Let's get serious

Once upon a time, my career was working with children, of many, many varieties, but mostly angry ones. For the first time in my life, a child tried to strangle me with a ruler, I was punched whilst attempting to break up a fight, and I was threatened with criminal charges.

As an on call supply teacher, my phone would ring or not ring at silly o'clock in the morning, five days a week. Some days the call wouldn't come, and I felt  relief so strong, that I allowed myself a short, celebratory dance. But other days, it did ring, and thus began the dread.

Apparently a degree (any degree) and a CRB check, qualifies you to cope with troubled children. Well, it doesn't help you explain to year 8 why you're taking their French class, when you don't speak French. Or how to help a severely disabled boy build a truck in DIY. It certainly didn't help me undress and dress a boy with down syndrome for his swimming lesson (he sprayed me in the eyes with deodorant and ran around the changing rooms naked). And I guess it didn't come in handy either in feeding children unable to feed themselves, or changing the nappy of a teenager.

What I'm saying is, that as I get older, and this time becomes more embedded in the past, my anger only intensifies. I went to a different school almost every day, and in my head, apologised to parents that I was the best they had. How was this ever allowed to happen? Yes, I feel sorry for myself. I was struggling to get a job, it was very much a lump it situation for me. But I had zero training and support throughout. Half the time, I had no idea what I was doing.

What do you do when a girl, abused by her father, who's brother is in prison for rape, whose clothes are saturated with urine, and whose hair is alive with nits, runs over to hug you? I hugged her back.

What about when you've told someone off for being racist, and then you spot his father, that same day, yelling racist abuse across the car park at other children?

There are schools which operate like prisons. Where you have to escort every child to the toilet, because the twelve doors en route have to be unlocked and then locked behind you,
It wasn't all traumatic; I had some truly incredible moments. Like helping a boy to finally understand Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, by making it relevant to him and his friends, like teaching Polish children how to read, meeting all these tremendously talented, joyful children, and the teachers who gave up more than just their time. It just worries me that this is still the status quo.

We do need more qualified, specialist teachers. We don't need any more fresh from Uni, raised in cotton wool, closest-they-ever-came-to-suffering-was-a-paper-cut-pretenders.

Some of the staff were nice to me, and helped. Others ignored me, and didn't care much about what I said, or how I interpreted 'appropriate for the situation'.

What I did realise was that I couldn't do it long-term. I wasn't selfless enough. I didn't have a commanding presence. I had a few, blindingly brilliant break-through moments with children, scattered amongst God-awful ones.

Do all teachers have to scale such towering heights on a daily basis? No, maybe not. But I admire them all nonetheless. Trust me - It's harder than it looks.

WOW, really?

Up until recently, my gym pass did not allow me into the gym. That is, that the gym had been rejecting me. Luckily, I could always sign out a card to do the trick. Unluckily, it meant that I had to endure the following conversation.

Me: Hi, Uh, can't get in the gym again.
Security: Just sign here. I'll get the card.
Me: Think God's trying to tell me something. Like, go home, have a burger.
Security: No, don't do that! You have to go to the gym!
Me: I do?
Security: You really should go.
Me: Oh.
Security: I have this friend, this girl, she can eat anything she wants, and it just disappears. She's tiny.
Me: I have friends like that.
Security: And then there are people like us.
Me: Like us?
Security: Like you and me. People who have no choice, but to go to the gym.

Now, you might be wondering how I've managed to memorise the above, and the reason is that I'm so deeply scarred. Partially, because the 'us' he's referring to, includes me, who is at the time partially concealed by a barrier, with only my face and upper torso visible, and him, 50+ man with more belly than body.

It's times like these, where I want to turn to the drink. And I don't think any of you, could tear that bottle from my grip.

At some point in your day, any point, please take a moment, to close your eyes, and think, poor Gemma, that poor, poor girl. Life tries to smash her down, but alas, she is so strong.

ALSO I'm getting really sick of Ginger Beard eating haribo. He walks around with his jean pockets stuffed with those little bags, smelling of gelatin. He's stocked the freezer with ice cream. Why doesn't he love me properly? I guess I should be grateful that every time I almost reach for the chocolate, the realisation that my male counterpart is an elderly, obese security guard, just stops me. Thank God for small miracles.

Your grouchy, deprived of anything fun, hysterical friend, WriterAtLunch

In the name of love

On Monday, I was finding life very difficult indeed. It had hardly taken its first baby step, and already I could hardly cope with myself. I had no idea where my house keys were. I'd forgotten my purse, and subsequently had no money. Security had to break into my locker at work. To top it all off, I was struggling to open doors. They were proving a real challenge.

If I had any common sense at all, I'd of just gone home , and cut my losses. Instead I went around saying odd and insulting things to people, and using the word 'awesome!!' with far too much emphasis.

Accountable for it all, is Saturday night's party. For which I was quite obviously, still suffering. Apparently you lose a few brain cells through drinking, but at some point, I've had a lobotomy.

I apparently led a class on how to assault your other half (if you must know: elbow to the face, other elbow to the face, and bring that knee up. You go girl!) We also started a choir in the kitchen, kicking off with 'Fresh Prince' and ending on Ring of Fire 'Johnny Cash. I agreed to open a textiles factory, and make nice pants. I brought a bit of Nottingham to the living room, which Ginger Beard found so appalling, he had to run away (in my defence I was only going down to the, down to the floor, and wind it back up, which we are educated to do in Primary School where I come from.)

When I'd decided that I'd had too much to drink, I was so disgusted with myself at being sensible, that I made a cocktail consisting of two ingredients, 1. Bacardi  2. Ice. Beauts.

I did manage to stay up to half 4, and only went to bed because I was so upset that I couldn't figure out how to get the duvet cover on the duvet.

I woke up at 8:30, and said a brief goodbye to everyone I loved, knowing I was firmly within my final moments on this earth. Then I got some juice. Then Ginger Beard sat on my side of the bed for the next two hours, where I dithered on the thin tightrope between life and death, informing me that he felt so sick he couldn't sleep, and thus, I had to get up to, because he was bored.

Now, I don't know how far love stretches for you, but for me, it's just not that far. I've told him to have a serious think about what he needs from me in this relationship, because it's unrealistic. If you would like to give him some pointers on how to man up, please do so on this 'ere blog.

The fairest of them all.

Yesterday, I thought someone looked nice and I said, 'Wow, don't you look Jazzy!'

Who says things like that? Seriously. I make myself sick.

I also discovered this guy - who's blog is way funnier than mine: http://copperbadge.livejournal.com/
And if that isn't upsetting enough, he's won an award for it.

I would like an award, so now I have to create 80 plus fake blogger accounts, and then comment on all my posts everyday. Because unlike with my blog, people actually leave their thoughts on his. Your secret thoughts are no good to me people, vent! Then I will cut up said award and give you a tiny, sharp piece. THANKS.

I also went all the way to Newcastle recently for a Nando's meal. They took so long to seat us, that I had to get my meal as a takeaway, and eat it on the train. Why does God hate me? I made the whole carriage stink of mango and lemon sauce, and this guy kept looking at me, and I wanted to say, 'When your life becomes one horrific joke after joke, don't come crying to me pal.' But I didn't, because mother didn't raise me to be quite so beastly to my fellow human.

I decided to speak to Ginger Beard again about how hard my life is, and he just nodded and played on Dream Zoo. It also doesn't help that I've given up nice food for a month, basically anything that tastes remotely palatable. I'm hitting the gym like a bitch (which is slang for saying, 'with much gusto'). It's day four of this new lifestyle, and I find myself thinner, with more energy, and generally being a complete dick. I blame the lack of sugar. I also think that it's better to look good, than be an upstanding citizen. I may not end up with any friends, but I will have a pleasant reflection.

I guess this is my way of saying, when I gave up coffee, I was probably awful to you. And now that I'm essentially GIVING UP food, chances are I'll probably still be awful to you. On the plus side, I recycle.

Amaze Balls

I would like to share with all of you, the search phrases which are directing people to this here blog:

Bullying for beginners Don't know why Not talking about the The demon which I was hoping You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar It all makes perfect sense. I do apologise for my absence. I've been in Scotland for a week in St Abs (or as I've affectionately named it, Stabs). Population - 3. They don't really know about mobile phones over there, so mine didn't work. AND the real shitter, was that I couldn't even get on Dream Zoo. I know. Apparently if you write a blog about your stay, which they like, you can get money off your next visit. I really hope they don't mind being referred to as Stabs. To be fair, I didn't get stabbed once, unlike in Nottingham where our favourite activity is comparing bullet scars. One day, we all went out to try and find dead things. Because this one time, when we all went to Bamburgh, we found a dead rabbit, and it's become a sort of cosy tradition. No dice. I also cooked a big fish pie, and didn't poison anyone (against the considerable odds). Yay for me. Ginger Beard forced me to go on a cliff walk in high winds, and during our Fresh Prince of Bel Air duet, he got some of the words wrong, and it was a real disappointment to be with someone, with such a pathetic grasp on their childhood. I nearly pushed him off, but realised my blog would be considerably duller without my mocking of him. So, he lives. We played poker. It turns out I suck at poker. I lost all my fake money, and consoled myself with pretzels. I also didn't win Balderdash, with is essentially a game of lying. I mean, I lie all the frigging time. There's barely a spot of truth about my person. It's an outrage. I vow to be even more full of shit in order to remedy this.  Oh, did I meet someone famous, hiding at the end of the world from the paparazzi?!! No, no I didn't. But, did I spend most of the time missing my zoo, drinking Baileys, and reading terrible books. Why yes, yes I did. The glamour never stops. I'm having a massive party this weekend, and anticipating that we'll do crazy things, like drink through straws, and laugh, loudly. I'll let you know.