I am a rock, I am an island.

Before I start on this slightly strange post, the attempt at 'teaching' went alright today. But let's nip this career speculation in the bud: I'll stick to writing, ta ;)

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I love Simon and Garfunkel. The Definitive is one of my favourite albums, ever. It reminds me of car journeys with my mum when I was little, when I'd always choose the music and it would nearly always be that cassette.

Now it mostly reminds me of my ex, because we'd sit and listen to it. We'd always sing along to "At the Zoo" in the car when we were off somewhere.

"Well the monkeys stand for honesty, giraffes are insincere, and the elephants are kindly but they're dumb. Orangutans are sceptical of changes in their cages and the zookeeper is very fond of rum"

Then once when we were sailing in Croatia, I climbed onto a rock in the sea and started singing "I AM A ROCK, I AM AN ISLAND!" and absolutely pissing myself (I always make myself laugh, even if no one else does. It's a saving grace).

Now, "I am a rock" just makes me feel happy in the same way that "At the Zoo" makes me a little bit sad. It's that strange thing, sometimes things happen that make you feel like you've achieved a lot and you feel happy, then I feel sad because I can't just ring him up and go "GUESS WHAT!!!" or, I could, but I won't.

The other day I was driving home from work and put that album on, and when "I am a rock" played, I thought about how I was off to Italy and felt all proud of myself. Then I felt sad because I wanted to tell him, to be like "Look at me! look how well I'm doing! All on my own!". He was back on my mind again. Last night I went to bed worrying about a thought that had popped into my head earlier: How long hadn't we been on the same page for?

Today, out of the blue, I got an email from him. A link to a funny BBC news story in the subject, with a choice quote from the article in the main body. I laughed, then felt sad. Zoo, Rock. I've been quiet this evening, lost in thought. Mind everywhere. Emailed back. Told him whats coming up for me. Felt better.

Sometimes I can't articulate myself very well with all this stuff, I can't explain why I'm happy but also sad. It's irritating me that I can't explain it. It's irritating me that I miss him even though I'm busy and happy enough not to, so it doesn't make sense. So this post is a bit strange (sorry) and best ended with the verses from a song that makes my head a little bit clearer, and me a little bit happier, even though it's actually a sad song about being alone. Paradox eh, don't ya just love it.

Dont talk of love,
But Ive heard the words before;
Its sleeping in my memory.
I wont disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

Miss, Miss…How comes you don’t know nuffink?

Before I start, I’d like to put extra stress on the word “jokingly” in the next paragraph. Jokingly. As in MAKING A JOKE. Releasing a FUNNY. Causing hilarity. Not to be taken seriously. Yeah?

Last week, one of the teachers was talking about how they were short staffed for this Wednesday and there was no one to teach the Year 11 English group. I jokingly said “Ha! You could always shove me in with them. Put my degrees to good use!”, then carried on making my cup of tea while farcical images of me being chased around a classroom by a couple of ‘orrible toerags filled my head. Like this:

 

Meanwhile, a hushed silence fell over the group. The chattering stopped. Eyes widened and rested on me and the kettle.

“Hmmm. Now that’s an idea….”

As far as I was concerned, that’s where the conversation ended. Me jokingly offering my services, leaving them to mull it over, but ultimately they’d have come up with a better idea once I’d left the room. Deffo.

This afternoon, a WHOLE WEEK later, I get handed a piece of paper. Typed up and everything.

Cover work – English – Wednesday 25th March

Discuss setting for Of Mice And Men.[…]Recap on plot for Hound of the Baskervilles […]

“Thanks so much for this. Here’s some notes for tomorrow afternoon. They should be fine.”

This was so not the deal. Nice of someone to let me in on the decision, I thought, nay, SAID. Loudly.

I agreed on the condition that NO ONE tells my mother. If word of this brief spell in a classroom gets out, it’s curtains for the biscuit tin, and the two little rascals I’m imparting wisdom to. I swear. Fact.

And you…you! Don’t even SAY it. It’s not gonna happen.

Jo's gym membership sees a sudden increase in usage

The Travel Writer is off to South Tyrol in Italy next Sunday to write an article for a national newspaper. He's heading into the backcountry of the Dolomite mountains to test out the fresh powder in the back and beyond, taking with him an experienced guide, photographer, a good helping of avalanche equipment...

...and me.

It was after I'd booked my flights and he'd wangled an extra hotel room and skiing equipment from the PR company financing the trip that the questions "How much powder skiing have you done" and "How fit are you?" were asked. Until then, I hadn't really considered how one goes about getting up into the backcountry - the bit where no one else goes - without chairlifts or gondolas.

Turns out you hike.

Apart from possible exhaustion, I have no idea what awaits me, or if I'll actually be able to get down the unchartered, unpisted slopes of the mountain once we're at the top of it. But I'll reassure myself with the same words that probably didn't reassure him all that much:

"Ahh, I'll give it a go".

Gulp.

Student contracts Foot In Mouth Disease.

As much as the teachers can be right pains in the bum bums, the kids in this place entertain me no end.

One of the pupils is Claire, a 15 year old girl who was expelled from her last school for wielding a plank of wood at the deputy head teacher’s car. Utterly wired, loud, stubborn and extremely stroppy, I sat on my desk having a thoroughly amusing conversation with her through the window of my office last week.

“Whats yor name then?” she asked, barriers slowly coming down.
“Jo.”
“Whats yor surname?”
“Blah-Blah.”
“OHH." Her nose wrinkled "You wanna change that, you do. That’s the same name as the prick who owns this place”
-pause-
“Claire…”
“Wot”
“That’s my mum.”
“Oh. Oh. WHOOPS. Oh shit. Well, I'm gonna go before I offend anyone else. See ya later"

And with that, off she scooted, leaving me laughing my head off at how she didn't put two and two together.

I've seen her a couple of times since then, the other day she passed me a condom through the window, telling me "I'll want that back later". I took this to mean that she clearly trusts me enough to look after her stuff. Even if it is contraception.

In the wake of yesterday though, I'm beginning to think the condom may have been some sort of peace offering. On Thursday I was handed a folded up piece of paper by a teacher in the afternoon, who said it was from Claire, who had written it of her own accord and asked for it to be passed on.



Later on I caught her as she was walking out of the building.

"Claire, come here"
She looked at me, embarrassed then trundled over to the window, which I slid to the side.
"Thank you for my note." I said, "It's alright, I know my mum can be a bit of an arse sometimes. I live with her, remember?"

And with that, she wondered off to her next class, returning later for a chat before she went home to tell me about her bail conditions.

Ahhh, little rascal.

How mad is this, right

This came through the fax today at work. We're always getting strange fax spam, sometimes it's mildly entertaining, and other times it just makes you ask, out loud, to the inanimate fax machine: "are you on crack?"

My favourite bit is shown with an arrow and labelled "the mental bit".



Oh, and then there's the bloke who is pictured on the front page of their website. Who may, or may not, be called "Bruiser".



Yowza. He doesn't break the law, but he does get results (100% legally - ipso facto geronimo, true story, no lie, fact etc)

It's that time again

In 3 weeks, unemployment will beckon me to it's sunny shores once again.

I am looking forward to the end of my most recent boring admin job at the Little School of Horrors, whilst simultaneously dreading the next. Because it's inevitable - I will finish whinging about this job, then find another one; all the while lamenting the fact that administrative positions, whilst financially viable and easy on the brain, suck absolute crab-ridden donkey balls.

But as long as I'm propping myself up with these temporary, mind numbing jobs where helping other people reach their goals is the main objective, that means I'm ignoring what I want to do: see things, go places, write about them and get paid for it.

Until I throw myself in at the deep end, put myself in the position where I have to work hard at it and get my first byline, it's just not going to happen. I've got an internship which has already given me the groundings, the confidence and the contacts to get started. I've researched and written articles for some big national newspapers, websites and magazines: it's just not under my name yet. I'm under the wing of a successful freelancer who gets paid to travel, write, make films and document his experiences, who takes me along to meetings and introduces me to editors and PRs. I'm not one of 50, I don't have to trek into London for no pay, I don't do filing in a dingy office and get handed the jobs that no one else wants to do. So far, the internship has been a couple of days a week, we communicate by phone, email and I go over to his for feedback and meetings once a week, meaning that have still been able to keep a paid job on the days I'm not needed.

I'm going to make a bold decision, and it's going to be really really bloody hard to keep because secretarial work is my comfort zone when it comes to jobs and above all, I like having money in my pocket. The decision is that when this job ends, this job which I'm so sick of and bored brainless doing: shuffling paper, photocopying and making sure everyone else gets to where they want to be, I'm not going to look for another admin job. It doesn't sound like a big step, but it kind of is for me, because it means I've got to actually put myself out there and make writing - travel writing - my career.

No more secretary, PAing and jobs "just to tide me over". A recession is not a great time to make money, which means it's a bloody good time to work for free. I hope.

Charlie says "NO!" to rancid Grandad shoes

Awww. he's got such a lovely little face. Look how it flops on your lap when you come in at 2am, pissed, and sit cross legged on the floor next to his bed. Look how it smiles when you're patting away and saying "Chaarrrliiiee. Chaaarrrrlliie. Heeelllloooooo dawgie! Oh doggle! Hallo doggle!", before brandishing a camera phone and snapping at least half a dozen pictures of dozey dog. Oh, how I love him when he's all tired and can barely raise his head, let alone his gnashers.

And how I love him when my mum's final words to me and my sister are "Girls, one of you stay down here and watch the dogs. I don't want Charlie destroying stuff" and we go "Yeah, alright mum..." and roll our eyes. Then half an hour later one of us wonders downstairs and finds...



...in place of the usually intact, rancid (but no doubt terribly comfortable) shoes favoured by my dad.

"Oh whoops." I said
"Ohh...what shall we do?" asked my sister.
"Hmmm. Hide 'em."
"Yeah. It's alright, they ming anyway. Good boy Charlie. Good boy"

TEEHEEHEE!

Door Rage has subsided. The incident has lead to me being well and truly ignored by the offending Rattler, and her suddenly being able to remember the door code and let herself in. HA.

With all this ranting about my job, I don't want people to get the wrong impression. Don't start thinking that I sit there all day in my office with a face like a smacked arse, pen poised waiting for the next thing to whinge about. In fact, because I have to listen to people who do sit there whinging about the weather, about it being too hot, too cold, the kids, the fact that you’re wearing jeans when there’s a no jeans policy, or who moan about having to stay behind for a meeting, or that what you're cooking smells of fish when it's not fish - it's pasta, actually etc, etc, I seem to go the opposite way.

I like to cause a bit of mischief. I like to run a-muck. Sometimes, if people are being particularly moany that day, I’ll goad them a little bit and wind them up to see just how much they really can whinge. Or I'll humour them and pick the most ridiculous story in The Mirror that morning, and go 'oooh, listen to this, "First class stamps go up to 38p!" isn't that awful?' knowing full well it's a load of sensationalist crap, and see who agrees because they have nothing else better to say.

Perhaps I’ll kick up a fuss about biscuits. Cause a furore over fruit. Protest against celery just as someone’s half way through a stick of the stuff. And because people assume that only the admin person can fix a photocopier (ie. read and follow instructions from a screen), my favourite weapon is a well placed post-it note, telling people ‘the photocopier is jammin’ like Bob Marley. Don’t ask Jo to fix it”.

Sometimes, however, the kids save me the effort. There comes a point when I get bored of playing James Bond with my friend the Youth Worker, which involves us (a 24 year old and a 40 year old) stealthing it round the school with our hands clasped together like guns, hunting for the good biscuits and shouting “CLEAR!” before entering each (empty) room. When I get bored of all that, I’ll go all quiet, wonder round, contemplating a cup of tea.

Then with any luck, I’ll walk into the kitchen just in time to hear the perfectly crafted, cutting tones of a 15 year old, announcing to a teacher wearing a particularly horrendous, long, patterned coat: “Miss, you look like sumfin’ out of Harry Potter today”, and the teenage monkey in me starts jumping up and down, clapping it’s hands with glee all over again.

Whaaaat a surprise!

Oh look, it's Monday afternoon, I've just got back from work and now I'm complaining about it....again.

I'm gonna keep it brief, but basically, in a nutshell, the long and the short of it isss...I work with children, of which there are two types.

- The 16 and under
- The 40 and over

Serimouse. Today I actually had to say the words "Look, there's no need to be rude to me" and it wasn't even to a student. Worddddd!

One teacher acted like such a petulant brat, my eyebrows went all furrowed like a monobrow. Simply put, if you can't remember the four digit code to get into the school, don't stand there and shake the door in a fit of rage. Just ring the buzzer and someone will let you in.

Rocket science? No.

If someone then kindly asks you not to shake the door in a fit of rage, because it will probably break, don't start being rude to them.

Particularly if the person's name is Jo, who will go home and rant to her mother (the headteacher) and she has a blog which she will bitch about you on later.

There seems to be an acceptance at The Little School where if you are stressed, it gives you a free pass to be rude. I have never worked anywhere like it.