and from work, e-mails, meetings, canteen sandwiches and half drunk cups of  instant coffee. I am not sure l can take it.  So, if the news is full of a teacher who insisted on all of her pupils painting themselves orange and performing the 'Telephone' dance on the school field whilst blowing whistles and waving glowsticks, you will know what happened. The blues got the better of me.

They think it's all over.

The view in my full length mirror has just given me a heart tremor the like of which Scrooge must have had when shown his Christmas Future. Attired in a cornflower blue flannelette nightdress, hand knitted rose pink bed jacket, pop socks, and orthopaedic tartan slippers l stared at my 80 year old reflection with a sense of trepidation. The deep-set fear that my Agent Provocateur lace briefs are soon going to be replaced by giant white cotton longjohns lined with three layers of incontinence pads and a pair of plastic pants has set in. Bugger.

Now, logically, this hideous apparition of my aged self is unlikely to become reality for a few years yet. I am only thirty-four this year. I still get asked for ID when buying alcoholic substances, and feel a smug sense of satisfaction when the salesperson recoils in shock at my DOB. My pupils still think l am 24 (oh, the innocence of youth).  I write all of this nonchalantly, as if my age does not bother me in the least. In reality, l am shitting enough proverbial bricks to build a brand new pyramid. I scour my head for hints of grey. I count the lines around my eyes. I attempt the 'pencil test' to see if my breasts and buttocks are still as pert as they once were. Yes, I have suddenly found myself as the target customer for magical creams that fend off wrinkles with swords and bombs laced with secret ingredients that have more 'Oxy's than l ever thought possible, hair colourings that promise to cover those dead follicles with a blanket of fluorescent red, and hydrochloric acid treatments that will eventually peel away all your skin to reveal your baby faced skull underneath. And, yes, I have read 'Bad Science', l do understand that most of these potions are ineffective, but still l find myself stood in the aisle at Boots, wide-eyed and drooling at the seductive promises the packaging offers me. And as l leave with a shamefully clanking bag, l shudder as l try and hide from the truth: l want eternal youth. Or at least the appearance of it.

Inevitably, one has to accept that preventing the ageing process is as impossible as preventing a starved cheetah from tearing a dead carcass limb from limb. No matter how many nights l sleep hanging upside down from my bedrooms door, how much duck tape l use to fold my face back over my ears, or how many layers of acrylic paint l plaster over my skin, those pesky lines will appear whether l like it or not. I can clench my buttock muscles until l have to hobble around as if l have rocks in my knickers; l could string my breasts up around my neck with dental floss; if l bench pressed enough weights to give me the muscles of a steroid munching gym bunny, the collagen in my skin would still leak, unwanted, into the atmosphere. The nights l have spent painstakingly applying whitewash to each and every tooth are essentially worthless, for they will end up replaced by a set of  clacking dentures that will have to be removed after every meal and picked over for scraps. Although, secretly, l am quite looking forward to giving small children nightmares with my falsies by hiding them in their bed. Or in their porridge. 

 

So, as l sit here in my nightie and slippers, pointlessly injecting my forehead with a potent mixture of toilet bleach and bicarbonate of soda (the effervescent qualities pump out those fine lines miraculously), l am forced to accept the fact that slowly, but surely, l will morph into a mad old lady. I will be wrinkled and lined; l will push a trolley laden with cuddly toys and royal paraphernalia around town; l will attempt to lame young people with my walking stick; I will wave my Bus Pass fiercely as elbow my way to the front of bus queues; l will live in a junk filled house that smells vaguely of cat piss and rotten half-eaten ready meals; l will wear low cut leopard print blouses that expose my wrinkled sagging breasts, with pop socks, tartan slippers, fuschia lipstick and blue mascara; and l will consider it my right to stand on street corners and verbally abuse passers-by as l glug milk from a bottle, stolen from a passing milk float. 

But for now, l will cling on to my youth as tightly as possible. And hope that when l start to resemble Barbara Cartland, someone will put me down.