My mood? Guilty, and nervous. I had spent at least 98.5% of my weekend;
b. Wearing garments made of flannel.
c. Watching this funny little man on QVC.
The thing is, we are due an OFSTED inspection, so I should have been working on inspiring lesson plans and ensuring all my marking was up to date. OFSTED will only give us two days notice, you see. They can call on a Monday or a Thursday, and will be in 2 days later.
'Let's just not answer the phone on Mondays or Thursdays.'
That was my utterly genius suggestion to Pompous Pilate (our headteacher). He is a man on the edge. He's as hyped up and jittery as Charlie Sheen in a 4am Las Vegas hotel room. I could see he was secretly deeply impressed by my lateral thinking and problem-solving.
I did have another suggestion for the beetrooty bounder, although I was too cowardly to mention it.
'Change your shirt Pompous.'
Pompous has taken to wearing pink gingham shirts. It is something of a sight to behold. Pompous is a bald, 18 stone Yorkshireman with high blood-pressure and a job running the most infamous school in the city. Boden pink-gingham may well work for chinless, floppy-fringed, corduroy-elbow patched, liberal types down South but it strikes a slightly discordant note at the School of Hard Knocks. Pink gingham lacks gravitas, it lacks a certain Northern 'grrrrrrrr'. Pompous needs to inspire fear and respect, but he looks like he would struggle to knock the skin off a soy-milk rice pudding. No wonder, when threatening some of our more violent ruffians with a trip to the Headmaster's office, they simply fall about laughing. It must be as terrifying as being disciplined by Doris Day.
Anyway, we did indeed make it through Monday without getting 'the call'.
Monday = OK.
Rochester promised me a phone-call on Tuesday night. I love Rochester, but I have the perspective and balance to see that he is utterly wrong for me. I dream of being Mills to his Boon, but I expect I am more Mills to his McCartney. It is a relationship doomed.
- I am agonisingly insecure. He is eternally unreliable.
- I am pathologically introverted and like hibernating at home. Rochester is rampantly social and confident.
- I am essentially an old-fashioned, girl who believes in monogamy. Rochester is a notorious fanny rat.
- I like sharing sweet and tender thoughts and feelings with Rochester. Rochester's idea of a sentimental compliment is 'you do have a big arse, you know.'
See? Oh, and he's married(ish). Have I mentioned that?
Anyway, the odd thing is, despite our many differences, we do have a very strong connection. BUT, after seeing Rochester at Christmas (for the first time in almost 2 years) I have barely heard from the recalcitrant cove at all. This whole blog was started when Rochester and I separated, 2 years ago. It was my way of coping. The hardest aspect of his personality to deal with is his brooding silences.
On Tuesday, the phone call never came. I don't think I every really expected that it would.
Tuesday = sorrowful.
(You can read about my first date with Rochester here.)
My plan to banish the mid-week blues was to settle down with the last episode of Zen. If my very own mumbling malcontent was ignoring me then at least Rufus Sewell wouldn't let me down. In the first two episodes I was very impressed by Zen's ability to maintain an air of swaggering nonchalance throughout. Even when he was being bundled at gunpoint into the boot of a Fiat Punto (something that happened every 20 minutes, at least) he only ever looked wryly piqued.
I found a clip of Rufus Sewell being interviewed about Zen. That was a bit of a let-down. He was wearing an ochre coloured lambswool jumper and had rather unkempt hair and eyebrows, more Michael Foot than Michael Corleone. I couldn't see his nether regions, but I did get a very strong sensation of threadbare corduroy. All in all, Sewell looked more like a shambolic Geography teacher than a sardonic Italian sex god. Mind you, the clip in question was indeed on the Guardian website. It could well be that they make all their interviewees dress like Michael Foot. The male ones anyway. I suppose the female ones will be forced to dress like Glenda Jackson. They will be compelled to wear chunky amber jewellery, John Lennon spectacles and pudding-basin hair cuts.
Ah well. Zen on I-Player. The perfect Wednesday night treat. The only problem was, I had forgotten to download the cunting progamme, so my pleasure was tragically denied.
Wednesday = despair.
Not much to say about Thursday. I did enjoy fish shop chips and curry sauce for lunch. With extra batter. That was HEAVENLY.
Thursday: mood = lighter, arteries = harder.
On Friday I was FORCED to confront my own mortality. It was all Waffle's fault. She had posted a desperate 'cry for help' on Twitter. She was running amok in M&S and was in need of an 'intervention'. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I suggested she visit the M&S Classic section and tried to picture herself in a June Whitfield cardigan and elasticated-waist slacks. That would surely have her running like the wind, empty handed, out of the store.
Of course, that got me thinking though, I am probably only 10 scant years away from being in the M&S 'Classic' demographic myself. I began to wonder how old June Whitfield was when she started filming Terry and June. I bet she was in her 40s. Suddenly, my charitable Waffle intervention had left a sour taste in my mouth. It was the bitter realisation that I do, indeed, have . . .
One Footglove in the Grave
Friday = fearful: fearful of dying certainly, but also fearful of spending my twilight years reading the Lakeland catalogue, by a one-bar electric fire, in an aqua, M&S polyester cardigan.
Saturday was a game of two-halves. The first half I spent in bed, eating Galaxy Bubbles chocolate and fannying about on the Internet. The second half was spent in bed;
- Eating more Galaxy bubbles chocolate (some fuckwit has put it on special offer at Sainsbury's).
- Trying to watch the film Inception. Inception was surely written by a nerdy, 42 year old virgin, who lives at home with his mother and has a PHD in astrophysics. I could make neither head nor tail of the film. It's a nonsensical, head-fucking cocktail of James Bond and Professor Stephen Hawking. I gave up in the end, I switched over to The Tudors. The Tudors is also drivel (Henry VIII is in his twilight 'Katherine Howard' years, yet is lean, gorgeous and, bizarrely, very tanned). At least The Tudors is rompingly enjoyable drivel.
- I also decided I should open the last of my Christmas Prosecco. Hmmmm. That was possibly a mistake, as I ended up . . .
- regaling Rochester with about 87 drunken text messages. I can't actually remember what any of them said. And, if it's OK with you, I'd rather not even think about it. I know, I know, I've let myself down. I've let women everywhere down. Maybe he didn't even notice the messages. (weeps). Shhhhhhhh, I tell you what, let us never speak of this incident again. . .
Saturday = humiliating