my idea of nothing to do

Out of the corner of my eye when I am least expecting it I see a glimmer of things long past: a ghost crosses my path and brushes the day a little colder; breathes fog upon my bubble. I medicate with tea and sleep, baths and art, talk of cushions, cheese.

father says it mother says it sister says it brother says it uncle says it auntie says it everyone at the party says it

I should like to tear a little hole between the days that remain, climb through and close the edges behind me. A few cushions, a blanket and some books would do me. I'd last about a day before the solitude began to get to me, maybe two if I took my ipod and a sketchbook.

fanny smith and willy

1. Peas!
2. 'We'll pour you a glass of wine. Red?'
3. Warm skin.
4. Cheese.
5. Unexpected presents from overseas.
6. The view from my kitchen window.

cake du jour - Christmas

I remember the frenzy in the kitchen which surrounded the making of the Christmas cake (and pudding). Huge bowls filled with dark lumpy liquids which were difficult to stir, and not that interesting to secretly taste. After the stirring and baking my Dad would be called upon to ice the cake. This creative process involved quite a lot of swearing, and we would stay away from the kitchen while the difficult birth was under way (any similarity to my own creativity and/or kitchen action will be loudly and ineffectively denied). Afterwards we would gather around to admire the result. There were Christmas ornaments which would sometimes be allowed to sit on the hard icing surface: a bristle Christmas tree and a snowman or two. Their bases always had last year's concrete icing still attached to them. I used to lick them. This stikes me as unsanitary now but it didn't occur at the time; I just wanted a little taste of Christmas.

I'm not a huge fan of Christmas cake, it's too rich and too sweet and comes at the end of a day filled with too much excess. The best thing about it at home was the plates it was served upon: the wedding tea service only allowed out of the cupboard once or twice a year. Pretty, pretty plates that I covet still. I do remember the first time I was served a slice of dry-tasting cheese with some un-iced cake, down the road at my teenaged second home: how it tasted different and somehow better along side the sharp contrast of the cheese. I still feel guilty about the betrayal of liking their cake better, though at 15 I liked anything better if it was out of my own home.

Nowadays the cake comes from Marks and Spencer, we are spared the swearing in the kitchen, and fortunately I am no longer quite so belligerent.

Happy Christmas, and may your new year be filled with much merriment. Or cake. Hell: both.

been an awful good girl...

I go Christmas shopping. I lurk around Seven Dials with my coat zipped up to my nose and wander in and out of surprisingly quiet shops touching things and then walking away from them. After an hour or so of this I make a very minor present purchase.

Then I go to the London Graphics centre and buy myself two new drawing pens, a new Moleskine notebook (which I dither about for ages as it really is exceptionally expensive for what it is) and a magazine with the strapline 'for Good Looking, Smart People'. (I decide that I am definitely both of these.) These purchases makes me feel like an artist, which is silly really; but it still feels nice. I then spend some considerable time standing in front of rainbow-striped packing tape, trying to come up with a reason why I ought to buy myself some. This makes me feel like a seven-year old, which doesn't feel too bad either.

Abandoning the tape I wander about Covent Garden for a bit in a little bubble of my own making: eat a pasty, ignore the street performers, and do a lot more touching and walking away. As I walk back to the train I am sucked as if by magic into an electrical shop to buy myself some new headphones.

I am good at Christmas shopping.

Christmas divertissment (I)

My favourite Christmas activity of all time, ever:

On the first day of Christmas Dr Who sent to me
A sonic screwdriver in a Christmas tree.

On the second day of Christmas Dr Who sent to me
Two silver Daleks, and a sonic screwdriver in a Christmas tree.

On the third day of Christmas Dr Who sent to me
Three Cybermen, two silver Daleks, and a sonic screwdriver in a Christmas tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas Dr Who sent to me
Four dark blue tardis, three Cybermen, two silver Daleks and a sonic screwdriver in a Christmas tree.

Every now and again you walk into a classroom and find a genius at work. Richard was hard at work at this and I was moved to whip it away from him and photocopy it for my own personal use. His drawings are reminiscent of Quentin Blake and I'd hate him for that were he not so bloody adorable. Sadly the assembly bell rang and we may never know what Dr Who sent his true love on days 5-12 (though rest assured I shall check). Credit must also go to the teacher who came up with the 'Twelve Days of Christmas' rewrite idea. How I wish it had been me.

and her name was

Church this afternoon. We walk down:

'No, don't stop to stroke the cat...'
'Yes, I know there's a squirrel keep walking!'

Then we sit at the back where we can't see anything:

'Leave the hassocks alone'
'No, it isn't nearly finished'
'No sweetheart, I can't see your Mummy either'
'Put the Bible down'

We sing carols:

'Glooooooooooooooooooooooo-o-o-o-o-oria'

We listen to the vicar:

'Our Father...'
'I'll start that again. Our Father, who..'
'Maybe I'll say one line and then you can repeat it. Our Father (Our Father)'

We ignore our headteacher:

[censored]

And then we walk back:

'Oh look! There's the squirrel again!'

how to be invisible

I've been tagged. Thank heavens, I finally have something I put in this flipping empty update box. So that's what memes are for - for when you have the blog blanks.

I've never been tagged before. Honest. I'm never tagged. Tagless, that's me. I'm thrilled. Genuinely. I feel as though I've finally joined some sort of elite club. The club of persons popular enough to get tagged. I've made it! I'm a somebody at last! Hurray!

OK. I have to find the nearest book, turn to page 123, and .. Oh God, I've lost the will to go on.

Sorry.

(Maybe it was better when I was feeling quiet.)

follow the star

There are only so many times you can be asked by eight year olds how many legs a mouse has before you begin to start to worry about the fate of society, really.

'Four! They have (implied bloody) four!! And an inkeeper is someone who looks after an inn! And that'd be TWO legs!'

Holy Moly.

The infant nativity today. These are glorious occasions involving oversized t-shirts, tinsel haloes, cardboard hats, ever so slightly dodgy singing and very excellent signing. The first time I saw an infant nativity I was reduced to a small hormonal puddle (it was the kings wrapped in silky curtains that did it), but over the years I have become mostly (well...nearly) immune and so today was able to admire the nursery child who fell asleep forwards onto his knees, the king who did a penguin impression, Mary's handling of the doll (licking) and the best impresion of Erialc's signing I have ever seen, ever. From a five-year old, to boot.

Maybe just one little tear, then. It ain't Christmas without the infant nativity.

nice young men who sell antiques

Saturday: I have chores to do. I really must do something with the wardrobe monstrosity if I'm ever to sleep in my own bedroom again, and those Christmas cards aren't making themselves.

I'm standing on the Northern Line, on the way to meet Little Friend Susan for a coffee. Everyone looks fascinating, probably because I'm wearing my headphones and can't hear what they're saying. I'm also suffering a terrible urge to look people in the eye and smile. I am waiting for this to get me into trouble.

Two dead people get onto the train. They have faces of furry wet clay, lips closed and dry, eyes pale and blank. Their skin tone has been painted on in blotches of white, pink, yellow. He is hooded in grey, her hair is scraped back from her face; her only definition two smudged rings around her eyes. They stand wordlessly lowering the temperature of the carriage. Two stops later they rush off and we all drop our shoulders again.

I meet LFS and we go to Exmouth Market, where I eat a lamington almost the size of my head. Two hours later I am sitting drunk and giggling in her plastic-shrouded loft, my timetable comprehensively derailed. When I am finally released she and her husband wrap me in spare jumpers and push me back out into the early evening to wobble home in my bubble.

do nothing til you hear from me

I am supposed to be making Christmas cards and drawing.

I have just waxed the fireplace surround. I have dusted. I have sent several long and a multitude of short emails. I have been on google chat for the first time in ages. This is the second time I have posted today. I am thinking that the bed needs changing. I could do with making some soup. Maybe now is a good time to go and bash my hands some more ripping out fitted wardrobes.

Hoovering first though, eh?

my heart which is bruised but unbeaten

I was sitting at a Christmas party last night zealously working my way through the mince pies when I asked an innocent question. About the sign for 'robot', as it happens. This led to a deeply political debate about cochlear implants which I have known was coming for years. I have prepared for this. My preparation involved practising keeping my mouth firmly shut and nodding. I'm on the fence about cochlear implants, work with kids who have them, kids that don't, and I know the person who was talking about them. She has exceptionally strong views on the subject which she is entirely entitled to; and is the sort of person with whom you can't win an argument about the existance of an egg plant, let alone something as politically hot (in the deaf world at least) as a cochlear implant.

So fine. I keep out of the arguments, as I understand the delicate balance between friendly relationships and full-out war. Call it self-preservation. Call it cowardice. Whatever.

Except. Sitting to my right is a woman of such crushing inanity that I have trouble agreeing with her about just about anything. She says the weather is awful? I say I like the wind and rain. She likes cake? I prefer crisps. It's like a twitch, and I'm not the only one that does it. Sometimes you have to make your own entertainment to get yourself through the dark evenings. I know: I'm bad.

Unfortunately she opens up her mouth and wades knee-deep into the debate, spouting half-baked views of such deep stupidity that I am unable to contain myself, foole that I am. I raise my head above the parapet and disagree with her. In sign language. Shakily, because the moment I open my mouth (er, hands?) I realise that I have made a mistake of epic proportions.

I am treated to a 10 minute barrage of deaf politics from the left hand side. Everything that is wrong with the hearing world, every policy in my school, and probably the weather too is now my fault. I take it on the chin, which is made slightly easier by the fact that I only get two signs out of every three*. I do not bother to defend myself or my school, as I know that this is a pointless exercise which will only extend the pain. I belatedly remember the nodding and looking agreeable policy and put it into practise.

Fortuntely a fag break occurs and afterwards we move on. I now have to add x-ray fish to the list of things whose existance I have to prove by next January's classes.

I love my sign-language teacher, I genuinely love her. She scares me shitless.

*Two out of three!!Result!!

depravity, no cake

I am the number one google search for 'victorian bordello bedroom decorating pictures'.

I feel as though I've finally achieved something in life :)

drunk on the moon

Posts I didn't make:

1) The dalek in the coridoor (currently hidden behind a pile of PE mats).
2) The thing about having more to do than there is weekend to do it in.
3) Activities for the brokenhearted (4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 &10).
4) Simple pleasures: (music and books).
5) Being given instructions by a 7 yr old on how to produce water out of a teacher's ear.
6) Decorating the tree in the hall.
7) Cake du jour (many).

It's nearing the end of term, see.

Normal service, etc.

this post in search of a suitable title

Chief Sir just rang me (he was lucky I could string words together at 7.40) to tell me I'm covering CFH (II) today, seeing as he can't get a supply teacher stupid/brave/desperate enough to do it. Here endeth the weekend.

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job...

(Send cake)

up against the pink and purple wisteria

I am really looking forward to this morning being over.

That is all.