Negativity is bad for your health

So this week I have mostly been feeling awful. I have had a constant headache and felt like I was coming down with something really nasty. General feeling sorry for myself ensued until thursday I was forced out of my house by unpleasant financial issues which should not have happened.

I was so angry and frustrated it fueled my ill ass getting into town to have a go at a few people and try and sort it. I know I looked awful, but I didn't care, I was being taken for a ride and I wasn't having it. When I got back I was tired but my headache had eased.

Friday I got up feeling positive and my headache had gone. It made me wonder whether I was feeling negative because I was ill or feeling ill because I was being negative. I guess it's a chicken and egg scenario. Either way they both disappeared at the same time.

Black and White - Peeping at the surface

So the facts are:

The day after I had the good news I had a school to volunteer in I had some bad news. I got made redundant. Now those of you who have followed my blog for a while will be a little confused as I had only just started the job. After 4 weeks of working in a job I didn't hate they get rid of me. So I am back on the unemployed pile, forced to jump through the government hoops to get money that, lets face it, even a monkey couldn't live on!

I think what made it worse was that my tv had broke the week before and I had borrowed money from my parents to buy a new one with the promise to pay it back quickly out of my new wages. Oops! so now I'm poor again with the added guilt that I owe money. How annoying!

Second Hiccup came later in the week. I decided that I wanted to move to Scotland. I'd lived in Scotland for a while when I was younger but had not been ready to be that far away from my family. I really loved it though and think it's now time for the change. I figured I may as well do my teacher training there rather than have to wait until I'm done before moving up there.

So I was going through my study options when I glanced at the entry requirements. In England I have all the grades necessary but apparently not so for Scotland! If I want to teach there I need to re-sit a GCSE I thought I was done with 11 years ago.

After a bit of ranting, followed by disbelief I had to weigh my options. If I really wanted to teach in Scotland then I would need to swallow my pride and re-take the damn GCSE. So I did.

The problem was that I was already booked on a textile course that I was really looking forward to. With my recent poverty I could not justify paying out a second lot of money on a course so I did the mature, adult thing and cancelled the textile course and instead booked on my GCSE course. :-(

It felt like the first of many sacrifices I was going to have to make to have a stable adult life that didn't suck. I guess with this and the redundancy I was visited by what my blogging friend calls the Self Pity Gnome. No worries though I sent him packing as is only right and have gone back to blindly pushing on ignoring any niggling doubts I have.

On the positive side my new course is on an afternoon which I could not have made if I was still working, so perhaps my redundancy was meant to be?

Sewing With My Grandmother

The crisp, clean piece of white cloth was handed to me with quiet reverence. I let it pass through my hands feeling its properties, the starched stiffness of a new project barely embarked on. Around the edges it was finished with lace trim much softer than the main fabric, delicate to the touch. The sensual rub of the lace pattern delicately dancing across my fingertips.

To one corner I noticed the transferred design boldly infringing on the stark perfection of the fabric. The bold blue lines seemed clumsy and intrusive against the elegance of the lace. Remembering my purpose I looked up to my grandmother.

Her face was lit half with amusement and half with impatience as she held out two rings in her hands waiting for me to take them. I took the white one first. The cold hard plastic was strange to the touch, its outer edge concave. I carefully placed the ring beneath the fabric meticulously lining it up so the transfer was in the centre.

I reached for the second ring. It was dusky peach in colour and completely unlike the first. It had the consistency of rubber, flopping comically in my hand. I noticed with some confusion that there was a small brass ring attached to its side glinting slightly in the sun filtering through the lacy net curtains.

I pushed the second ring over the first as I had been shown, trying to keep the material taut. It was messily done and I had to straighten it out before my grandmother noticed the imperfect ripples over the fabric. I lifted it to the light with my chubby childhood fingers marvelling at my success in the first task, which would one day enable me to create masterpieces like my grandmothers.

My hand dropped and I started to fidget on the sofa, the soft sheen navy fabric clinging to my legs in the warmth of the room. I fingered the space next to me where the large peacock stared back out at me through its fabric prison.

My stomach lurched as the lesson began.

Growing pains

Hey, it's been a week already and no blog. I guess I didn't know where to start or what to say or what to leave out. Some things I guess are difficult to convey in black and white. Like I've said before, for someone who perpetually sticks their head in the sand, it is always scary to see the contents of ones life in print. It's so final.

I went to see Julie and Julia tonight. I wasn't expecting much. I viewed it as my indulgence, a fluff movie about cookery and I thought it's just what I needed. It was more than just a sickly sweet film about food. Something really struck a chord with me. The modern part of the story is about a woman who is stuck. She's a failed writer who is working a thankless desk job. In an attempt to give herself focus she decides to cook everything in a well known cookbook in a year and blog about it.

It got me thinking about blogs and life in general. I am no longer stuck, I have a plan which I'm following, overcoming each obstacle as it arrives. I am working towards a goal. I am no longer directionless. But am I happy?

I guess the answer is not really. I have the beginnings of an actual life again, I have plans that will make my life ok. Is it what I really want to be doing? Probably not, but who really does what they actually want? My plans push me into adulthood where dreams are shelved for more practical endeavors. It is a place where second choice is really not that bad. I try to get excited about my new adult life but I guess it alludes me. How I wish I could.

Because in the end second best should be good enough, some people don't even get that. They slave away at jobs they hate just to get by. Why should I be any different? Dreams are only dreams because they are ideals when in the end real life is about compromise.

And still I haven't actually told you what is going on with me in the real world. Instead I rattled on about the world in my head and never had to confirm in print words I'd rather bury in the sand as far from my head as possible.

Dickensian Boy

Lit by the harsh florescent light
A smile thins his lips
momentarily disturbing the route
of a glinting spoon piled
with cereal.

A bowl balances the scene
jauntily held 
in statement more than purpose.

He glides into the classroom 
to an open desk
in simulated nonchalance,
discarding the bowl noiselessly 
on the Formica surface.

An exhibit in a freak show
created to obscure
a mundane life.

Out of our time he floats among us
long enough 
to assert his oddball brilliance
without a hint of irony 
in his sunken eyes and glib persona.

He scries oratory delights on 
crinkled scraps of paper tied together
with a blue shoelace.

He vanishes when not in our midst,
delving the depths of obscurity,
hands buried in patched pockets
of a gentleman’s blazer.
Hunched against the tide of modernity.

An over intellectualized ghost 
of a personality hiding behind 
his clever words and witty rhetoric.

This poem is based on a purely fictional character. Any resemblance to a person living or dead is coincidental and unintended!!

Spot the difference for those following Cherrypicker. Better worse or the same?

Back to School

So today, after a seven week wait, I finally went into the junior school that had agreed to see me about volunteering.  Strangely I didn't feel nervous at all.  I walked into the school and knew that I would be comfortable there.  I had spent time worrying over the summer that just because I wanted to teach that it didn't mean I'd be any good at it.  I had no idea how I would feel being in a school again.

I'm sure now that if I decide to teach that I'll be good at it.  It's a strange certainty that hit me as I sat in an empty classroom talking to the learning support teacher.  I feel comfortable in that environment, if I'm going to do anything apart from write for a living this is it.  

They were really friendly and keen for me to help out with them.  She pulled out the card I had made whilst talking to me and kept drawing attention to it.  So I guess that worked.  I have a few legal hoops to jump first (CRB) but once that is done I will be a volunteer teaching assistant!