Why I Love IKEA

Because I'm not ashamed to admit that I do love it. So much so that I got up super early today to make the first Church service so that the boyfriend and I would have more time to traipse round the hallowed furniture store, fussing over whether to go for the glossy or matte finish on our bookcases and arguing over whether a furry rug was a bathroom necessity or not. (I lost the argument and we came home rugless.)
But I am fully aware that most [sane] people hate IKEA. With the sort of passion I usually reserve for football. Giving up my Sunday afternoon for that? No thank you.
So, why do I love it so much? Well, there are two reasons. Firstly, I’m a real home-loving, house-proud girl. Interior design, colour schemes, wacky props and understated designs are all my kinda thing. I ADORE seeing all the furnishings and colours and mentally redesigning every room in our flat. When we finally get a house, the boyfriend and I have agreed that we’re going to have a library/study. That’s my favourite room to design, because it’ll be the room I spend the most time in. I’ve always wanted a library – I blame my childhood fascination with ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and my mum's fascination with reading to me all the time. Gotta love her for it.


But, besides the excitement of planning our future home, I love the constant entertainment of IKEA. Oh yes. People watching – no better place for it. Forget watching soaps or studying psychology from textbooks – just get yourself down to IKEA and prepare to watch all kinds of dramas unfold before your eager eyes. And they're so predictable. The couples. I'm not ashamed to admit how amused I get when watching couples argue over the black sofa or the green one (not full blown rows; they’re embarrassing and tasteless. But watching a girl try every trick in her book to get the green sofa? Gets a smirk every time).
The children, and mums running after them, begging them to put down the Swedish novel/fake TV remote/kitchen fork that they are absentmindedly chewing as they wander in blissful ignorance through the stampede of stressed out shoppers. In amongst the crowd is the flustered browsing of women, who insist on picking up every item within reach (‘ooh – would this look good in the lounge? Mark never buys me flowers anymore, but maybe if we had an empty vase on the table...’) The men who have been here before have learnt, and usually have a firm grip on their wife’s elbow. This allows them to steer her away from unnecessary items which might distract from the task at hand, and propel her along through the different sections before she can get any dangerous ideas about redecorating the bathroom ‘whilst we’re at it’. ‘Must get shopping done ASAP’, the men think. ‘It’s hot and crowded and we need to get back to assemble these flaming wardrobes before the match starts. No darling, stop looking at the lightbulbs. Elizabeth, we DON’T NEED any more flaming lampshades!’
Then there are the students. ‘We need a desk. What’s the cheapest one available? This plastic one here? Cool. Ohh, it only comes in luminous yellow or pink? Umm... That’s okay. We’ll take it anyway. It’ll be quirky.’ No boys, it’ll be dreadful. But priceless.

I don't know how the boyfriend and I manage it - perhaps because we think the same way - but IKEA rows just don't happen for us. We go in, see something we like ("oh! I was JUST about to point that out to you! Let's get it!") and come home with it. Sorted.

Our 'rows', however, come once we're home. My sophisticated boyfriend loves nothing more than letting his guard down and being 'macho' every now and again by whacking bits of wood with a hammer. I like to read the instructions. Clear a suitably sized floor space. Line up all the parts and tools in the order I'll need them, with the appropriate tools - including necessary glass of Shiraz - within reach.

We drive each other bonkers, in the nicest possible way.

Eventually, we compromise. He whacks bits of wood with a hammer. I instruct on WHICH bits of wood to whack and concentrate on tightening the screws with a suitably sized screwdriver ("just use any old one," the boyfriend advises occasionally when he sees me delve in the box to find a new screwdriver for the new screws. This advice is duly noted and ignored.) and checking that all the angles are perfect. Yes, I am a neat freak. Even with flat pack furniture.

Posts Are Like Buses...

Another post?
Yep, well, I thought I'd better do something about the fact that my dashboard is a list of drafts.



Today has been weird. I think I have offended everyone I could possibly have offended, apart from the assistant head at the school which rejected me who phoned about half an hour ago to tell me to apply if they had any future vacancies. Who I probably did offend, because I think I responded with "I'll think about it" or something similarly noncommittal, even though I was exceptionally grateful that he'd called but just too tired to inject enthusiasm into my voice or construct coherent/relevant sentences.

You know how sometimes you feel too tired to sleep? Sounds paradoxical, but if it's ever happened to you then you'll know exactly what I mean.
Well, this is my current state. It's incredibly irritating but has its useful moments. For example, I have a fabulous friend who I adore but don't see very much - a side effect of her disappearing off on a gap year to Japan. Four years ago. (What is with people emigrating all of a sudden? I can think of at least 5 people who've recently decided to abandon England.)
Japan and England have enough of a time difference that we very rarelyremember to be online at the same time but the other night we managed it.

"I've got a boyfriend!" she announces proudly. I've known V five years and in that time she has never once dated. Not even a single, innocuous coffee on a Saturday morning. Now she's gushing about Mr. Perfect and her voice seems to have gone up several octaves.

Gushing in someone as matter-of-fact as V is never good. It's too out of character.

"V?" I manage to squeeze into the millisecond pause as she inhales. "He sounds too good to be true. He's not married or something, is he?"

Okay. The silence is a little unnerving. I was joking.

"Yes." She sighs.
"Divorced, right? Where does he live?"

There's that pause again.

"He lives with his wife."

Flipping heck. What do I say to that? The obvious. "Kids?"

"Two."

My turn to sigh. I don't want to judge or preach. But neither do I want to change the topic - partly because it's great to hear her happy but also because I don't want her to be involved in something messy, especially not with children involved. We settle for an awkward conversation about how he really does plan to ask for a divorce and move out soon.

I was going to say I smell a rat but the stench is more like a whole plague of them. Is that really cynical?
If he turns out to be a rat I shall fly over there and break his legs. Except that whilst my judo is passable, he's in Japan and therefore is probably some kind of unstoppable fighting machine.



I love judo. I'm going off on a tangent but V won't mind as that's how we met anyway and she completely shares the passion. She was my randori (fighting) partner for most of her last year, although we used to get told off for messing about, pretending to do kung fu moves and throwing in the relevant sound effects. The sound effects for our groundwork fights were better though - the real competition was who could make the spectators blush first.
The problem with no longer being a real student is that I have to join an adult club - which means less frivolity and generally involves being surrounded by ... hmmm, how to be diplomatic... men of a certain age and weight. Being 5'3'' and 55kg, I usually get paired with the man of the lowest grade on the grounds that it'll be a fairer fight. Pfft. The relief of finally having someone they can actually pick up and throw around turns girls into large stress-balls for said lower grades. I don't blame them though. Throwing people around is a great feeling.
Maybe I should look up some local clubs...

Well, McDonald's are always recruiting...

Wow, can't believe it's been over a month since I actually published anything on here.
Sometimes I forget that drafts aren't visible so I think I've done more than I have, but no - my poor blog looks extremely neglected lately.

So much has happened it's ridiculous. There have been some awesome moments in the past month, which I will get round to blogging about properly because frankly, the events of my friend's hen night deserve their own blog. Blindfolded 4x4 driving needs the glory of a full post, not a short paragraph at the start of what is ultimately going to be a big moan.

Yes, my first post for ages is a whinge. There's a surprise!

I'm scared, bluntly.

I loved the course when I started it. Now I'm counting down the days until I finish.
Funny what a marked difference being in the 'right' school can make.


The days left at school are also, at the moment, days until I am officially unemployed and can't hide under the umbrella of 'student' anymore.

I've had two interviews so far.
The first, my lesson didn't go too well (class were absolutely MUTE) but my interview went very well. The panel took nearly two hours to deliberate and finally decided that I interviewed "too well", gave "some of the best answers we've ever heard" and consequently am "too textbook, too based in theory". You know what? a) I'm an English student. Reading textbooks and theory is what I enjoy. b) your excuse smacks of "we just didn't like you" or "you can't teach". Which is fair enough, but have the guts to say it.

The second interview I enjoyed, but ultimately they had four internal candidates (four!) and, as my mentor has been warning me for ages, "unless you just want a practice interview, applying to a school with an internal candidate is a waste of time". Or maybe it was just another case of "we don't like you" or "you can't teach".


I'm also confused.I don't want any of the jobs I've applied for so far - they're practice for the job I do want. But at the same time, knowing that they don't want me either is a major concern. Feedback suggests nothing I can improve on - just 'we just preferred him' or 'well we already knew she was good as she's been here a year'.

I'm starting to doubt my ability as a teacher; whether I'm worth employing.
Maybe I should apply for jobs outside of teaching, just in case. Working with horses, maybe. Or admin.




Maybe I should stick with my dream as a child and run away to join the circus. How hard can it be?




But there are still two teaching jobs advertised at the moment, both of which are still open so I don't know whether I'll have an interview at either yet. One I know I don't want, one I desperately do.
What I need to do is find some way of persuading them that I am worth employing...



Ha. I wish.



Now this, I could do...

Wear Sunscreen

Some more advice: don't talk to strangers and don't attempt to pick up spiky plants.


Hectic week this week, what with writing my essay/taking over my classes/writing enough job applications to satisfy the sudden mountain of vacancies; so although I've scribbled various posts I haven't actually finished any enough to publish them. So I'm going to compile some vague ramblings now into one mammoth post.


I deliberately didn't blog about school for the first couple of weeks - but it's getting better now that I'm actually teaching. I am SO excited about next lesson with year 7 - it's tomorrow, but I planned it after our lesson together on Thursday and have been looking forward to it ever since! I'm writing my own poetry SOW for them, which I thought would be tough but it's amazing. I love it! Best of all, they seem to as well.


I've also been getting lifts into school with a PE teacher, and consequently am now an honorary member of the PE dept. That's nice - they're far more sociable than the English dept (who are friendly, but prefer to work alone in their own rooms so the staffroom is permanently deserted apart from the half-hour lunch break). I did, however, manage to meet one NQT long enough to have a bit of a barney with her.

I'd like to say it wasn't my fault but it probably was. I'm not too good at the whole diplomacy side of things.

Everyone knows that when you meet someone new - especially when that someone is a lost and lonely looking trainee - common ground is a great place to start. However, a word of warning - make sure you know their opinion on said common ground before beginning to voice your own.

This NQT (let's just call her Liz) came to sit with me at lunch and began her conversation with, "I hear you were at [Hogwarts] before here, what did you think?" I opened my mouth to wax lyrical about said school when she subsequently launched into a slight tirade against it. Not angry ranting, just whingeing. I sat in shocked silence for a while, using body language/facial expressions to signal to her that she could shut up any time she liked.

She didn't.

I'm quite opinionated. I can be a real cow. I know that biting my lip is usually the best way forward, especially at work, but if you press the buttons in the right order then sometimes I can't help myself. Like when people remark that footballers actually deserve their wages (I can feel my blood simmering already). So when Liz moved onto people that I knew personally, enough was enough. I began with that awful cliche, "no offense, but I really think..." and began my own side of the debate. In what was, for me, actually quite a diplomatic manner - I think the worst I escalated to was, "well, no. I'm really sorry if what I've said has offended you in any way, but to be frank I couldn't disagree more. Maybe we should move on from this topic now."

There was a slight atmosphere for the rest of the conversation.




I also made a complete prat out of myself in the library on Thursday - I was walking past a shelf when I saw a display and something inside my head went "ooh! Shiny!"

So I stopped to look. 'Recommended Reads for Year 9' - "hmm, could be useful, I'll just grab myself one of those leaflets..." I leaned over to get one and promptly knocked the librarian's plantpot onto the floor in the process. Mortified, I bent to pick it up. The pot was still intact, fortunately, but when I picked it up and saw the plant still on the floor a momentary panic set in. A cactus? Seriously? Are they not poisonous???
But I couldn't just leave it - I had to get it back into the pot, preferably without year 7 noticing what on earth I was doing kneeling on the floor. So I gritted my teeth and grabbed it.


Please don't ever feel the need to test my hypothesis that picking up a cactus with bare hands is a painful experience.

Anti-snow/ice/garage repair men rant...

I gave my car a makeover a couple of days ago.

By which I mean I slid on some ice on a country lane and crashed through a metal fence. Then I drove a few miles to school whilst the fender worked its way loose. Finally, to add insult to her injury I parked her in a side street and walked the remaining way to school, leaving her looking sad and lonely and no doubt feeling very sorry for herself.

Poor baby. (Yes, I believe I did actually call her that out loud when I was driving home that evening and begging her not to collapse in a heap. She got me all the way to a garage and promptly fell apart).

This all sounds very dramatic, but I assure you that fortunately my car is a tough little cookie and actually, in terms of how battered she looks, I think she emerged relatively unscathed. A friend managed to fix her up a little on Wednesday night so that she held together, told me it was all just cosmetic damage and I decided that overall, the railings had come off far worse.

After D's handiwork with a pair of pliers and some duct tape, I expected this accident to set me back around £700. Inconvenient, annoying, but manageable. So when the nice man at BMW phoned me up yesterday morning and began our conversation with, “are you sitting down, Miss?” I knew the diagnosis wasn't going to be great. I wasn't sitting down, but I managed to balance my coffee so that I could grip onto a friend's wrist instead.

“You're looking at three and a half grand to start with, then...”
He did carry on, but I was too busy mouthing “WHAT?!?” to my friend and whispering the numbers so she could share in my fury.

Now normally I would be very careful about posting anything to do with who I actually am – I don't put pictures of myself, my friends, my horse up; I don't name my friends or school; and generally on the Blog Paranoia Scale I'm about a 6, usually. (No One Reads the Copy's BPS can be learned about here).
But this has incensed me so greatly that I'm going to show you part of my car so you can see how totally UNDAMAGED she actually is. I think I might take a sledgehammer to the bonnet and headlights, just to make sure I get my money's worth from the repair man.



It would actually be cheaper for me to write her off, as then Mini would replace her for free. It would also be cheaper to just buy an old banger to drive around until I've found a Saturday job to pay for the car/had time to take it back up north where it will be considerably cheaper to fix. In the meantime, I need to find a way of getting to school (which is handily situated in the middle of nowhere).

Horse and cart? (love this idea, Sion probably wouldn't).
Skis? (would work at the moment, but the snow is going).
Unicycle?

Application Number One.

Probably out of several, but I'm going to stop counting after 5.

So, this application has taken me one weekend plus four snow days to write. Ironically, the bulk of it was written within about an hour and a half and the remaining six days were spent persuading it to fit onto the application form and crowbarring in all the necessary lingo whilst trying not to sound pretentious.

Short of replacing my printer's ink with my blood and stapling my soul to the back as an appendix, there's nothing more I can do to it now.

So... Here goes! Sending... Sent.
I spoke to the Head's PA earlier as the upload link on their website doesn't work, and she offered to give it to the Head this afternoon if I emailed it over today.

EEEEEK!

I wonder how soon I'll hear back? Or whether I'll hear at all? Teaching might be one of those professions where they don't actively reject you, they just ignore you. In a 'no news is terrible news' sort of way. How utterly soul destroying that would be.

Fingers crossed for shortlist.

Not Waving But Drowning.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I seem to be going in reverse.

I loved my first school; I had a great time. Even when my outside world was falling apart, school was something I looked forward to and could rely on.

I don't start my new school until Monday and my new mentor has already had me in tears. I'm burning out with work and I haven't even started.



Rats.

*Grits teeth.*
I AM going to pass this term.