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?
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.
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. :)
That's right folks, I have returned. After promising for about.. ooo, the last 8ish months to actually write a half decent blog, not involving the word "fish" (Dammit) I am back.
Of course, I need to give you a brief tour of the world I now live in, as it is far from the madding crowd of.. Leicester.
I now live in Sheffield. That's right chaps, the land of.. cutlery. I am of course at University, and studying to be a mature, responsible Primary School teacher. What they fail to tell you at the beginning of the course is that the bars and clubs around Sheffield feel that to become more mature and responsible, on your quest to reach adult hood, you need to consume copious amounts of alcohol, fall asleep in car parks, and embarass yourself beyond normal limits, all in an effort to get this sort of youthful behaviour out of your system. Well, that's my excuse anyway.
Friday nights have now been dedicated to a ramshackle club, apptly named Corporation. If this were a corporation, it would be a shit hole where the vending machines were always empty, the toilet bowls always full and the carpets would be sticky. As it stands, Corp is dirty, disgusting, dingy and dire. The metal stairs are a death trap, and the cheap vodka sends you on a one way ticket to hell. So cheap in fact, that you can vomit your guts up with a fiver. Am I selling it to you?
You may wonder quite why we choose to engage in such stomach pumping, head spinning, face warming behaviour, but it is all in essence of having a jolly good time.
Never before have I spent the evening with such an amazing group of friends, in such a grotty place, but had so many classic memories and been so very happy. Corporation, whilst being the Johnny Vegas of the bar world, brings out the best in those who dare, and is the haven for those who don't have a bursary.
Just for clarification of how happy Corp makes me, here is a photo:
The most common being nicotine addictions, food addictions, kleptomania, drug addiction, alcohol addiction yadda yadda yadda.
What most people don't realise (unluckily for them) is that it's not always usual things people are addicted to. In fact, some philopsophers argue that to have "usual" addictions, you must also have "unusual" addictions.
That is the case for my mother.
My mother is addicted to tupperware.
Now please do not misunderstand my hatred for tupperware and my concern for my mother's addiction. It is not that I do not fully accept that tupperware is a fantastic creation. The thought of being able to lock up a half eaten apple inside a see through plastic prison and lock it inside a fridge for days upon end, and jeer at it through the walls until it is taken out, just as fresh as when it was locked up, and eaten is just amazing.
Mrs T Ware really outdid herself on this little creation.
What really ticks me off with regards to tupperware is the sheer amount my mother has. In fact, out of the ten particularly large cupboards, my mother has dedicated one of them to tupperware. Thats one tenth of her kitchen solely set aside for the purpose of storing her addiction.
Everything, from cheese to sundried tomatoes is stored in a tupperware box. If you stand still long enough, she will collect your body parts and store them in her little plastic boxes. I was slightly worried before I moved in that I would be sleeping in a plastic coffin. Thank fully, there is still space in my room for my bed. The tupperware hasnt gone quite that far.... yet.
It has now become perfectly normal to recieve a telephone call at work from my mummy who explains in depth her latest tupperware collection. She has a particular fondness for lids that click on either side.
Oh yes, there are even different types of lids.
Unfortunately for me, these tupperware boxes have to be neatly stacked into the cupboard. And for the life of me, no matter how much the company guarantees that all boxes are stackable, one neatly inside another, can I get the blighters into the cupboard. My mother seems to have learnt the knack, but inevitably, when I open that cupboard (Also, inconveniently located just above my head height) I am showered in plastic missiles.
The damned things also have lids. On purchasing a particularly wonderful (Or so I'm told) tupperware collection, my father and my sister's partner (Being ridiculously tall) decided to hide said lids on the tops of the cupboards. My mother, being as equally tiny as myself hunted high and low for the damn things. Feeling deeply distressed, she eventually turned to my father for help, and it was at this point, we truly realised the extent of her addiction.
Unfortunately (for us, and fortunately for all evil tupperware manufacturers world wide) there is no AA for Tupperware fanatics. There is no where to turn to when Tupperware takes over your lives. And so it has been left to myself and my family to pick up the plastic pieces (gerrit?) that have become our everyday lives. I have even started to act enthusiastically when a new brand is thrust under my nose.
If you happen to know of anyone with a similar affliction, feel free to contact me. I understand your plight and the pain that tupperware causes in a normal, everyday family. We can all work through this together.
So I promised to let you know how my evening of fun and frivolity on Friday went.
The booze was fab, the music was fab, the clubs were fab (Fan Club was ok..) and the men were fab.
Obviously after the break up with Mr Peas (Now known as Steve.) I haven't really been able to look at men, most of them grow his gangly knees and balding head. But despite my dread of the typical "I'm so drunk, and you look hot in my paralitic, so let me drag you back to mine so I can f**k you like rabbits do before passing out and drooling all over your nose." chat up lines, I felt fairly safe.
That was until "LEE" came along.
Unfortunately for you, I cannot reproduce "LEE"'s accent via the wonderful world wide web. This story would be a helluva lot funnier if I could. I shall therefore call him "LEE" and you have to imagine that I am saying this in a deep voice, whilst thrusting my bottom jaw forward and pumping my shoulders in what I presume to be a masculine manner.
"LEE", after squishing up next to me on the mouldy seat informed me that he is a labourman from Wigston. For anyone who knows Wigston, you will be aware that once you're born in Wigston, you invariably leave. And then you marry your sister, or your father.
I'm pretty sure they're not picky.
I'm guessing you're already beginning to drool over "LEE." I know I was at this stage. "Take me now" popped into my head on more than one occasion, and it was only after clamping my lips firmly shut that I held back from thrusting my magnificent breastage into his hands.
The hottest moment for me however, was when his mum (That's right folks, plus 18 club, loud bangy music, drugs, alcohol and sex-HIS MUM) brought him over a pint, smiled at me and left.
And the moral of the story guys and gals, is if you don't want to attract the "LEE"'s of this world.. don't pull this face...
...as apparently this indicates that you're into the Mum Action.
I'm not.
On other notes, my fish have white spot (yippee) so that is why they have been so miserable. I am treating them with salt in the vague hope that it will kick the parasite's ass.
I am also leaving Leicester next weekend to return to the sunny Swanage for the summer.
And I have had the beasts that were my eyebrows finally tamed this afternoon. You know it's bad when the beautician brings in all her colleagues to have a good gawp. Damn right.
I love:
* Skips
* limericks
* scotch eggs
* marmite
* the cold side of the pillow
* Luc Besson
* horror stories
* shoes
* spoons
* making shapes out of clouds
* pluckies
* smiley faces
* butterflies
* the maccabees.
...as apparently this indicates that you're into the Mum Action.