Strictly Looking Like a Twat

On a whim, and to stop the sister figure from complaining, I went to a Ballroom and Latin class yesterday evening.
Now, being fairly game, I thought that the most I would be required to do would learn a few steps, embrace a leggy female dancer (preferably Eastern European and blonde), and whirl her roud the room, pausing only to wink at the astonished onlookers.
Astonished onlooker 1: "And this is only his FIRST lesson?"
Sister: "Yeah, he's annoyingly good isnt he?"

What followed was a tiny bit different to this delusion; I was assigned to the novices, to practice the Rumba. I picked up the basic steps fairly well, except for one endearingly called "the whisk", which was a lateral step with a tiny jink and a fast changover to the opposite foot.
Done well, it looked quite remarkable, requiring a blend of speed and grace that I quite obviously lacked. I looked something like a man who was discreetly trying to shift a troublesome house rodent from his trousers while keeping his hands free. I started to perspire from the sheer concentration of keeping my feet in the right position at the right time, as if a large male-part was stopping me from doing anything I might regret.
What was quite awe-inspiring though, was when the experienced dancers all took to the floor with some 1920's ballroom music playing over the tannoy. It seemed, just for a second, that I'd stepped back in time and was voyeuristically seeing something quite lost forever as a popular hobby. The older ladies moved with an economy of energy that was in itself quite exquisite, their wheeling steps following a groove in the floor that had clearly survived many years, the ballroom staying constant while outside all sorts of changes permeated.

New Suit

For a long time I've been a one-suit man. We met across a crowded charity shop (a fact that I've denied vehemently to my friends on numerous occasions, its like saying you vote BNP, or like Wales.) Someone, presumably deceased, had been cursed with the exact same measurements as me. The pigeon chest, the slightly awkward 31 inch inside leg and the 31 inch waist made the suit fit like a glove. I paid ten pounds for it back in 2005, it was an M&S charcoal suit, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
The suit and I were inseperable, we went to the Symonds Leaver's Ball in 2006. I had work the next day in Winchester and decided to be clever and pack an overnight bag and stay with one of my workmates who was also in for the morning shift. I forgot, after the combined effects of several tequilas, sambucas and pints of lager, to pick up my rucksack containing all my regular clothes from the cloakroom. The suit and I went to work in the morning, still reeking of booze. The manager didnt care, mainly because for the duration of my shift I was presumed to be the manager by various hormonal women screeching at me:
"I tried this size 18 on and its too fackin' small!"
"Thats because you have a fat arse, madam." I felt like saying. The closest I got to eloquence however, was being sick behind the till. It was a bad day for the suit.
What I hadnt noticed, being blinded by the bargain of it all, was that the suit was made out of very comfortable wool. Wool, being what it is, was hardly the choice for a hot July afternoon, especially as my hangover was taking on epic proportions while in a shop with no air conditioning.
Still, in the winter months, I reigned supreme if there was a formal situation. I, sadly, went to two funerals in as many years for people I knew well. I also went to three very joyous weddings.
Another grim day for the suit was my Rugby Xmas piss up where I got slated, nay, crucified for wearing something that was charcoal and woolen.
"Excuse me sir? What time does Geography start?" Was one of the various and hilarious comments slung my way. Olly preferred to keep it simple with: "Oi Riley, wheres your leather elbow patches? Ya cunt! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!" I, predictably, got fined and had to down a pint of Bailey's with lime cordial, I didnt go to the loo for days.
The days loomed where I knew the suit and I might have to part ways; neccesity for a dark suit at graduation and my expanding gut being the first harbingers of doom. And, naturally, I found a replacement in Debenhams today. The cut is good, it makes me look like someone from The Apprentice, and I can finally wear it without worrying about how much I'm going to perspire in the warmer months.
Still, all that being said, there will only ever be the one suit for me. I'll keep it in the wardrobe for emergencies, or give it to charity.

Starting to feel a little bit like I’m making the right choices, just at the wrong time. I feel drained everyday due to the Italians I’m teaching, and the sad part is that I’m only teaching them for 4 hours a day. How on Earth will I cope with a classroom full of rowdy Korean kids come New Year?
I’m seeing it as a learning curve, a challenge for me to overcome. There’s really no other way to approach it, in my opinion.
Still, every cloud: I’m getting paid £10.30 an hour which is bloody good, if only I could teach for longer...
Got my results back, 2.1 with Honours. I’m obviously really really happy. However, though I am happy to have achieved what I set out to do at the start of the year, the anti-climax of getting the result (it is, of course, just a grade) is compounded by guilt. This is probably normal, I made some big sacrifices in my personal life to be more focussed and selfish and to devote my time to me and nobody else. Even now, at the other end of the journey, I feel bad for having been so obtuse about getting the grade, it’s the kind of thing I sneer at in other people, and I wish I might have got it effortlessly and been able to pay as much attention to my personal life as I think it merits. Still, understandably, I have a big grin on my face because I know nobody is going to question my degree class, and that does make it partially worth it.
Had a brainwave yesterday, via the ever-expanding brain of Miss Mackenzie: after my travels, wherever they are and however long for, it would excite me greatly to get involved in a Journalism Course. The Institute of Journalism offer fast-track courses for graduates and often, if you aren’t totally hopeless, you can find yourself working in the industry after a year.
I will ruffle feathers by saying this: but I have heard from people who work in or with the industry and they all have the opinion that a Journalism degree is inadequate preparation. A wider course in English, History, Psychology, Classics etc combined with a Journalist’s Qualification, is considered to be much more wholesome as it means that the candidate has had other interests and disciplines other than just shorthand writing speed.
Still, all in good time.
Seriously tired and in need of a laugh, am beginning to feel a bit like Mort Raney in that Stephen King novel and am wondering at what point I'll wake up to a massacred family and me stood there in a Farmer's hat. I just want a big break, though I dont know when that will be.

Poems

I've recently been published again in this years edition of 'Pandora's Box'. I thought, as it is only a small publication, to share with you some of the things that are in there by myself.



Cleared Out

Heaney's North, Pinter's Celebration
And a Lonely Planet guide to Korea
All for under a tenner.
Joyous though I am,
It's hard to not feel sad and sorry for
Gap-filled bookshelves dotted with stickers,
Venerable walls cheapened
With discount posters.



Loss

Losing a loved one is not a hole in the head,
A wound to the heart,
A cavern, A void.
It is the deep and certain knowledge that whoever knocks at your door
Wont be them.


Stripped

Hovering just below corrugated roofing,
Disfigured, odd strips of varied luminosity
Glare.
Like stretched incisors, one blacked out,
One full of dead flies, they make me wonder
Just how many saw them in their pure new smile.
And, wherever they are now, remember it?



Horror-Scope

Virgos never give it up,
Leo's too hard to tame.
Capricorns find me unsure footing.
I'm no pescetarian, so Pisceans are a no-go.
Saggitarians arrows miss me, Scorpions scare me,
Librans weigh me, find me wanting.
I'm a red rag to Taurans, and Arians find me
Woolley.
I'm no bigamist, sorry Gemini.
And it goes without saying that I dont want Cancer.
After all this, star signs are rubbish,
Which is a very Aquarian thing to think.

I tend to ponder about things that not many others do: why are white van men so angry? What is the point of GMTV? And, most importantly, why does asking for a polythene shopping bag make me evil?
I'm a humanitarian at heart, give me an energy efficient way to do something and I'm there. Getting hot and bothered about possible emissions, especially when all I want to do is put the said shopping in my car and drive off home to eat it cold while I read a book. I could understand if I had become notorious in the area for grabbing fistfuls of plastic bags, taking them to a field with a handy tyre-fire already blazing away, and setting alight to them, pausing only to hurl car batteries on the inferno. Its quite simply nuts.
Tescos have had my custom for a few years now, mainly through convenience (but then, what else would you use a convenience shop for?) They are also the main culprits for making a person asking for a shopping bag feel like a pariah.
Woman: Would you like a bag?
Me: Yes please.
Woman: (scowls) Do you not have any of your own?
Me: (Looks around, puzzled) Well, no. I presumed that your offer of a bag might morph seamlessly into me obtaining one.
Woman: Well here you go. (Hands me one, crumpled up.)

Of course, wrapping it round her head would be considered assault. I merely informed her that I intended to pay for my shopping in its entirety by way of my book of vouchers...

Too Damn Hot...

I had a cold shower in the early hours last night (and no, not for THAT reason!)

By going to bed completely freezing cold and naked I just about survived the night, though I woke up this morning in a haze of mist from the water pretty much evaporating off my bum.

For the next two weeks I am teaching two Italian 11 year olds called Gianluca and Lorenzo, and they are both bloody crap. The level of fun I might ordinarily have derived from the teaching was normally to do with its brevity, I could make the lesson fun but not burn out. Now, I arrive in Romsey at 9am and after the first hour I want to cry. Its not so much that I doubt my own ability as it is that I dont have a template for teaching EFL, I can cover grammar, superlatives, punctuation, connectives etc. But pretending to be 'Inspector Clueless', the textbook's moronic cartoon character, while I 'search for full stops' with two kids from Milan who looked like they'd rather be outside smoking, is a bit much.

Still, getting some nice moolah for it. And I dont have to serve a pint...

Went for an interview yesterday at Bendicks, made a quip about my interviewer's hairnet making her look like one of the martians from "Mars Attacks". It was recieved with a polite smile that soon turned into a glower, I should learn to override my urge to talk total bollocks sometimes.