Oooh! Intrigue and mystery! We like intrigue...

You seem a girl after my own heart, looking at the entry on Feb 1st. I might have said this before. Mm gin and tonic. Hello! - random person who you don't know and who hasn't had ANY pancakes yet :(

Tres exciting, mais oui? (And that's yer actual French!) The answer of course, oh mystery visitor, is to acquire one egg, half a pint of milk (full-fat all the way) and 4oz of plain flour, whizz together, fry delicately, and Robert's your mother's brother.

It's GCSE mock exam week, and I had the pleasure of invigilating in the main school hall for a lesson today. Invigilation for internal exams is bearable because we're allowed to get on with other work - in this case, unsurprisingly, marking - but it was so bitterly cold that by the end of 50 minutes I'd turned into an ice-cube. To be fair, I'm not particularly cubic; perhaps I would be better described as an "ice-blob".

Either way, I'd like to be used to chill gin and tonic, but it had better be a big glass.

pancake excesses? mmmmmm

Mmmm it was indeed (both on Saturday and tonight) although I've eaten so much I had to undo the waistband on my jeans. Bleurgh!

Next you'll be buying a full version of AutoCAD (v.expensive) just so you can own a dongle! Caz

Nah, I'll be following my Uncle Pete's advice and looking here instead!

And now... bed.

Pah, pah and more pah! Technology is not my friend; Orange customer services are not my knights in shining armour. I have used my whizzy new phone to take a fantastic picture of this evening's work, and I was going to post it here with a comedy caption. Alas, it's not to be. I'm afraid you're missing out; I, however, will continue chortling about it for some time to come, I suspect, and once the damn thing's working properly, I shall inflict it upon you when you're least expecting it.

I'm off now to top up my pancake level, which has been gradually falling after Saturday's excesses. Hurrah!

An unexpected boon - even though it is a Tuesday afternoon, I'm not doing netball! I'll be marking exam papers instead, which doesn't sound much more exciting until you realise that it can take place indoors with a big pot of tea alongside. Hmmm...

After a certain amount of prompting this weekend, I continue my epic about internet dating. I suspect that this is a bad thing to do, but it all amuses me, so - Katie Melua in the background and beer in hand - I'm off...

The whole internet dating thing's all a bit nerve-wracking: you have 300 words in which to prostitute yourself, and then you have to hope that others manage to read between the lines, are able to pick up the nuances in your description, can read you as you're meant to be read. Luckily, I have enough practice reading kids' work to identify the real person behind the writing. I'm not sure this is a good thing though.

To cynical ol' me, profiles fall into three categories. The first group are those whose profiles might as well read

I'm not bothered about looks, it's personality that counts (although all I want is a woman who's blonde, tall, thin, with huge breasts so don't bother applying unless you hit three out of these criteria)

. You can be sure that a lot of the people who specify their ideal woman's size/shape are not quite 10/10 on the physical perfection scale themselves, and co-incidentally will also be the people who describe themselves as "very attractive". Strange, that.

The second group are most nicely described as "desperate", in a "most women tend to run away screaming loudly" sort of way. There's no one thing that identifies these blokes, although they have a tendency to finish their profiles with the words "please drop me a line!", "please, please get in touch" or "pretty please send me a message". If it's about reading between the lines, these blokes' profiles are often written in double-line spacing.

The third subsection are the genuine men who are simultaneously embarrassed by having to resort to internet dating ("I've never done this before, but my mate said it works, so I thought I'd give it a go...") but also committed enough to write an interesting, witty profile. Quite often these are the men who stand out, who have thought it through, who set themselves apart from the crowd. There are certainly some nice people out there, provided you can take 300 words as an accurate guide to someone's personality.

Having deciphered some of the code used in the profiles, the next stage is identifying your favourites. In some cases, this is not hard. In other cases it may be a quirky comment, or simply a certain turn of phrase that pushes someone to the front of the queue. Photographs help, of course, although I myself am too cowardly to add my own photo. What makes this whole selection process worse, however, is the fact that the objects of your affection can see that they have been placed on your favourite list; it's all a bit too traumatic for me to cope with. What happens if your favourites don't add you to *their* 'favourite' list? Are you then entitled to believe that you're worthless? Or is it just a case that they're member of the superficial brigade who believe that woman with short, dark hair are not as worthy as tall blondes? To be honest, the whole "whose favourite list am I on" malarky is a tad disturbing; I never knew that weirdos found me so attractive until I did internet dating!

Don't get me wrong, I've exchanged emails with some nice blokeys - one or two of whom I may well meet - but I'm still not convinced about this as a method of meeting new people. I still have 18 days left of my extended, paid-for membership left, after which time I might just let it drift quietly off. I might stick to snogging Wendy's mates after all...! :-)

Ladies and gentlemen, I am contemplating buying a dongle.

And what's more, I'm not just considering it because I like its name!

It's the first day of Summer Timetable, which means that afternoon lessons now take place before games, rather than vice versa. It's all to do with the light evenings, apparently, although I think it's just a cunning ploy to stop me napping after lunch. In honour of the official start of summer (at least in school terms!) I wore my new girlie clothes, and very smart I looked too; so much so that kids kept asking if I was off anywhere important!

I'm struggling to get my new phone to do the exciting things that I want it to: technology yet again defeats me. One day, I keep telling myself, I will get it all sorted out; until that point I'll just keep pressing buttons at random and see what happens.

I have a huge amount of paperwork to do, but - all being well - it will be sorted this evening and I will then be far less stressed. Fingers crossed...

Last night I was mostly eating pancakes. Today I shall be mostly smirking.

:-)

Perambulating round the house during the last lesson before lunch today, I discovered a posse of sixth-form watching some DVD about the making of Lord of the Rings. We started talking about the film and the relative attractiveness of the various characters ("Still the prettiest") as they appeared on the screen.

A. (who's not seen the film): Ooh - who's that?
E.: That's Sam and Frodo.
Me: Sam's moving in for a snog...
All the girls: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
E.: No - they're just friends.
Me: Eurm... have you seen the way that Sam glances longingly at Frodo?!
E.: No - they're good friends.
Me: I bet you don't look at your friends like that.

[all eyes move to the TV, where - luckily - Sam is fluttering his eyelids at Frodo in a particularly homoerotic way]

E.: Hmmm... I'd never thought of it before, but now you come to mention it...

Mua-ha-ha!! That's just destroyed the film for them: never again will they be able to watch it without thinking of that! Tomorrow I will point them in the direction of the Very Secret Diaries and their corruption will be complete! :-)

Last night was another eventful night on duty. Much as I love the constant change and challenge of school, sometimes I long for a more mundane life.

A new phone has been acquired (number still the same), but I've not been able to get any of the phone numbers off the old sim card. I've not got them written down anywhere either.

I am a wally.

I took my phone to the resident phone-experts (a.k.a. the sixth form in the House) and explained the situation. One took my sim-card in an attempt to retrieve my numbers, while another attacked my phone's innards with a pen, and then with a key (they're a very techically minded lot!). Neither attempt was successful. For a brief moment, the combination of dodgy repair moves and shocking language paid off, and we got it working; I managed to write down 3 numbers and it died again.

Quite how the conversation got from phones to the menopause and KY Jelly I have no idea, but it did and it was very amusing. What japes!

Just on a day when it couldn't possibly get any worse, my phone's broken. I took the cover off and something fell out of it. This item is made of plastic and metal and looks like it could be an intergral part of the phone-turning-on mechanism. Fuck shit wank bollocks: that's how crap I'm feeling right now.

Lunch in school is a formal affair: each child returns to their House to eat while staff move from House to House. It's all highly civilised, and generally finishes with coffee for the teachers on the Housemaster/Housemistress' private side. Thursdays is my day for eating at one of the boys' Houses, and after lunch the Housemaster's children and their friends ran in (seeing as they hadve a decent length half-term, not some glorified weekend). One girl saw me, stopped dead in her tracks, pointed and said,

"That's the mad leader from Rainbows!"

Yargh! My disguise is blown!

This afternoon I should have been marking, but I went for an adventure instead. This evening I should have been marking, but I tried to fix my computer instead. Tonight I should be sleeping, but I'll be doing my marking instead. Chance of a an early night: diminishing quickly.

Today I shall be mostly having inpromptu luncheon parties.

Thoughts drifting inwards:

I'm just giggling at your entry

I assume this refers to my whittering about dating, not any other sort of entry. Moving swiftly on before those of you with dirty minds begin to get intrigued...

Girlie clothes? more details needed. Does this mean skirts?

It tommorrow and still no word of how you found yourself in Next? Caz (who has to buy a girlie dress before Aug)

It does indeed mean skirts, or at least, one skirt, plus jacket and top. What make this skirt even more girlie than any other skirt that I own is that it is short. Well, not short in most people's eyes, but by my standards it's miniscule. All I need now is some courage to wear it in public!

A couple of weeks ago, my sixth form assured me that internet dating was the way forwards. "You should try it, Miss E: it's free to sign up and it's sooo funny," said one girl, and - because it was a Friday morning and nearing the end of the lesson and the topic was particularly boring - I let her continue. It was nothing to do with my desire to know more about the whole thing, you understand, because (as you will all know) I am by no means desperate. Of course not. I have more social engagements than an engaged person who is very social. Honest. Moving on swiftly...

I decided that there may be a modicum of truth in what my sixth form said and asked around those who know about such things; the results of my survey were quite promising, and the advice offered was very useful. With this in mind, I decided to sign up. The site I'd chosen let guests have a look at a few profiles, to whet the appetite as it were. There were no obvious weirdos in the sample, so - feeling reassured - I took the plunge and hit the "Join now!" button.

I thought it would be quite straightforward: after all, how hard can it be to write a bit about yourself? I was wrong. The first hurdle was choosing a user-name. This says much about how people would like to be perceived, and possibly says more about their personality than they would care to reveal. Let's face it: what would you expect from someone if they call themselves "Sexy_chick" or "Horny_grrrl"? You might as well call yourself "Over-inflated_Ego" or "I'm_Really_A_Minger". Thinking of a suitable tag for myself was almost impossible. After all, I suspect I'm unlikely to get much interest if I'm called "Cynical_Git" or "Desperate_Teacher". And whilst I may attract attention if I go down the physical description route ("Massive_Knockers") I suspect it may not be the sort of bloke I'm quite looking for!

Eventually I decided on something suitable, breathed a sigh of relief and clicked on the "Next" button. I then had to enter information on a variety of topics, using little drop-down lists. "Phew!" thought I, "Much easier!" Oh no! Height - fine; age - no problems; employment and income - a doddle; appearance - ah. The options available were "average", "attractive" and "very attractive". Now, call me cyncial if you will, but you can guess what I'll be thinking as I search through the profiles - "very attractive" is likely to translate directly to "arrogant" while "average" may as well be "minger". The only option has to be "attractive", so that's what I chose, regardless of how true it is or isn't. (And - on a related tangent - do people really have much idea of how attractive they are? Isn't it all a tad subjective?)

The final part of the sign-up process involves a blank box, with the instruction "describe yourself and your ideal partner". No longer are there helpful little drop-down lists wtih options to select; the only helpful suggestion is "Get this bit right - it's the most important bit"; no pressure, but the page is a blank canvas just waiting for your pen picture. Aaargh! What to write?! Something pithy and unconventional; words portraying my eloquence and wit, and my modesty too. In the end I compromised:

I like: being busy; lying on the sofa; trying new things; ordering the same meal each time; my job; my free time; being with friends; being alone; walking on hilltops; sitting in pubs; raucous laughter; quiet smirks; being me; life. I'm not so keen on: whingers; apostrophes in the wrong place; possessive partners. The above is an official entry in the "Crappest Personal Ad Competition 2004"

Not bad for 5 minutes' thinking gone midnight when all I wanted to do was go to bed. So that was it - the trap was set, the bait had been laid: now all I had to do was wait.

It didn't take long.

I'd had no intention of paying any sort of fee, but then the first email arrived: "you have 2 new messages" Excitement!! The only drawback is the need to pay to read them. Pah! Unable to bear the suspense any longer out came the plastic, and a moment later the messages were there on my screen.

hi.i am quite shy till i get to know someone. i like 4x4 vehicles and exploreing the countryside in them.i am also interested in the wiccan religion& like visiting stone circles & megaliths.

Hey how u doing? we seem to have same intrests, i am from derby , but work in notts, i love going out, walking and being outside, and keeping fit and going to cinema too and 10 pin bowling and play fottie to but like lots cuddles 2, :-) i am 26 male and i drive, mail me back if u like the sound of me, i am not looking for perfection just sumone to make me complete, is that you? come on mail me back its valatines day xxx

My heart sank. Given my pedantic fastidiousness about spelling and punctuation, it seemed I was destined to failure. How to reply without causing offence?

"Thanks for your message but you are clearly a fool who hasn't bothered to read my profile in depth."

Hmmm.... maybe not. Try again:

"Has no-one ever told you how annoying txt-speak is in proper writing? No? Then let me take the opportunity"

Again, unlikely to be a winner. Instead, I have to confess, I just ignored them. Youch. Luckily, the next few messages were properly spelt and punctuated and the whole thing seemed much better. Of these, and of profiles, more next time - I have to go and lie down in a darkened room now to recover from writing such an epic. Sorry, eyes!

I was going to write, in depth, about my experiences so far with internet dating, but I was kidnapped by aliens, dragged round Ikea and forced to buy girlie clothes in Next. Tomorrow, I promise you...

Claire's doing some encouragement:

74 miles to go and only the second half of term to do them in!! Go for it Love CMT

I did another 3 miles on Sunday, but even so I've got one hell of a lot of walking to get done. Eeek! Better get my boots on! :-)

The weekend started in fairly conventional fashion with lessons and a parents' meeting, but the kids all ran away at lunchtime, leaving me free to spend the afternoon playing pool, drinking beer and feeding money into the jukebox like there's no tomorrow. It was good, as was the evening's curry and conversation, and the Sunday lounging. Last night was spent at a colleague's for dinner, and then back here for drinks, deep'n'meaningful conversation and a lazy Monday. A fine start to the holiday, methinks!

With reference to my new box o'er there (I assume!):

Spiffy. Looks exactly the same as before. :)

Indeed it does: I have talented friends! Only four lessons, one parents' meeting, one sleep session and lots of tidying-up to go before it's the holiday: let the good times commence!

Why is it that I get hungry after drinking? Right now I could devour a horse and all its stablemates. Also its unstable mates too.

Chocolate monitor?!! What a quality job! :)

Indeed it was.

hope your bum thaws out

Luckily it has; thanks for enquiring!

The box o'er there used to be powered by some free webhosting thingy but it caused all sorts of confusion, and so Tim has kindly written me a new one and very whizzy it is too. I bow down in homage to his spoddiness. Apparently it's going to cost me 6 beers per year; I reckon that's a bargain!

Today was the day of the school's annual Steeplechase, which in a world without euphemism would be known as "the evil cross-country race over very muddy fields which the bastard sadist teachers make you run, while they stand on a corner near the end and shout out cheery encouragement. Grrr." Last year I was chocolate monitor; this year I got to be one of the sadist teachers lining the route. It was all good, clean fun, but my bum still hasn't thawed out.

In the department we have a system of observations set up so we all visit another teacher and watch one of their lessons. I had a colleague in my Upper Sixth lesson this morning, and we were talking about strategic planning for businesses, using McDonald's strategic direction mapping technique: all very exciting stuff, as you can well imagine. I decided to use supermarkets for my example. Just imagine the scene: the outline map is projected on the board; I'm taking each supermarket in turn and marking it in the appropriate position on the map; I'm waving my arms round energetically; it's all going really well. And then my braincell explodes. I get confused and forget how to speak. I refer to Lidl and Aldi as "Addl". Bugger.

This is my second early morning in a row. Bleurgh!

I've been letting things slip a little of late blogwise. I haven't been able to bring myself to write about the inspection; I've got comments stacked up and not replied to; I've been a bit crap all round, really. I have, however, now regained my inner balance and poise* and am feeling up to it once more. Sadly, there's a large pile of marking to be overcome first, which is growing at what seems like an exponential rate. I promise you: once that's done, I'll be a bit more diligent.

* Some of you may be surprised to discover that I have poise and balance, but I do. They're just very well hidden.

It's been a good day: lounging in bed reading; getting passport photos that look vaguely recognisable; listening to a concert by some phenomonal string players. Sadly, this schedule hasn't included any marking as yet, so that's my evening occupied!

The best-laid plans, and all that. Hey ho!

Am feeling a little more invigorated today: slightly less nondescript and slightly more positive. Tonight, I break free and head off to the Big Bad City of Brum for a bit of a boogie; tomorrow I intend to spend all day in bed recovering!

I suspect I'm ailing for something. I've had an opened bar of Dairy Milk on the kitchen table for three days, and have been able to eat no more than three squares without feeling sick. It's a bad sign when my chocolate tolerance drops... how will I get through my marking now?!

We're in the middle of an inspection into care standards at school. It's all a bit much to write about but I'm sleepy-tired and feel like a deflated balloon.

It's been an amusing day. Hectic, mind you, but amusing.

Amusing thing number 1:
One of my GCSE classes created some quiz cards at the end of last term: a Business Studies question and answer on one side; a non-business question/answer on the reverse. We'd done a business question and I turned the card over to read: "What is Miss E's first name?" You should have heard the answers, even after I gave them the initial:
Me: It begins with an M
Them: Madge?
Me: No!
Them: Maggie?
Me: No!
Them: Margarietta?
Me: No!
Them: Eurm... Miss?
Me: Noooo!
Them: Matron?
Me: NOOOO!
(I had to tell them in the end, just so we could get back to the excitement of ratio analysis)

Amusing thing number 2:
There was something. Honest. I just can't remember what it was. I suspect it have something to do with renaming certain ratios as the Current Bun and the Roast, but I'm not quite sure. Poor lil' braincell! I really must go to bed. G'night.

Words that get up my nose:

alot
payed
companys

Grrrr....

(I'm not even going to mention apostrophes and semi-colons)

Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be... late-night marking, helped by tea. Admittedly it's not late at night just yet, but I suspect it might be by the time I'm through.

Am feeling smug, proud and exhausted from nervous tension: my House won the harmony competition, and really camped up the unison, getting better-than-expected comments from the adjudicator. This was followed by a party involving pizza, cake and Tangfastics... what more could any girl wish for on a Saturday night?! (Don't answer that, please!)

Tonight is the night of the house music competitions; nothing, of course, to do with house music, and all to do with singing in unison and harmony. Every member of the school will be representing their House in a unison rendition of a song of their choice, whilst a select, tuneful few from each House will be competing for the harmony cup. Every year this competition causes all sorts of stress; every year the performances in the unison prelim round are less-than-perfect; every year the kids pull out all of the stops and sing their hearts out for the actual event. I'm looking forward to this evening.

I feel as though a brick wall has jumped out unexpectedly and hit me hard. Bleurgh.

Drug of the day: Neurofen Cold and Flu tablets
Drink of the day: Tea, by the gallon
Delivery of the day: Learn to Love your Moles via Amazon

Bdoing!

Eurgh! (via me-ish)

I've been pondering the authorities' lack of foresight regarding this 'ere weather, and note that Anna expresses her thoughts on this matter far better than I could. This village is riddled with pathways and jitties, all of which have been covered in a thick sheet of ice since yesterday because no-one had the forethought to put down grit until it was far too late. The pavements were treacherous, and - whilst carefully picking my way down to my classroom - I overheard the following:

Girl 1: Look at all this black ice.
Girl 2: Isn't that the ice you shouldn't eat?
Girl 1: No - you're thinking of yellow ice.

Eurgh!

This morning the sun shone on the village, reflecting off white snow. Everywhere was bathed in the pale blue light that comes with cloudless midwinter days. I walked to my classroom admiring the effect of the snow on trees, roofs, hedgerows. Everywhere looked different.

It took me two minutes to realise that this was because I'd forgotten to put on my glasses.

The snowballs have started: teenagers shrug off their usual facade of cool and run squealling down the lane, gloves and scarves flying.

The snow continues to fall and shows no sign of abating.

Why am I stuck indoors marking?!

Good Idea CMT! So I'm guessing Mad's study will start in the metropolis of Burton... but where will be her next destination? Caz (who feels of the Pompey ones S/sea Waitrose top & Comm Rd Tesco bottom on the totty scale)

A mystery indeed. Am currently negotiating all sorts of jaunts to all sorts of places, both near and far, so will draw up a more detailed methodology as time progresses. After all, it's far more exciting than marking! :-)

Sensible suggestions of our time - am very excited about the prospect of this:

How about you do the remaining 83 miles in supermarkets comparing the talent. Your readers will wait eagerly for your conclusions CMT

We came 4th in the pub quiz, then walked out to discover snow! Am very excited.

Late night shopping at Tesco... you may as well hang a sign around your neck saying "Single and desperate"... I'm speaking from my own experience. Ash.

Oh. Is wearing that sign a bad idea...?!

Blimey - comments-a-plenty!

Agree with Mr Pink on the poshness of Waitrose shoppers (but they do good Carrot Cake, my southsea weakness). As for Mr Avacardo he may have a number from the original Mr Avagadro. Arrh the curse of the rest of my chem group was mole calculations (but I got them pretty much first time). Caz

So what is Mr Pink's view on Tesco/ Safeway/ Aldi & lidl? It sounds as if he's been going shopping for ladies! Caz

We don't have Waitrose up north. Do I have to move south in search of totty?

Perhaps this is where I'm going wrong too, although I'm not sure I could cope with being any further south - I thought that moving from Darlo to Derby was bad enough!

Pinky lives! And what's more, here's what he wrote:

Of course different supermarkets have different qualities of talent. Morrisons' is for a bit of rough, Sainsbury's, in my experience, is quite studenty and new mums, whilst Waitrose, posh totty galore! Pinky

I shall bear this in mind when planning the next shopping expedition!

Supermarket totty-spotting is obviously more common than I thought:

Don't forget the frozen meal section for eyeing up suitable males - Caz

I'm not allowed in the frozen food aisle: I drool too much when passing the ice-cream section. On a food-related thread:

6x10^23 bits thats avacardos number......................

Blimey. I didn't know anything about Chemistry at the start of this term, and now... why, my life has been revolutionised!

Sadly it's not snowed, and the sun is shining down, so I'm doomed to umpire netball this afternoon, followed by walking (gotta get those miles up soon!), a meeting, tea and then a pub quiz: busy, busy, busy!

The whole idea of supermarkets is to go through a checkout with a fit person.

And there was me thinking that supermarkets were the place that I could buy milk, ribena and Private Eye. Obviously I was wrong!

Tim writes:

A mole is an easy way of saying 6x10^23 bits. Thats a lot of bits, so mole is a good word.

See - if I were let loose on the sciences, I'd just be tempted to call it a whopper, or a squndlerun, or maybe a flibbletigrob; naming a big number after a garden animal is not something that would cross my mind. I suspect this is more evidence that I'm destined not to be a scientist.

From the box:

Walk him up the stairs...

I assume this refers to Fatso, not the Sainsbury's employee; chance of either would be a fine thing!

You know you're plumbing the depths of desperation when you catch yourself eyeing up the check-out blokey at Sainsbury's.

As I loaded up my blog page, I though, "Hmmm, better get walking: I'm falling behind." (and yes - I do use colons in my thought processes). And then, lo and behold, this appeared in my inbox:

Walk more miles!!! Then drink more port. Or can Fatso run your miles for you in his wheel? Love CMT

I consider myself told good 'n' proper, although I'm not sure I need any encouragement to drink more! Sadly Fatso-miles are unable to count towards the total, and I have netball every day this week, so quite when I'm going to walk is a little challenging at the moment!

Burns' night: wine; food; poems.

Walking home: frost; glistening; crunching; steaming breath.

Now: sleepy; bed.

A mate of mine is a teacher at a comprehensive in the middle of Birmingham. We often chat about school, and the differences between her place and mine. I think it really sank home today, though, when I told her I was off to serve dinner in the House. All she could say was:

God - it's all very oxbridge at your place innit?! Serve dinner? It's more of a greasy spoon diner at our place!

And the more I think about it, the more I realise she's right. Not about the greasy spoon diner - although I'm sure she could be right - nor even about Oxbridge in particular, but certainly school is a microcosm of Durham.

There's a strong loyalty to one's House, and the Houses all have a different atmosphere and stereotype. Teaching is done in departments, and the streets are heaving in the five minutes between lessons as people scurry from place to place. The village is small enough to recognise and greet people as you see them on a daily basis, even though you have no idea who they are. The school is tolerated by the locals, but very occasionally trouble rears its head, usually from those who resent this transient population taking over the village for 35 weeks a year and acting as if they own the place. It's a place steeped in history, and removing the school from the village, or vice versa, would destroy much of the atmosphere. There's a sense of history, of tradition, of purpose; perhaps this explains why I feel so much at home here.

Sunday duty in the House begins with cooked breakfast, and then 45 minutes in chapel. This is made bearable because I get to wear my academic hood and gown, and therefore get envious looks from the girls who'd like to be allowed to wear fake fur to chapel.

Today, it's a nice morning to be up: clear, pale blue sky; a smattering of frost; birds tweeting their little socks off (well - no birds here are wearing socks: QED). Shame I've got a whopper pile of marking to complete.

Seems I'm damned, after all. Hey ho!

After a non-stop day that's included teaching, marking, a parents' meeting and a one-to-one tutorial session, and with the prospect of a day on duty tomorrow, I'm ready for some excitement. My only problem will be finding someone to be excited with: everyone here seems to be busy. All I want to do is some dodgy dancing to some cheesy music, and I'm damned if I'm going to stay in and recreate disco scenes in my own living room. Pah!

Someone writes:

Chemistry isn't hard :)

Maybe not for you, but it's too much for my little brain to cope with: I once picked up an A-level Chemistry paper when invigilating an exam, and recognised no more than three of the words on the page. I struggle with maths and equations, and anyone who can manipulate formulae to work out moles* gets my respect!

* This is - I assume - a sort of pet for chemists. Must play havoc with their lawns though.

Via the box o'er there:

So how's your reputation after the chemistry homework? Intact?

Possibly not suffering as badly as I expected. The conversations went summat like this:
Girl: Please can you help with my Chemistry?
Me: Errr - no. I know nothing about Chemistry
Girl: That's OK- nor do I!

And about Fatso, Tom says:

Take a picture of him, with flash: that ought t' sort 'im out. Tom

Are you suggesting that I flash at my hamster?! I hope not! No innocent animal deserves that sort of torture!

I'm being stared at by Fatso, and he's freaking me out. Weird wee beastie!

I wandered round the House at the start of tonight's duty; the first two girls I spoke to asked me to help with their Chemistry and the third wanted a hand with some quadratic equations. The braincell's feeling very battered now!

Many, many years ago I was a regular gig-goer, heading off to the Civic Hall in Wolverhampton as frequently as my £2.50-a-week pocket money would allow. We watched all sorts: loud bands, quiet bands, big ensembles, solo acts, unknowns and big names (well - biggish names - after all, Wolvo's Civic Hall is hardly the number one stopping point for the giants of Rawk Moosic). One memorable night we watched the Sultans of Ping - very loud, raw, bouncy, drums-and-banging-bassline, great lyrics - and ever since then I've been after a copy of Teenage Drug, the album they were promoting at the time. I only ever saw it in shops when I was broke; they'd always sold out when I was flush. Eventually it slipped out of print (well - the CD equivalent) and I was left bereft. Reluctant to part with 25 smackers (the asking price on ebay) I thought I was destined to remain alone. The other day, however, I found a copy whilst mooching through amazon, for the most reasonable price of £14. It arrived today, and it's on repeat play very loud and I'm grinning like a maniac and dancing very wildly. Waaaaaaa!!

I've been on duty this evening, and - as ever - I got asked to help with homework on business studies (which I know a little about) and physics (a subject about which I know nothing). However, with the aid of a textbook and some logical thinking, I solved even the physics questions. Although I feel smug about accurately using portions of the braincell that haven't been troubled for 11 years, I worry that this has laid me open to all sorts of other subject requests on duty nights, with the girls believing that I am invincible at solving all types of prep work riddles. One day that reputation will be blown to shreds with the innocent words, "Miss, can you help with my Chemistry, please?"

Today's things that make me go mmmm...

• The waft of aftershave that eddies past three seconds after a bloke walks by
• The way that Boasters have huge chocolate chunks in really crispy crumbly biscuit
• The smell of coal being burned on an open fire
• Meetings that are quick but productive*

* Not quite in the same mmmm category as Boasters or aftershave, but pleasing nonetheless, and equally as likely to lead to grinning-induced cheekache

The singing obviously wasn't loud enough or good enough, so it stayed dry. The match, however, was good, and the coach journey painless, so perhaps there's a demi-god somewhere who's taking pity on me.

Prayer of the reluctant netball coach

If there's anyone up there, in charge of - y'know - important things, then, eurm, please let it carry on raining. I'll sing if that'll help.

Bloody computer's having a spaz-attack. All I want to do is print off some worksheets and it keeps freezing up. Grrr...

I am turning into the sort of PE teacher I've always hated - all whistle-blowing and shouting. I feel out of my depth on the netball court, and it shows in coaching sessions. The sooner I can find a reason to drop girls' games, the better.

Yesterday: teaching, coach journeys, a netball match, an unplanned sortie to the pub for a couple of cheeky pints, cat-napping on the sofa, a dinner party with lots of wine and good conversation (so much for my early night!)

Today: sleeping.

Feel much better now.

Have laughed 'til my tummy hurts at this. Mua-ha-ha!!

Just as I thought...

Marmite is a gift from the gods. Mmmm...

Tomorrow I shall be part of The Sex Team, spending all day delivering sex education (or PHSE when using the correct terminology). It's a little late, so I'm off to do some background reading...

So where is Port Mad? Hope its somewhere warm and sunny that needs me to do some work. - Caz

I'd like it to be somewhere sunny too. Or with torrential rain. Or very snowy. Just not a place where the weather can't make up its mind and faffs about being grey and cloudy.

And should I ever be installing a harbour, I shall be sure to ask Caz's advice first!

You're port mad, you are. Haha! See that? I made a joke by accident. Port Mad? Geddit? Ah, never mind.

I won't.

A few days ago, the Madmobile went off for its annual wash, valet and poke-around-under-the-bonnet-with-an-oily-rag. It was - as ever - full of debris and fallout from the past 6 months, so those boys in overalls had quite some job facing them. I've only driven a couple of times since then, but there has been a distinct rattling noise coming from the vicinity of the boot. Uh-oh, I thought. A bit of investigative driving later, and I realised that the rattling was more of a chinking: turns out to be two bottles of port that had been found nestling amongst the rubbish. Perhaps this is a sign that I should clean out my car more often.

First up, sage words from the Doctor:

Principles are like ethics: People often describe others as having none, when what they mean is that they are different from theirs. "We intend to sell arms to any foreign government that can pay us" IS an ethical foreign policy. Tom

Indeedy: am agreed with that one! Cheers for this

You go girl! Sounds like a fab challenge. If you succeed I'll, erm, applaude!

Cheers! And this too:

Hmm, is the milage being independantly verified? If not, the old "One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, one hundred!" springs to mind ;-) If it is being verified - you fool! (for signing up)

Ah - 'tis the demon drink - it makes me do things I'd never normally do. Mind you, I am feeling better for a few hours out in the fresh air, so maybe it's a blessing in disguise! And finally:

Glad to see you think Marmite is evil too! Its Urgh! Caz

My thoughts exactly, although I'm sure there are others out there who'd disagree.

I am a woman of principle.

No - don't laugh. No - not even you, Mrs Johns. It's true:

I won't ever refuse food (unless it's got marmite in it), and I don't run. Ever.*

However, in a foolish drunken moment at Sunday's staff party (like, I don't have many of them) I agreed to do the Parker 100 with a colleague. The Parker 100 was established in memory of one of the teachers here, and is awarded to anyone running 100 miles in the course of Lent Term (that's the time between Christmas and Easter, for those of you who don't have silly names for your time periods).

Obviously the "running" aspect left me concerned for a while, until I negotiated a compromise - I'm going to walk it. It's day 2 already, and there's a tally o'er there... please give me a kick if it's not going up quick enough!

* Except when coerced to play netball

Today's just been made better by a delivery from my credit card's favourite online shop. By now, they've built up a pretty good picture of the sort of stuff I like (chilled funky jazzy CDs, coupled with an unusual and eclectic taste in books) and the times at which I purchase them (late at night, often after a drink or two). Based on that information, they make (generally) good recommendations, some of which I buy, but many of which I already own.

Today's parcel will have upset all that: a script of Terry Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters, a video of Rex the Runt, a CD called Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi compiled by the Thievery Corporation, a CD of Round the Horne and a copy of The City of God against the Pagans by St Augustine. How could any recommendation system predict anything meaningful based on that jumble? Apart, that is, from that epic, well-known bestseller Become A Jazz-Listening Theologian With A Penchant For Clever Animated Plasticene And Old Radio Shows In Just TEN Days...

Over the past 24 hours the new term has settled gently across the village. The Houses have turned from hulking shadows to vast sources of light and noise; the smell of school food lingers in the streets; the pavements are filled with kids clutching files and books. The morning began with an abrupt start, with the nasty realisation that hitting the snooze button would only lead to tears, with the hunt for suits and shoes not worn since last year. At the moment, everyone is fresh: the beginning of term colds have yet to descend; the teachers are still smiling; the kids yet to complain about the excess of homework that they've been given. It's good to be back.

The early night didn't arrive quite as intended but I spent the time cooking magnificent pasta-n-slop for Jen, so they were hours well-used. I suspect that I'm now too full to sleep, but I'll give it a damn good go anyway...

Working hard went well (after a computer reboot and some nice words and gentle caresses to the ADSL modem to get the radio playing again!), as did the meetings and post-holiday catch-up. One more meeting to go, at 9pm, then an early night methinks. My, this term's going to be mighty exciting if it continues in this way... < /irony >

Have finally dragged myself from the Pit of Duvet and Pillows, with the intention of working hard in the 2 hours remaining before the staff meeting. However, I can't get Secret Agent radio to play on this damned computer, and I'm in severe need of aural stimulation... eeek!

Oh dear. 'Tis late, but feels later; am drunk, but feel drunker. Parties for the teaching staff are a good idea, but SOOO not a good idea. It has been an evening of contradictions, but of obvious truths. Have been wearing my lovely plum-coloured jumper but am now too hot: it went beautifully with my hair but now clashes with my wine-reddened face. Tomorrow, I get to sleep in: our first official engagement is at 5pm. However, I still have my Upper 6th planning to do, and marking to complete, so may contemplate getting up earlier; but maybe not.

It's late, sooo laaate. Or early, depending on your perspective. Have eaten, drank and been merry. Now am sleepy. Off to bed...

Over at Mal's, I read this story with concern. Having read pulp friction, I feel far more at ease.

I went out in Birmingham last night, and although I used the cunning ploy of driving so I don't feel hungover now, I'm still pretty sleepy. Which is why, when my mother phoned me at 8.30am, the conversation went something like this:

Mum: Oh - you're awake
Me: Eurgh
Mum: I wasn't expecting you to be up this early
Me: Eurgh
Mum: It's just your dad wants to print something in Publisher and you've not installed it on my computer. You've still got the CD there haven't you?
Me: Eurgh... eurgh...

And so on for another five minutes, which included talk about printer drivers, installation of the aforementioned programme and her friend's son's A-level choices. Eurgh. Am off to drink tea.

There I was, innocently mooching through the internet - as one does on a Friday afternoon when one's not excited about the prospect of planning lessons - when I discovered this. It's very amusing, but probably not work safe.

Not chocolate, as it turns out, but port, port and more port... a 9am start tomorrow is looking doubtful. Have fun...

I feel very crap. There are lots of things that I should be doing that I'm not doing. I think the rollercoaster of life has just taken a plunge towards the ground. Perhaps this calls for chocolate...

I currently have a man. In the kitchen. Admittedly he's a temporary fixture, and he'll disappear just as soon as he's finished fixing my gas boiler, but he's a man nonetheless. *And* I'm not going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, so that's an added bonus. Hurrah!

(It sort of makes up for the fact that I "forgot" to wake up until 11am. There goes another productive morning - sorry, Ian!)

Achievements of the day:

• Writing three schemes of work for this term, and associated prep-sheets
  
• Balancing on the work surfaces to create dust-gunk-free cupboard tops
  
• Using a silly voice to answer the phone - and scaring three of my colleagues in the process
  
• Persuading someone to go out on the lash with his mates, even though it's a week night.

Of the four, I'm most proud of the latter, although I suspect it didn't take much persuasion. Maybe I could become a full-time corrupter?! :-)

Before disappearing off on my Christmas holiday jaunts I promised Ian, a colleague, that we would spend this last week of the holidays being 'normal' people: working 9 to 5, having lunch together in a designated lunch hour, going out to pubs n clubs at the weekend.

I'm beginning to regret this.

Admittedly I've done lots of preparation and have eaten more sensibly than normal, but I'm struggling with the 9am starts and I'm finding it hard to resist the lure of Private Eye/the newspaper/tidying up/the internet/wandering aimlessly/gazing out of the window. I've become addicted to the Secret Agent radio station, I've cleaned the top of my kitchen cupboards, I've procrastinated in nearly everywhichway possible. I guess I'm just not cut out for working in the mornings.

Fkin hilarious (found via Wherever You Are)

Amy writes:

Mad, thats as bad as me wearing a bra under me bikini! Aims xxxx PS are you sure you didnt corrupt the undergraduate?!

Quite sure - after all, you know me: would I do such a thing?! ;-)

As I thought, photos from New Year are starting to emerge. The beach party took a little imagination, given that we were staying in a youth hostel in the middle of Dartmoor, but was a resounding success (helped, in part, by the barrel of beer thoughtfully provided for our consumption). It was a tad nippy, even with the wood stove burning merrily, so I opted to wear my thermals under my party outfit.

One of the current undergraduates there introduced me to Dooley's - a toffee drink not unlike Baileys; it's not often I get lead astray by young boys, but here's the photographic evidence!

Ever been to Italy? It's one of my favourite countries, and I have another two Italian trips organised this year. This will be an essential part of my preparations. Bua-ha-ha!

I am a firm non-believer in New Year Resolutions. I fail to get excited about New Year's Eve as the start of an All New And Improved Time Period. I do, however, get carried away by the prospect of parties and social gatherings. I often get carried away at parties too, and start suggesting things like playing Trivial Pursuits at 3 in the morning,* or doing impressions of a giant, butch guinea pig. Luckily I have a very tolerant group of friends, who also appreciate being taught the art of drinking Port through Cadbury's Fingers. Photos, no doubt, to follow.

* Needless to say, I was on the winning team. The braincell's currently feeling very full of useless but interesting information, especially about binturongs.