triangular socks

Sometimes, in an effort of conform to those around me, I often find that I am a triangular peg. A peg that fits neither the round nor the square hole. My liberal friends see me as spawn of Thatcher while my more conservative friends think I am political correctness gone mad.
I am a climate change fearing environmentalist who loves nothing better than emitting CO2 on a pointless drive (skudging)

As a local business (cough) person – of sorts – I am acutely aware of the importance of supporting local business and industry. But as a webaphilic geek I am all to aware of the huge benefits of ecommerce. I bemoan the likes of Amazon and Play.com for killing the independent book and music industries – then I use them to do almost the entirety of my Christmas shopping. They may be putting our high streets at risk – but they also preserve my sanity in a world of crazy high streets.

I am a contradiction; and a hypocritical one at that.

Honestly I’d love to be the saviour of the local high street. I’d love to live in a world where I teach the children of the butcher from whom I buy my meat, the farmer who grew the grain in my bread, the editor of the newspaper on my desk… I’d love to live in a world where I can buy my clothes, my meat, my fish, my newspaper, and have a (fair-trade) coffee all in separate shops on my walk home from work… I’d love to live in a world where I access my finances through a human being, someone with whom I am on first name terms, rather than a screen, a mouse and the name of my first pet.

I’d love that. I think technology is both filling the future with excitement, and the past with nostalgic regret. Who doesn’t look back at historical community spirit with a sigh?

Lets be realistic. I am huge. The clothes shops in my local town are fine so long as I don’t mind having a three inch gap at my ankles and the top three buttons undone. Much as it pains me to say it, why would I settle for that when the huge impersonal faceless national chain supermarket at the bottom of the town sells everything in sizes up to mine and beyond; as well as my paper, my humus, my nail clippers, and everything in between.

A few months ago I heard of an amazing new type of socks. Socks that would make the cold snap we’re having a pleasurable experience - a dream. And where could I find them? I checked Ballymena, Coleraine, Londonderry. This was December - i told people I was Christmas shopping when really I was on a quest for socks. I check the Internet, Catalogues, Classified Ads; I checked everywhere. They were nowhere to be seen. I was distraught.

And then one day I had a breakthrough - Someone listed a pair on ebay.

I big high. No one was going to hold me from my socks. No one! I won the auction and then had to wait while they made their way from the US (apparently on a coal ship going by the length of time it took.) But they were worth he wait.

They were amazing. They were everything I was told to expect and more - the kind of socks you could wear with any outfit and feel well dressed. The kind of socks that just make your feet feel - happy.

The kind of socks you could wearing lounging round the house, walking along the beach, or even walking to the little convenience shop down the hill - where I found an entire shelf full of my elusive wonder socks. A mile away! In five different styles and a range of colours!

The moral of the story? You haven’t checked everywhere until you’ve checked the little convenience store down the street.

exit persued by cynicism

Are you really going? Where to? Is it true that this is your last day? Is it? Is it? Is it?

Actually, sweet as their concern is, I’ve grown a little tired of hearing these questions today. Yes I am moving on. The regular teacher has recovered. I have another job in another town. Winter is being replaced by Spring. Snowdrops are fading, daffodils are sprouting.

I didn’t meant to sound so flippant but I really have had it up to my neck and eventually even I begin to get tetchy sometimes. As it happens every time I spend a length of time in a school I do grow attached; it is a wrench when I move on - but I have become used to it and perhaps a little desensitised.
Tonight I will file away my literature resources and clear my room of all traces of one school and start preparing space for another. It’s a routine I’ve grown accustomed to. To be perfectly honest the toughest part is retraining my car to go South rather than East in the mornings when I am still half asleep. I try not to let it affect me too much.

But this time it is slightly different. For one thing I have to be careful what I write. Never before have I taught in a school where so many pupils actually track down my blog. And worse still, several of them actually read it. I know of some who inform me that they are working their way through the older posts - I even had one girl who complained that my standard was slipping. I was taken aback - I agree with her but I was still taken aback.

Does it worry me that they are reading this blog? Indeed it does. Greatly. The last time that happened (coincidentally at the same school) I ended up closing the blog down for a while until they lost interest. This time I reckon I’ll just watch my words and avoid all controversy - until they lose interest.

In the meantime my sixth years will be upset if I don’t mention them. I think they taught me more about the confusing modern teen ecosystem than I taught them about Street Car or Kite Runner. An entertaining bunch indeed. I won’t admit it but secretly I’ll miss them a little. The dramas caused by errant yoghurt, the random sidetracks, the torrent of abuse they shared - the pupil of the week badge is on its way and never let anyone say you’re sad for reading this.

My year 12s. Poetry buddies. I eventually got round to reading your blogs - and saw your kind comments. I was both a little embarrassed and a little touched - that was kind of you. Thank you. I’ll miss the power walks round the park, the highly competitive badminton matches, the posh Eastern European accents (who knew Shakespeare was polish?) and all the arguments in class. If poetry wasn’t mean’t to cause arguments it wouldn’t be worth studying.

Right, now I’ve had a chance to keep them all happy I’ll assure both my regular readers that normal service will be resumed. Just maybe with a touch less cynicism. For a week or two.

old man beyes

sometimes my mind wanders between lessons and I think about what I will be teaching in half an hour - or I draw strange figures. This one I call Old Mr Beyes.