Swine Flu and Sorrow

I've been ill. Rochester did indeed infect me with Swine Flu. I shan't bore you with a tedious description of the disease, but it was ghastly, and I am glad to be free of it at last. I even missed the start of the new term at school. I return to the SOHK tomorrow.

It is with a very heavy heart that I update you on the Rochester Question. But first, some background. Rochester is married (as you know). I am not sure how best to explain his marital situation. If I use the term 'open marriage' it conjures images of a cannabis-heady, kaftan and love-bead bedecked, cheese plant decorated commune where middle aged couples throw their VW camper van keys into a basket weave pot every night. If I use the term 'for the sake of the children' it sounds like Rochester is tawdry disgraced Tory MP, parading his toothy offspring for the Daily Mail after being caught bumming a rent boy on Hampstead Heath. The truth, I suppose, lies somewhere between those two options. He is married and will remain married as it allows him to actively raise his children and give him some much needed stability. His wife has accepted that 'discreet affairs' will be part of their marital landscape. Yes, it sounds tawdry and rather sad. I expect, in reality, the affairs will be on his side, not hers. That is the background to my meeting up with Rochester at Christmas.

When we discussed whether we would meet one thought did trouble me: if Rochester was indeed just looking for uncomplicated, unemotional sex then surely he would be better off chatting up a random stranger than rekindling things with me. I am not 'unemotional' about him, he broke my heart 2 years ago. He knows this. Nor is he unemotional about me (at least, I didn't think so). It did indeed all seem a little risky. But, he kept assuring me that he would not 'hurt me' again, that he wouldn't fuck with my head.

The problem is, since I saw him last I have barely heard from him. The texts that I have received have been very occasional banal, peg-sales updates. Anything I say that is remotely warm, tender or heartfelt is completely ignored. Any questions I ask are ignored too. The fact that I have been ill and essentially quarantined and in solitary confinement for 10 days has not helped my state of mind. To summarise, he is acting like a cruel and insensitive cunt again. And I just can't cope with it.

Please don't rain on my parade.

Rochester. Peg King '69. Geordie gigalo.

I have resisted blogging about this, but I feel I simply must get it off my chest.

Rochester, as you know, has requested a few get-togethers recently. I have resisted. I was unsure of the rogue's intentions. Actually, that is not true, I was well aware of the rogue's intentions, but was just too entangled in other dramas to even contemplate seeing him. I adore Rochester. Of course I do. No one could read this blog and be unaware of that fact. I am utterly besotted by him. I long to see him. I think about that all the fucking time. I have always suspected such a meeting would only lead to pain, chaos and carnage, BUT, I was tentatively beginning to come round to the idea. Last week he wrote of how much he enjoyed our 'exchanges' (i.e. my BMW abuse, and his Pinter-esque 3 word responses). He also wrote of how he wanted to see me.

Before I could even contemplate meeting him there was one thing I needed to know. One question I had been avoiding, The Wife. Rochester and I split up when he decided to go back to his wife. That was something of a shock. I hadn't realised he still had a wife. Anyway, I was certain that Rochester wouldn't even be suggesting meeting if he was still involved. Obviously, he was now single, a desolate husk of a man, ravaged by lovelorn longing for me. Surely his only company would be the Samaritans on speed dial and The Boatman's Call on repeat play. Reader(s) I was spectacularly mistaken.

'Yes. I am still married. We're still together. I would like to see you.'

So, of course, I said 'no' to the meeting. And he has not uttered a Pinter-esque word ever since. It doesn't matter how many BMW or 'peg salesman of the year' insults I throw his way, he is as silent as the grave. I shouldn't even write to him. That must stop.

Anyway. My week.

Monday

Leapt out of bed at 5.45 to a beautiful mellow, late summer morning. Met my new class. HURRAH!!!! 2p + 2p = 4p holds no fear for them. They are as bright as the buttons on Adam Ant's Prince Charming jacket. Looking at the children's books at the end of the day I could have wept with joy. Last year's class books looked like a drunken, dyspraxic spider had crawled into a pot of ink and snot and staggered across the page. Their books didn't have dog-eared corners, they had elephant-eared corners.

Monday = hopeful.

Tuesday

Woke to torrential rain, black skies, gale-force winds, bitter cold, broken poached eggs on burnt toast for breakfast, the discovery that the heels on my new shoes had been chewed off by dogs, major flea infestation (dogs, not me) and worst of all BUTTONS ON LAST TERMS BLACK WORK TROUSERS STUBBORNLY REFUSING TO DO UP!!!! Life truly deals blow after blow.

Tuesday = utter despair

Wednesday

Ethnic cleansing of fleas complete (how satisfying). Wrote to Rochester, suggesting he starts a new blog called ‘Boorish Macho Wanker’ - life ‘behind the windscreen’ of a BMW. I sold it to the rogue as being an expose, like ‘Behind the Veil’, but with pin stripe suits and Cuban heels rather than Burkas. I didn't go so far as to suggest that Rochester was a 'boorish, macho wanker', (although, in the words of the late, great Meatloaf two out of three aint bad). Anyway, Rochester did not reply, so. . .

Wednesday = bereft

Thursday

Still no reply. Still bereft.

Friday

A good day. Took my class to watch a parade of returning soldiers through our city. It was lovely, and moving. Sadly, Pompous Pilate decided he wanted to come along. You all know my feelings about the beetrooty buffoon that is our Headteacher. Having him on our school trip was a bit like having your dad tag along to a school disco. He, quite literally, rained on our parade.

Friday = despite my first flag waving since the silver jubilee of 1977, bereft.

Saturday.

Awoke aching and fluey. The first infection of the term. Beginning to wonder if Rochester has had a BMW-esque car accident. Maybe he was ogling some teenage totty whilst negotiating a roundabout and lost control of his kraut fanny wagon. Maybe at this very moment, he is lying, semi-comatose, in a west country intensive care unit, weakly mumbling the words 'Miss Underscore' to a perplexed nurse. Or, maybe he is just being a cunt. I favour the latter.

Saturday: sinking in a miasma of agonising despair, self loathing and sneezing.

By the way - may I recommend this website? The Missing Missy entry always makes me smile.

http://www.27bslash6.com/missy.html .

Today's irritations

1. How, when dying my hair (a lovely bitter chocolate colour) I have also managed to dye:

• The walls and floor of the bathroom (do you remember the shower scene from Psycho?)
• Several fluffy towels
• My right big toe (which, when combined with green nail varnish makes me look like I have gangrene)
• A vintage Laura Ashley duvet cover
• My i-pod earphones (I was listening to Tears for Fears whilst dying)
• My underwear

I know this is becoming a boring refrain, but the first thing I would do if I was not poor would be to go to my hairdresser ever two weeks and let him do the hard work. Sadly, I have to now dye my hair. I have a few (ahem) Betty Boothroyds. I think you know of what I speak. I am just grateful I didn't inherit my Dad's genes. He had totally white hair from the age of 28.

2. I don't want to vote for any of the Labour leadership candidates. I am torn between the two Eds, but I never respected Balls whilst he was in charge of education ( keeping up with his daft initiatives was the pedagogical equivalent of patting your head and rubbing your tummy). Ed Milliband has a slight speech impediment and looks like he spends his evenings in a tent in the back garden, reading Dr Who manuals and scoffing Wagon Wheels. I don't like David Milliband either, he's too smooooooooth. He's got that irritating veneer of metrosexual smarm (just like Blair, Clegg and Cameron). Choosing between the Milli-band of brothers is like choosing between Harry Potter and Adrian Mole. There is part of me suspects that both of them are still virgins and wear days-of-the-week underpants. I want a real man as leader of the Labour Party. Preferably a pipe smoker and a whippet owner. Someone with integrity, gravitas and a touch of eccentricity. Where are the Tony Benns of our age?

3. Speaking of politics, do you recall Cameron's pledge that there would be no cuts to frontline services in education or health? Well, that's a joke. Our school has been told that although its core funding (for staff, pencils and loo roll) remains the same we will face a 75% cut in all of the grants we once relied on for 'extras'. These were the grants Labour awarded to schools like ours, schools that serve the most deprived and challenging of communities. They funded breakfast clubs, trips, music lessons, after-school clubs etc etc. This funding announcement coincided with one about the government's new flagship 'academies'. They will be receiving extra millions, as a 'reward' for their excellent academic achievements. It is of no surprise that these new academies are based in leafy, middle-class areas. So, the new government is taking money from the poor and giving it to the rich. Astounding.

The Tories believe that we live in a meritocracy, that all children are born equal, and have equal chances and opportunities to succeed in life. It would be wonderful if that was indeed true. However, I would love these Oxford-educated Tory twats to come and spend some time in an inner-city school. They might see that for children brought up surrounded by crime, chaos, poverty and abuse, learning is not always a priority. They might see that for those children, progress will always be slower. They might see that teachers in these schools have to work twice as hard. This doesn't mean that teachers or children are failing. At least Labour appreciated this, and injected extra resources into these schools and communities to try to redress the balance, to compensate for the inequity.

OK. Party political rant over. Now back to business as usual: namely the abuse of fanny rats and BMW drivers.

4. I suddenly wondered today whether Rochester has acquired a personalised number plate for his BMW. That really would be a cuban-heeled step too far. I don't think I could ever forgive such gratuitous ostentation. Madam Noir and I, discussed the issue over tea and scones today (a cherry scone for me, slathered with inch-thick butter). I think I have come up with the perfect plate for the peg-salesman of the year.

PEG KING 69

5. I am going through a very granny-esque, 1970s food phase. I am devouring stews, dumplings, corned beef pies, scones, hot pots and the like. And, I have become reacquainted with proper, claggy onion gravy (preferably over mashed potato, or seeping into Yorkshire pudding). I plan to start an internet campaign to reintroduce thick and luscious gravy to the word and outlaw the pretentious abomination that is 'jus' (shudder). I have already thought of the perfect name for my gravy blog. . .

The Persecution of the Jus.

6. I did consider making Wayne Rooney my 'Fanny Rat of the Month'. However, to be fair, I can't help but think that would be an insult to fanny rats everywhere. A fanny rat never has to pay for sex, he relies on a his suave wit and debonair charm to woo his victims into bed. A kerb-crawling, illiterate thug with a face like a chewed toffee is not, and never will be a fanny rat.

Blaguards, Miscreants and Womanisers (BMW drivers)

Life truly does deal blow after blow. I've spent the summer bank holiday weekend:

• Window shopping in Newcastle with Madam Noir. A lovely experience (especially as cheese scones were involved), but in order to cheer me up she perkily asked me what I would buy if I was not facing imminent bankruptcy. On hearing her question my mind was instantly filled with the beating wings of beautiful things: Bobbi Brown shimmer bricks, Lola Rose beads, cashmere jumpers, Barbara Pym novels, rose petal meringues, bottles of damson gin, a new car free of dog drool (thanks Cyril) and rust. I was rendered speechless by the enormity of the question. It only served to depress me. All I bought today was an M&S pork pie. And even that was a disappointment.

• Hiding in bed. It is cold here. I cannot afford to switch on the heating. Last winter my utility bills were £200 per month. So, like one of those balaclava wearing pensioners featured on Panorama, perpetually huddled in front of a one-bar electric fire, I am spending my time cocooned in bed, betwixt flannel sheets and my beloved electric blanket. It is where I am now. The only grit in the oyster is . . .

• The ongoing failure of my mission to teach the dogs how to make me a cup of tea and serve it to me in bed. This must be possible. It MUST be possible. I hate having to get up and make my own tea. If brainless bozo Nick Clegg can run the country, if Katie Price can write a bestselling novel, if NASA can send chimpanzees into space, then surely to God a lurcher can be trained to brew a decent cup of Yorkshire.

• Two depressing, utterly depressing disasters this weekend: my dishwasher is broken, so I am facing a future of domestic drudgery. Oh, and someone/something has smashed a pane of glass in my sitting room window. I can only assume it was ANOTHER attempted break-in. Either that or one of Sunderland's obsese and drunken seagulls (they dine on Greggs' pasties and brewn ale) has crashed into my beautiful art deco stained glass. I can't afford to get it fixed. I have had to make my own temporary repairs with cling film and sellotape. I can't bear the thought of another break-in. I want to move. Back to the 1950s preferably.

• I visited my elderly Uncle Stan yesterday. It was torturous. I endured several hours of listening to impassioned tirades about immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. Oh, and capital punishment, of course. Capital punishment for immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. During his hate-filled monologues Uncle Stan positively shakes and fizzes with venom, usually with his flies still open. Thank heavens for the calm and sensible influence of Aunty Margaret, who kindly agreed to accompany me.

And now. I have saved the best till last. I had some rather shocking news of Rochester this weekend. I told him that I had seen his brother, Senor Boldon, recently. The elder Brother Grimm pulled out in front of me. (I am referring, of course, to a vehicular rather than a sexual maneuver.) I made some throwaway comment that,

'I was pleased to note that the Lexus Lothario at least indicated first, which is more than many of his sort do (I refer of course to ex BMW drivers).

Rochester's response? 'I have just bought a BMW. What does that make me? Uncle Stan sounds okay to me.x'

DEAR GOD!!! Rochester driving a BMW! Well, dear reader, I had to point out the error of his ways. This was my response.

'Whoa there bonny lad. That was 3 sentences you wrote there. Pace yourself now. I’d hate for you to get repetitive strain injury from all that typing.

Do you really want me to spell out what is wrong with a BMW. Are you serious?

I discussed this very issue on my blog some time ago here

Basically, BMWs are driven by arrogant, sneering, middle-aged Tory business men who are lousy in bed. Or is it lousey in bed? No, lousy ( I meant inept, rather than lice-riddled). BMW drivers are a complete cliché. Have you really got one? Whatever next, a Jeremy Clarkson leather jacket and perm and 22 year old girlfriend?

The equivalent behaviour for a woman to owning a BMW? Well if I started having Botox injections, got a spray tans, wore ‘fuck me’ shoes and hung around in wine bars drinking Chardonnay and feeling the arse of every teenage waiter who passed, then that would the equivalent to a man owning a BMW.

Also, why are BMWs made without indicators? My Ford Focus has indicators, and it was a quarter of the price. Then, there is also that irritating BMW advert about how they manufacture ‘joy’. (vomit) I thought you were a tortured misanthrope at heart? Surely you should have been on the look out for a car manufacturer that bases its campaign around gloom, misery and despair. Possibly a Volvo? They are much beloved of the suicidal Swedes (the accoutrements for gassing yourself come fitted as standard with a Volvo). I can’t take this in, Rochester. This is harder to come to terms with than that picture of you looking clean-shaved in a suit and tie.'

He has not replied to that yet. Maybe I have gone too far. Especially as I added a footnote, wondering whether he would be able to take a BMW dogging. (It surely lacks the requisite seediness).

Ah, I did laugh today in Fenwicks. Whilst browsing in the cosmetics department, trying on Bobbi Brown lipsticks and attempting, surreptitiously, to give myself a free manicure at the OPI counter, I noticed that you can now get your eyebrows 'threaded' there. Why anyone would want to have their body hair attended to publicly, in the middle of a heaving department store is a mystery to me. Especially when the demonic-looking ladies make you sit in a dentist's chair, attack you with a cat's-cradle of dental floss and leave you looking like some sort of red-browed baboon. Well today, there was a man in the hot-seat, getting his brows done.

'Obviously a man of the female gender.' I noted to Madam Noir. 'I wonder if Rochester gets that done now he is a BMW driving, suit-wearing metrosexual.'

We silently gave the matter some thought.

'Blimey. With his monobrow they'd need dental floss as long as the Great Wall of China. The shop floor would resemble the grooming section of Crufts!'

Fanny Ratto

I think that’s it for summer. It depresses me that we teachers get our long break in August. It’s a very ‘bleuuuugh’ month. These are the Miss Haversham days of summer, everything feels tired, faded and dusty. Nights are drawing in and mornings have a Narnia-like chill. There aren’t even any wild flowers left in the hedgerows. And, if you’re prone to mordant introspection and despair, as I am, then you will spend the month either in mourning for the fresher, prettier days of June, or wrestling feelings of inadequacy because you haven’t had a Bardot summer sipping champagne cocktails on the Cote de Azure with Alain Delon. Christ. Even Rochester has been to Italy. I am uncertain as to whether the trip was for work (European peg selling convention) or pleasure (European fanny-ratting convention). I was hoping to see some nice, touristy pictures: Rochester ‘holding up’ the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Rochester grappling with the Venus de Milo’s breasts, Rochester eating a pickled egg in the Sistine Chapel. However, the swarthy rogue has pissed me off. It is bad enough that I have to endure only terse, Pinter-esque, one-line emails from the scoundrel, but his last one was about football. This is what it said. Unedited. In it’s entirety. I kid you not.

I'm in Italy at the moment - just gone online to check out the football scores. Can't believe we are off to such a bad season.

Words fail me. Although, not quite as badly as they obviously failed him. I am beginning to suspect Aunty Margaret was indeed correct: he is still married/involved and just wants to meet up occasionally for a quick, nostalgic shag and a slice of homemade cake. Thank Christ I said no.

Anyway, the advent of autumn does signify two joyful things. Firstly, it heralds freedom from the tyranny of the ‘Bardot summer’ myth. Never mind Bardot. I don't think my summer even warranted a Diana Dors rating (not unless Dors spent her summers sewing cushion covers from charity shop curtains). Secondly, autumn brings a blissful reunion with knitwear and black opaque tights. I love knitwear and black opaque tights. This would be even more blissful if I could afford an autumnal shopping trip: autumnal shopping is the most enjoyable of all: cashmere jumpers, winter coats, scarves, gloves, scented candles, hot water bottles, suede boots, spooky, atmospheric novels for fireside nights in. Sigh. If only.

Now. McFireman. Something of a turn-around. He is being rather nice to me at the moment. Compliments are coming my way. It is true, McFireman, my beauty is indeed a cross to bear. What does it say of me though, that I appear to be more at ease with insults than compliments? McFireman is retiring soon. He has just sent me a list of his plans for retirement. I shall come to that in a moment. My own retirement plans include:

• lots of napping, pottering and loafing
• smoking rose-petal cigarettes from a silver cigarette holder
• keeping only gin, red lipstick and Anais Nin books in the fridge
• dining solely on Mr Kipling French Fancies and curry chip butties
• looking like a cross between Tallulah Bankhead and Bette Davis
• wearing a uniform of Sicilian black lace, fox-fur, red shoes and an eye-patch
• scaring small children by waving an ivory walking stick at them
• swearing like a navvy
• embracing some creative outlet like life-drawing (or modeling), burlesque dancing or erotic haiku poetry

McFireman's retirement plans include:

• Climbing Kilimanjaro
• Trekking to Everest base Camp
• Hiking through the Andes and visiting Machu Picchu
• Skiing to the Geo-magnetic North Pole...followed by North Pole then South Pole
• Cycling across Canada
• Swimming Le Manche

Dear God. I think I'd rather keep working than face a retirement like that! (Although, it could be argued that working at the School of Hard Knocks is more dangerous than all of McFireman's 'Milk Tray man' stunts combined.) If I were McFireman (and had his vast, fat-cat public sector pension) I would buy a gothic castle by a loch, drink whisky, smoke cigars and wear a lot of tweed. Oh, and I'd embrace traditional country pursuits like hunting and shooting. Not grouse. Not pheasant. Not deer. Oh no. I'd shoot fanny rats! Hundreds of them! That truly would be a glorious 12th!

Rat de Fanny du Mois

Well. I am feeling a little more positive. I dragged myself out to see the film Gainsbourg today. I loved it. It is so vivid and bold. It adopts a very free-form, blurry and whimsical approach to the usually staid bio-pic genre. What it lacks in biographical detail and accuracy it more than makes up for in sheer charisma and style. It's a very warm and affectionate portrayal of the french fanny rat. The whole look of the film: the sets, the costumes, the cinematography are all incredibly sumptuous and lush.

I think I fell in love with the chain-smoking rogue a little. What is it with me and louche, fanny rats? I am doomed in life, I think, to always fall for the most unsuitable and unreliable. I need to re-program my brain to find myself a nice, corduroy-wearing, liberal democrat vicar called Malcolm.

Anyway, my favourite line in the whole film? Well, at the end of his life, when Gainsbourg was a little shambolic, booze-addled and dishevelled (but no less endearing), he approaches a girl young enough to be his daughter. The line that charms her into bed?

"I have to say, horizontally at least, I have never had any complaints."

Check out the trailer for Gainsbourg here.

Fanny Rat of the Month

Oh, what joy!

This story has really made me laugh. Sanctimonious, granola-munching, tree hugger Al Gore has been outed as an fanny rat after trying to sexually assault a masseuse named Molly Hagerty.

I am not suggesting sexual assault is a trivial affair. Obviously 'eco-bore' Gore is nothing but a filthy swine, but Ms Hagerty is my new heroine. I wonder if she has a blog. I'd read it. I like the cut of her jib. Listen to this.

She claims that when she began massaging Gore's abdominal area he emitted 'muffled moans' and then requested her to 'go lower'.

She claims he grabbed her hand, shoved it beneath her masseur's sheet, brushing it against his private parts and asked her to 'release his second chakra' - a new-age euphemism for sexual energy.

He he. Something tells me that 'second chakra' line will be popping up all over Parma Violet Tea from now on. I love it!

Let's listen to what happened next.

As she tried to leave, she claims Gore grasped her into an embrace. She says she told him he was 'being a crazed sex poodle' and said she began to 'fear rape would be inevitable if I couldn't get out of the room'.

Scream! A crazed sex-poodle! Literary genius! Never mind Al Gore's Nobel Prize for lentil bothering, surely, on the basis of that quote alone, Ms Hagerty is worthy of a Nobel Prize for literature. It gets better.

She claims he then took her into the bedroom and threw her on her back, pinning her down with his body - at which point she says she shouted: 'Get off me, you big lummox!'

At this point in her story I did start to wonder whether Ms Hagerty is actually a character created by Alan Bennett. It was the phrase 'big lummox' that did it. Anyway, another winning line!

Now, did our frail little victim call the police after being mauled by the blubbery sex pest? Of course not. But wait till you hear why she didn't.

Her Left-wing friends (whom she describes as 'the Birkenstock tribe') advised against telling police. One warned her that she should forget it - 'otherwise, the world will be destroyed from global warming'.

Ha! Great rationale though. I imagine Gore uses it a lot.

'Release my second chakra, go on, do it for the polar bears!'

Notes from a Shambles

Outstanding

Well. This week it was time for my much dreaded lesson observation from Pompous Pilate (our oafish headteacher). The man is, as you know, King Cunt of Cuntopia. He relishes lesson observations. He adopts the persona of the most pedantic, pen-pushing OFSTED inspector and gleefully rips all of our best efforts to shreds. This is ironic, as the beetrooty boor has on numerous occasions confessed that as a teacher he himself was only ever 'average'. Modesty is not a quality usually associated with Pompous, but this critical self-assessment is usually a preface to him proclaiming his particular skills lie in 'leadership'. I pray to God one day we get the chance to rate him as a leader. He will certainly be put in the OFSTED 'special measures' category.

Anyway. You may recall, in my first lesson observation last summer I was rated a 1/2 (good with outstanding features). In my last observation I was given a '1' ( all-round 'outstanding'). BUT, last time I was assessed with my gifted and talented literacy class. To be honest, they are so enthusiastic and keen to learn that they almost teach themselves. I was more uncertain of a positive outcome when teaching maths to my class of guppy brained nitwits. Yes indeed. This is the class that I have spent an entire year teaching 2p+2p=4p.

The lesson was to be on measuring length. Not leaving anything to chance I had spent the entire week prior covering this very subject. I'd knitted some terribly sweet snakes that the children could measure. I'd even designed an activity entitled The World's Longest Chocolate Bar. I'd gone to a lot of trouble. Thankfully, it all went terribly well. I was very proud of my class (for once). The result was another OUTSTANDING rating.

Later that day Pompous called in to my classroom to see me. He was there to pay me another compliment. After assessing the whole school's results he proclaimed that my classes had made the most progress that year. Consequently, it appears he is giving me first choice of classes next year and he will allow me to do my own 'creative curriculum'. I can teach what I like! (I kind of do that anyway, as I think he suspects). So, it will be Sylvia Plath in literacy, Nick Cave in Music, Dogs Playing Pool in art and Fanny Magnets in Science! Oh, and maybe I could set my new class up with a blog. What a fascinating project that would be. Its name? Notes from a Shambles, of course!

I am beginning to suspect that Pompous is indeed in love with me. All I do is scowl at him and treat him with venomous contempt. Maybe Cosmo was right - , cool indifference wins hearts every time. I was probably just too darn nice to Rochester. I never wanted to scowl at him. . . I just wanted to cook him cauliflower cheese, rest my head on his shoulder and feel his stubble on my skin. He made me smile, not scowl. Until, of course, he ripped out my bleeding, tortured heart and stamped on it with his suede Val Doonican slippers. Then he made me cry. The bounder. I can't do 'cool indifference', I'm afraid, but it is a skill I need to learn. Are there nightclasses in it?

McFireman gets his carriage clock.

This term my class has been studying a different artist each week. They have then been producing work in that artist's style using a variety of mediums: pastels, acrylics, collage, watercolours. The purpose is to sell the children's work at our forthcoming Summer Fayre. So far we have studied Cezanne, Van Gogh, Paul Klee and (my favourite) Henri Rousseau. It has been a great project - I'll post some pics of the work completed soon. I am planning a very messy Jackson Pollock day next week! My rationale for Pollock is that even the most cack-handed imbeciles within my class will be able to dribble onto a blank sheet of paper. Hell, that's how most of them spend each and every lesson!

A couple of weeks ago I asked McFireman for propositions of other artists we could study. His suggestion of Rubens, with me posing, did not go down too well. He also made some rather snarky comments about 'pearls before swine' and why was I bothering with such high-brow topics on my sink estate ruffians. Not long after that McFireman and I stopped communicating altogether. He was just too prickly. He was retiring this year, after 31 years in the fire service. I imagine there would a be tumultuous mix of emotions about leaving, after such a long time. I asked him if he was viewing the prospect with joy or dread.

'What a stupid question.'

Was his snippy reply.

So, in terms of relationships, I am back to square one. No doubt I will give internet dating another go over my summer holidays.

Aldi Absurdity

I am still on a budget, so I am still shopping at Aldi. I actually get a perverse joy from how ridiculously cheap things are there and am beginning to learn what is good (bread, fruit and veg, household stuff) and what should be avoided (butter, cheese, meat).

Of course, the clientele can sometimes leave a lot to be desired. I overheard a truly hysterical conversation there this week, between two shellsuit wearing dolehounds.

Woman: What's lamb mince? Is that the same as beef mince?

Man: Dinna. Just mince innit?

Woman: Aye, but its beef isn't it? Lamb mince is beef.

Man: Isn't it made from lamb, like?

Woman: Ere' you're a stupid twat. How would they get beef mince from a fucking lamb? You're stupid you!

Dogging, of the non-lurcher kind

I do love looking at my blog traffic reports and the keywords searched in Google that brought people to Parma Violet Tea. I did snigger at the recent Google search oddities.

* 'Michael Gove spinach supper'
* 'South Shields dogging sites allotments'

I suspect both interweb ne're do wells were slightly disappointed to have been signposted here. I expect I failed to meet their needs!

I do wonder whether the South Shields dogging search was Rochester though (it is his home town). He has possibly taken up a new hobby (Sudoko is not really his thing). His 12 year old Nissan Almera rust-bucket would look right at home rocking in some moonlit, litter-strewn lay-by. I just hope the swarthy rogue has tidied it up a bit, last time I had a ride in his Noddy car I was distressed to find a mousetrap in the footwell. Can you imagine the injury that could cause on a dogging excursion? Dear God! Some flabby, sweaty, be-anoraked fool could certainly get more than he bargained for there!

Fanny Rat of the Month

A Lib Dem fanny rat, oh, the shame! Lib Dem Chris Huhne has been conducting an affair for over a year. The feathery stroking (see my critique of Lib Dem sex here) has even taken place in the marital bed. The spineless, duplicitous, chinless, tree-hugging Huhne was caught by the News of the World. When confronted with the impressive amount of evidence the paper had amassed the quivering minister confessed.

"I am in a serious relationship with Carina and I am separating from my wife."

Ahhh. I see. If it is 'serious', then that makes it OK. Interesting though that his decision to separate was only forced by the exposure of the affair. I hope his wife has made a bonfire of his C&A sweaters and slashed the tyres of his battery operated Prius.

Carina, Carina. . . you will never now know, is he with you now because he loves you, or because his wife chucked him out and changed the locks?

I know this NOTW investigation is not exactly Watergate, but I was pleased to see another smug, sanctimonious Lib Dem exposed. Mind you, the headline 'Huhne gets his Clegg Over' was not quite in the same league as the paper's classic 'Paddy Pantsdown' (Paddy Ashdown's affair). I seem to recall that quip kept my dad chuckling for about 4 years.

Fanny Rat of the Month

A new feature. Apparently, one is never farther that 3 feet away from a rat. The same, it has to be said, is true of the fanny rat. The latin name from the fanny rat, by the way, is Fannius Ratticus. I do love it when this blog can educate, as well as entertain. Today latin, tomorrow the perfect Victoria Sponge recipe, next week nuclear physics.

But, who will be my inaugural fanny rat? That is the question. I considered pint-sized, Take That pixie, Mark Owen. Of course I did. Interestingly, when that diminutive Don Juan was exposed as a love-cheat, he chose the 'Michael Douglas' defense. He claimed addictions were the root-cause of his serial-fanny ratting and he was briskly checked into The Priory. I was less than impressed by his terribly pathetic line about how he had 'not cheated since being married.' Well, when he was exposed as a 'wrong 'un' he had only been married 4 months! Woo, as they say, hooo, a whole 4 months of monogamy!!! Your mum must be so proud, little fella! Could it be tragic? It certainly could.

Anyway, April's 'Fanny Rat of the Month' is sadly an ex-hero of mine, Paul Weller. Weller has recently announced his engagement to a mere slip of a girl less than half his age. Here he complains about the press coverage of his forthcoming happy event.

‘Because she's so much younger than me, the press was all, it's a midlife crisis - "Wrinkly Rocker", "Mutton dressed up as ram" "Old enough to be her Modfather".

He goes on to smugly bleat that he has finally found his soul-mate. What does that say about the women he chose to have children with? Were they not 'soul-mates'? I wonder what his children make of it all. There is something quite depressing about a 51 year old man simpering on about 'soul-mates', especially when his chosen 'soul-mate' is young enough to be his daughter. There is also something tawdry about a 51 year old man who persists in squeezing himself into ultra skinny mod-suits (despite having devoured too many Eton Trifles). What with his blonde, lezza hair and leathery, tan-in-a-can, Weller is looking more like Susie Quatro every day. Weller was such a beautiful and inspiring man. What a disappointment.

And, what of Weller's gym-slip bride? To paraphrase the very wonderful Mrs Merton, what on earth can she see in aging, millionaire fanny-rat Paul Weller?

p.s. Writing this has made me remember something about Rochester. Ever modest and humble he used to object to my labeling him a 'fanny rat'.

'Na petal. That's not right. I'm not a fanny rat. I'm a fanny MAGNET'

Once I told him I had a Science lesson to plan on magnets.

'Fanny magnets petal?' He asked, suddenly interested!!!