Dear slugs.

Dearest eyebrows,
You and I have had a love/hate relationship for nearly 22 years now. Whilst I fully appreciate that you are an obligatory piece of face furniture (Two rugs as it were, ornamenting my eyes)and that should you be lost, I would look rather more like ET, I just wish you would grow a little more evenly.

Right eyebrow, you have a lovely figure, your end joins into a beautiful point and I rarely have to tame you. However, where you meet the edge of my nose is always unkempt with hairs sticking out here, there and everywhere and no matter how much I attack you with my pretty pink eyebrow shaver, you never seem to get the idea.

Left eyebrow, you should follow the lead of your friend a little more. I know he irritates you with his perfection, but would you just once please bend a little more in the right direction? I appreciate that the scar under you doesn't do you any favours, but if you jut grew a little more downwards, you could obscure him from sight..

I know I don't always groom you as I should, and that often I leave you days on end without any attention, and I did apologise for singeing you that one time, but you are rather central to my general facial features, and are rather letting the side down.

Is it too much to ask that you start pulling your weight towards the mess that is my face?

Thanking you in advance,
miss Peas.

Please miss... she's picking her nose...

The best part of my enthralling (please note sarcasm) course is most definately placement. This is when our bored, bedraggled brains finally get an opportunity at REAL teaching.

It's all very exciting.

Placements range from 2-4 weeks and take place in Primary Schools in the South Yorkshire area. I am currently shlepping some 15 miles to get to my placement which is located in a beautiful sleepy village which shall remain anonymous for obvious reasons. (I like that when you type paedos, spelling options are paella, paeony and pardons.) This means that I have to rise and shine at the glorious time of 5:45 if I have any chance of getting there by 8:15 on the trains (Although with the speed of transport, it would be easier by shank's pony some days.)

Unfortunately, the student life has to be put aside all in the name of professionalism, which is why, on this glorious St Paddy's evening I find myself alone, in my room listening to Portugal. The man and mourning the death of my social life.

On the upside, placement enables an opportunity to a more hands on approach with teaching, rather than listening to the droning on of our opinionated lecturers. It also gives me some brilliant first hand experiences of "the funny things kids say."

Now, I can wholly appreciate those who find children, well, repulsive.

But I never seem to get angry when I am having water thrown over me, or balls thrown at my head, I just seem to find it amusing and put it down to their "mischievous" behaviour. I have a feeling this will come in handy as a Primary teacher.

Today's quote of the day came from a very small year 3 child who came up to me and tugged my sleeve: "miss, miss, I've done something naughty and I know it's naughty but I've found it and I've cleaned it up now miss." In response to the inevitable question of exactly what he had done he responded in total honesty "I drew on the wall miss." And then promptly walked off. If only all children were so truthful.

On another occasion today, there was a suspiciously large black smudge across the table next to one little boy. When asked if he had cause the appearance of said smudge, he denied all knowledge. That was until I pointed out the matching large black smudge across his thumb.

In a different class on monday, after being asked about what he thought on recycling and having a think he answered that he ate more so that he could recycle more. What a star.

Our Day Out in Chesterfield

After a gruelling day of PE placement at a Primary School just out of Sheffield which involved a Nazi regime of speed and agility tasks, running around cones, and jumping over hurdels, as well as the obligatory "bomb" game where 40 children lobbed basketballs at our heads, we (being myself and 8 other friends) decided we needed a drink outside of our usual haunts in Sheffield.

Seeing as matt lives in the spiffing town of Chesterfield, known for it's pubs and twisted spire, it seemed as good a location as any.

After arriving we were given two options by our tour guide (matthew) as to whether to stay in the city centre and bum around in the pubs there, or to take the trek out to a miles worth of pubs in the outskirts.
We, rather unsurprisingly, opted for the mile of pubs and after checking train times, decided we would be getting the 10:53 train back to Sheffield as the next one at 1:08 seemed a little late, even for us youthful students.

And so began our little pub hop down the road. To be fair, rather than it being a miles worth of pubs, it was rather a pub, and then a mile, followed by another pub. By the time we had reached the next safe alcoholic haven, we were frozen and desperate for a drink. However the company, as always, was fantastic and we consumed large quantities of the home made cider called Old Rosie which can only be described as a pints worth of blackout.

Of course, after the alcohol consumption, a trip to KFC is mandatory. And whilst our tour guide made a trip to the local Pizza kebbaby, we waited for our snack boxes. Unfortunately, what we didn't realise was that our tour guide had made his way back to the station promptly for 10:30. We were still miles away, popcorn chickenless and clueless as to the way back.

And so began the sprint of my life. Now, I am hardly lithe and athletic. my snackbox full of chicken held me back both physically and metaphorically and I managed about a 1 minute sprint before I had to admit defeat and wave my friends onwards.

Three friends had remained behind in KFC waiting for their food, and it was only as Paul began to catch up with me that I really realised that I could truly be stuck in Chesterfield until a very late, and very cold ten past one in the morning. What happened next can hardly be described. I believe it had something to do with downhill slope and the inner athlete inside me, but my future of sitting on a cold, hard, train bench, looking like a homeless bum, clutching my empty box of greasy chicken and hiccuping with the Old Rosie remaining in my system, had never seemed so horrendous.

As I rounded the corner, I saw the train entering the station at about a gazillion miles an hour. Paul had already got to the station and collapsed in a heap on the station floor, and my friends who had already arrived were anxiously phoning me and cheering me on. In a final spurt, I rounded the corner, ran through the doors to my cheering fans, and leapt onto the train, seconds before it pulled out, leaving two friends behind on the platform.

Now what should have happened as I came onto the platform should have been this:


Unfortunately, it was more like this, only less sexy as I was wearing a big blue woolly jacket:


moral of the story? Big blue woolly jackets are bad for your health.

Oh, and poor Dan and Chris had to wait until 10 past 1. They should have run faster I feel. :)