Leeds Girl

For almost a year I've been sharing a room with my sister in a house I've lodged in for over a year and a half. I pay rent by the day on the days that I sleep there with no other bills to worry about and share with a teacher, card-maker and clown. My sister and I have not only shared a room, but also a bed.

Queue horrified gasps... It's not actually quite as bad as it sounds - the bed we shared was a single bed with a double camp bed frame pull-out and we somehow managed to avoid any major full-outs with only low-level bickering, despite one of us working by day and the other in a restaurant by night.

The house was a strong candidate for Kim and Aggie's attentions, sold to me as "not to every one's tastes" before I even clapped eyes on it. I'd grown accustomed to using the hob cover and bin lid as surfaces to prepare food on, although obviously using a plate or chopping board! Seeing the clown's pants hanging over the bath was a weekly treat, battling with temperamental locks a daily gamble and navigating myself with my weekend luggage through the small cleared pathway in what could be described as "the front room" became a necessary skill.

It was only when my sister moved in that the possibility of a move started being discussed. With such a great location, flexible landlady and cheap rent, I was prepared to continue living in this eccentric environment four or five days a week but little sis was not and craved her own space while continuing to have a rent-sharing partner.

Months after discussing potential relocations, I now find myself sharing a room in Finsbury Park. The flat is minutes walk from the station and located between a butchers and late night "sauna".
The glass in the door looks like it has been headbutted and the flat number is displayed on a piece of card sellotaped to the inside of this panel.

Our new digs come with its own nuances but also two single beds and a considerable amount of floor space. I'm once again struggling with locks, leaving myself an additional five minutes to secure the building on my departure and there's a special knack to using the shower. The room is incredibly light with two large sky lights that wake me up early in the morning with streams of light beaming through. On hot days it's best to keep the windows shut at night as the constant flow of traffic roars straight through the room.

On the first night in the flat, lying awake listening to the sirens, I was instantly reminded of a Grace Nichols poem that I used to teach called Island Man, describing conflicting memories of the subject's home land and his new life in London:

http://www.helpmewithenglish.co.uk/page_1593236.html

Confronted nightly with the "grey metallic soar" of our Capital and constantly traipsing between Leeds and London, Island Man has taken on a whole new meaning to me. But as the days have passed and my permanent return to Leeds draws near, I know I'll perversely miss these nightly noises and even the locks have warmed to me. Perhaps strangest of all, I might actually miss living with little sis - well, just a tiny bit.

Skipping To The Digital Age

Like many professions these days, teachers have little time to take proper lunch breaks. Working in a secondary school, classic playground games like British Bulldog and Kiss Chase are a rare sight and thankfully I've never had to tempt fate by doing an outdoor break duty.

At two recent weddings, I spotted something amusing and perhaps a little disturbing. Left to their own devices, shying away from boring grown-up stuff, groups of kids were overheard discussing the new interactive time-passer. "No I'm being the zombie," they animatedly argued, before chasing each other around a nearby field. I immediately wondered what was influencing such young kids' "innocent" play and looked to the excellent HBO series, The Walking Dead - something the troubled young man I work with in a certain London school is monotonously obsessed with, giving painfully long blow-by-blow accounts of scenes I've already watched.

In the past there's been an awful lot of talk of "copycat crime" and the finger of blame has been boldly pointed at a variety of films, computer games and TV shows but what of "copycat play"? As a young'un, I remember making do with Conkers, Hopscotch, Cat's Cradle, Sleeping Lions, Chain Tag, Stuck In The Mud and What's The Time Mr Wolf? And of course repeatedly tripping over giant skipping ropes!

I guess the classic pairings of cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians and mummies and daddies have always been around. It seems zombies and humans are the new modern 21st Century pairing of this "digital age". The irony of course lying in how oblivious tomorrow's generation are to the bleakness of this new playground craze. But then again, at that age who really wants to be a mummy or daddy either?

Oh How The Mind Expands

The saying goes “you learn something new every day” and this week this actually rings true. Having to teach an array of subjects of course means I'm constantly learning and re-learning a variety of academic disciplines but this week I've been exposed to and stumbled across a whole array of weird and not-too-wonderful new words and concepts.

My week begins with a student declaring the unheard of. One lunch a young lady of average build confesses she likes it when she's fat. I'm then bowled over by an exceedingly troubled pupil actively wanting to learn about long division, even when given a choice of subjects.

Being in close proximity to the same students every day, they're unknowingly teaching me their lingo. I always used to relish learning new words but no longer being in school on a regular basis means I'm not exposed to kid-speak. I'm particularly taken with a combination of words meaning really rude - “bare basty”.

The linguist and geek inside forces me to look up both words and a strange exceedingly overused utterance, “dang”:

“Bare” http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=bare%20good

“Basty” http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=BASTY

“Dang” http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=dang

Later, sharing my findings over an Orange Wednesdays pizza, the conversation somehow strays to disturbing inventions and I'm reminded of "P-Mate" - "the quick, clean, leak-proof and discreet solution for women on the go":

http://www.homeandweb.com/p-mate.htm

and introduced to the rather disturbing, "Menstrual Cup", apparently "the most modern intimate hygiene product for ladies" and “regardful of the environment“ with a lifetime of up to 15 years, if maintained correctly. This baby creates a "happy, healthy [private] place":

http://www.menstrualperiodcup.com/menstrual-cup-healthy-vagina/

While the latter horrifies me, P-Mate is vaguely familiar from festival speak and elicits fond memories of the legendary "dick pants" once discovered in a novelty gift Christmas catalogue free with a newspaper. Although P-Mate may not be a faux-latex penis-pants combo allowing females to wee standing up, it's a step in the right direction and the least worrying of this week's discoveries.

The Ironic Pervert!

It's a normal coach journey from London to Leeds or so I think. I'm armed with two film screeners to pass the time – one I requested and one that I think randomly arrived. Having looked at IMDB's film rating for “Pervert!” I'm not desperate to watch and review it but as I now have it anyway, I decide I may as well watch it (some clever marketing by Arrow Films there).

A few minutes into the film and I soon realise it's perhaps not the most suitable thing to be watching on a coach. I'd been expecting a smutty B movie horror but this is practically soft porn. I decide it's too late to go back now and as the film's only an hour twenty I may as well battle through. I'm aware throughout the film that the guy sitting next to me is also watching but unlike me, he has no sound so can only see an awful lot of boobs and sex.

The film's finished and I quickly eject and put the next screener in while my laptop battery has power. This is “Dancing At The Blue Iguana”, a film about the intertwining lives of six “exotic” dancers. As it has a pretty reasonable cast, I'm expecting an actual film with a plot that doesn't merely seek to titillate which thankfully rings true but there's again an unfortunate amount of boobage on show. I can't help but wonder what the guy next to me thinks of me and feel slightly embarrassed.

My battery dies twenty minutes before the end of the film and as I remove my headphones the guy next to me says, “It's difficult on here.” I presume he's talking about the tropical temperature, lack of working fans and the stench coming from the toilet. I agree with him but he again repeats “It's difficult on here” and then says “How can you keep watching all that?” At first I'm a little confused, thinking he means how can I watch something continually for so long but then it dawns on me – he means all the boobs. I laugh and explain I'm watching screeners, before asking him if he means the nudity. He says it's difficult watching and asks what I think of the boobs. I tell him they're merely boobs and he proceeds to tell me “There's so much liquid coming out of my penis”.

Shocked and unsure how to proceed, I desperately try not to snigger and pretend I didn't hear him and get out a newspaper – he's had a newspaper laid over him like a blanket for the last few hours and it's still there. He asks me if I watch lots of these type of films and I again try to explain that they are screeners and despite appearances, aren't straight-up porn. He asks if I've seen an Indian film with boobs and I try to steer the conversation away by talking about Bollywood but he suddenly asks if he can touch my boob. I tell him that's entirely inappropriate and look down at my paper but moments later he's again begging for a quick touch and telling me “they're so nice and white”. Clearly realising I'm not going to concede, he tries another tact and asks if I will show my boobs to him, actually expecting me to lift up my t-shirt and bra on a National Express coach and reveal my disappointing half eye-full.

As a coping mechanism I'm desperately counting down the minutes until my arrival. I know I have about 25 so should just try to sit out his grossly inappropriate remarks rather than trying to find another seat on this already exceedingly full coach. I keep feeling him getting nearer to me and feel him trying to graze the side of my right boob so firmly cross my arms. He's asking me what he should do when he gets home because he doesn't have a girlfriend and I'm tempted to tell him I know why he's single but instead say, “You're a guy, I'm sure you'll manage.” I feel his hand on my knee and quickly fling it away saying “no”.

The minutes are ticking and I'm having flashbacks to a similar incident that happened in Malaysia. I try to concentrate on my newspaper but can feel him watching me and through the welcomed but tense silence I wonder whether he's realised how inappropriate he has been but then he suddenly says “Half an hour left” as if he's merely been politely bantering with me for the last half hour. I'm relieved he's over-estimated the remaining journey time and quickly grab my stuff on arrival.

As he says “Perhaps see you around”, I hope I never do. I make eye-contact with the man-woman in the seat in front and wonder whether I've unknowingly entered a League of Gentleman episode. S/he must have heard some of our “conversation” but I can't tell whether his/her knowing look relates to the horrific coach conditions or the uncomfortable situation I have just been in.

Getting off the coach I'm relieved my travel buddy is going on to Bradford so safely contained. I can't help but inwardly smirk at how wrong I got it. I'd been worried he'd think I was some kind of pervert when in actuality he turned out to be a perfect example of one. If you ever want to put male passengers to the test, it would seem all you need to do is watch something racy. And to top it off, it turns out I actually absent-mindedly requested Pervert!

http://www.pervertthemovie.com/

The Unpredictably Wedged Wedges

At a wedding this weekend my female paranoia and over-preparedness was actually pretty beneficial. Walking from the car to the blessing service, I made it only half-way before one leg suddenly rather dramatically sunk to the ground. Frequently used to suffering from gimp leg and an ability to fall over on even surfaces in flat shoes, I thought nothing of it until I stepped forward and realised half my shoe was missing.

Carefully reaching backwards it appeared a substantial portion of my wedge had just fallen away.

I was now left to awkwardly shuffle forward on the remaining section of the shoe back to the car where the shoes I'd originally planned on wearing were safely tucked away.

After slow progress towards the car, sitting in the passenger seat I was finally able to more closely examine the damage and establish that both shoes seemed to suddenly be as equally knackered.

It seemed I was destined to wear the shoes The Boy had sidelined and on this occasion I felt immensely glad I'm generally an over-cautious packer. Unfortunately I didn't factor in the cold Peak District nights and although I may have managed to look the part by day, by night I was mitchelined up in an array of multi-coloured clashing layers and still shivering.

I'm just glad we drove to the service from the guest house, rather than walking or I might have been shoeless all day. Still, I'm now able to get rid of one of the many pairs of shoes I own and don't need without too much heartache - a bulky pair at that!

RIP charity shop bargain shoes.

Another Nail In The Coffin

I've been in the same school for about six weeks now and days are generally quiet but every now and again there's an explosive event, sparked by seemingly very little. As this week is my last one in this particular school working with the nearly permanently excluded kids, I thought I'd share with you one such impromptu incident. Below is the report I had to write up on my penultimate day in the school. Obviously I have changed the student and teachers' names but everything else remains as I recorded it.

“ ? had finished working on the computer and as I logged her off she went over to the other side of the room so see ?, who'd just entered the room. When I went back over to the other side, she was sitting in the teacher's chair and refusing to move. Eventually she moved and stormed out.

I went out into the stairwell and had a chat with her and she seemed reasonably calm. She then came back into the room and aggressively demanded “pass me my flipping nails” (the fake nails ? had previously confiscated some half an hour/40 minutes ago after she started putting them on in the middle of a lesson). She repeatedly said this and ? went for “on call” (there was no walkie-talkie up here this morning as the battery had died).

While she was out of the room, ? came back in and started screaming “pass me my nails” again and “now's my home time – it maybe not yours but I'm going home now!” She pushed passed me and tried to get at the drawer, even trying to physically pull the chair I was sitting on away from the desk.

Members of the Science department (whose office is next door) came in and helped intervene. She stood at the side of my head and yelled into my ear “Give me my nails!” This then turned to “Pass me my fucking nails – if you don't get her to give them to me, I'll punch her fucking head in – I'll punch her right in the face!”

Other members of staff stood between me and her and one managed to convince her that the false nails were locked away downstairs in an office. Tables were moved and she was escorted out of the room away from me but said “fucking bitch – why don't you suck dick?” as she left. She also overturned the computer screen (thankfully undamaged) before being escorted out and causing a loud scene on the stairs.”

Immediately after this incident I heard wailing, fittingly demonic-sounding to be compared to a banshee. Three members of the senior management team had to restrain her and lead her out of the building. The police were later called on site. Prior to all this, the student in question had been working uncharacteristically hard and had had an exceptional day the day before.

This incident is the closest I have ever come to reliving my days at the crumbling West Leeds High School. Having been doing supply teaching across central London and even Essex, on and off for the past year and a half, I have never worked in a school as consistently rough as my old long-term Leeds employer. The students I have been working with for the last six weeks are all essentially in the “knacker's yard” - contrary to the name, “The Study Centre” actually seems to have been created as a place to collect evidence of bad behaviour so that the school's worst pupils will be accepted to a PRU (Pupil Referral Unit). Having someone shout in my face isn't that pleasant but at the end of the day, what is shouted is pretty laughable – the fate of some of these children isn't.

Dumming Down Eurovision

This year's Eurovision winners (Ell/Nikki representing Azerbaijan) sung an aptly named number called "Running Scared" - something a large quantity of the country's population do on competition night. During the run-up to the royal wedding I was busy planning ways to avoid the event, eventually settling on a nice lie-in and evening trip to the dog races. For Eurovision however, I'd e-mailed out a "save the date" plea more than a month in advance and actually planned on being awake for TV footage. It may well be the annual event many love to hate but Eurovision has a place in my heart. I can actually remember lying in front of the TV as a teenager with a cushion carefully placed under me, willing my favourites to win and even once voting for a British entry. Nowadays, like the royal wedding was for many, Eurovision is merely an excuse to get a little merry.

Terry Wogan's commentary seemed to get progressively more inflammatory towards our competitors as each year passed and as his retirement grew nearer. Wogan's sarcastic banter provided the perfect stimulus for the creation of a variety of Eurovision drinking rules. Having missed Graham Norton's debut as Wogan's replacement, I was mildly disappointed by his dummed-down style of presenting. Twelve of us squeezed around the TV and devised this year's drinking rules, banking on some infamous Norton sexual innuendo and bitchiness but less than half-way through the competition we decided to ditch the rule.

In asking Norton to tone it down, the BBC have destroyed the competition's celebrated playful commentary that for many was one of the main draws of watching Eurovision. This year's Düsseldorf show distinctly lacked the mullets and spandex of previous years and seemed heavy on child contestants. One entry (yes, Spain) actually decided to unintentionally mock deaf Eurovision fans by only performing part of the song with sign-language to leave viewers guessing as to what the rest of the song was about. But reliably, as usual the English entry was shocking:

Despite the song's title, "I Can", Blue proved they in fact "can't" by delivering a song significantly more dire than Ireland's rather catchy "Lipstick", performed by the loathsome Jedward, looking somewhat Gagga-ed:

After shots of everything drinkable in the flat and four slumbering viewers, I didn't win our in-house bet and the only memorable stand-alone performance came from Moldova:

Dressing up in items from a chosen country and bringing dishes from said country for a European feast was possibly more educational than watching the show. I now know the Fins eat liquorice and that apparently both Spain and Sweden share a love of rice pudding. I'm now looking forward to sampling next year's feast.