i'm on a roller coaster, people. solo. but one with no rails, with unforeseen dips and curves....we are heading into the last three weeks of school. the work load is of tsunamic (is that even a word?) proportions. i tend to be like an ostrich with her head in the sand. who isn't? madame M (the french mistress) that's who. she had her reports done literally in the third week after the hols. what could she possibly write about, i pondered? accents? vocabulaire? la revolution? beats me.
i spend my days at school wandering from one exam room to the next, sort of lost. dreamy. sieve brained. finding odd (as in strange, irrelevant) jobs to do that aren't remotely linked to the on coming tsunami. like sorting out the giant chess set outside the office (which, i might add, has been annoying me for ten months). poetry flows out of me. reams and reams of it. in blue curly ink. time on my hands? write poetry. fix the chess set. oh um...sigh..what else? blog? yes! as i eye out the pile of unmarked English Language Paper 2's lying belligerently on my desk. this is not going to end nicely. there are reports, the end of term magazine, next year's objectives (NEXT YEARS? who the hell knows that already? madam m, that's who. sigh. the planet might well be spinning the other way round next year for pete's sake) not so, according to mr nyamota, who is being surprisingly kind and patient. the truth is i have absolutely no idea what my objectives will be. aucune idee. zippo. zero. oh well. i'll just wing it. make it up. and then decide next year.
reports. what to say? well done X. he must have done something good along the way, although it's not at all apparent. biscuits and jolly juice all round. congratulations Y, we're so pleased you're leaving. here's a cheap little plastic medal for you. best of british luck, old chap. or: i would advise you to marry off M as soon as possible. there is no hope. you're wasting your money.
and if this isn't enough i have decided at the very last minute to put on a Julius Caesar production...trying to teach students to stab and die magnificently. conjuring up ways to spill liters of blood (water balloons filled with watery tomato sauce?) all ideas welcome, oh bestests. we're going maasai. shukas. spears. ostrich (apt i thought) feather head dresses. beads. twinklies. car tyre sandals. all terrifically roman, really.
the fact is there is an entirely different world in my head to the one spinning around me.
oh. my. god. this is so going to get ugly. everyone else has left the beach, runnin' wide eyed, except me. and my loyal horse. the sea looks strangely empty. the reef is exposed. the dogs have fled. the elephants have run up to the high ground. yachts are spinning the wrong way round.
i'm dreamily writing poetry in the sand.
(i work better under pressure. i work better under pressure. i work better under pressure.)
(i am brilliant. i am brilliant. i am brilliant. i am brilliant. i am brill-----)
by christ, i had better get on with it or i am history.
(is that the time? oh. off for dinner at the neighbours. can't be late now)
that said, toodely old toot oh best beloveds. bisous X.X.X. extremely poetic ones. extremely. x j