I'm just coming to the end of the most horrible batch of essay writing in history: five in three weeks (I know I claimed it was three in three weeks earlier, but I got it wrong; it was a horriblehorriblehorrible discovery) - three on teaching, which were so dull they made me weep with boredom; one absolutely fascinating topic in psycholinguistics; and one that was so difficult I wanted to cry - a contrastive grammar of the noun phrase in Italian and English. Since I neither speak nor read Italian, I hadn't a clue what I was doing; a situation made worse by the fact that somehow the awful woman who assigned this subject to me was under the impression that I speak Italian fluently. I'm ashamed to admit that, having complained loud and long for a several weeks about this last essay, and grumbled and sworn throughout the writing, I've ended up so hooked on morphology that I'm looking for something similar as a dissertation topic.
I aim to complete the last essay (a dull one on teaching methods) tonight. I'm spending four days away over Christmas. The dogs go into kennels tomorrow, which means I can sleep as long and as late as I like on Saturday morning. A huge relief: I'm deeply tired, and need a few days of nothing at all.
There is little news. I've crashed the car twice in the last ten days (combination of tiredness, filthy weather and poor roads); nothing terribly serious although since I had to ask the farmer to tow/lift the car on each occasion, I suffered deep embarrassment on the first occasion and terminal mortification the second. More mortification when I had to confess to the garage what I'd done, less than 24 hours after I'd collected my car after the previous accident. I had lunch with old friends yesterday: the first time I'd seen this pair for about 4 months, and I was greeted like a prodigal offspring. Yesterday too I managed the impossible: to get through my entire Christmas-shopping list in a morning. I bought cards in the afternoon, wrote them last night and hared down to the village to post them this morning. Inland ones might arrive within living memory of Christmas Day. The rest might reach their destination within living memory of Twelfth Night. Big rush to get it all done as I needed to deliver some presents this afternoon and will deliver some more tomorrow afternoon when I’m due to spend a couple of hours at my last address, to eat mice pies and listen to people’s stories.
I’ve just made the marinade for a piece of beef for Christmas Eve. The beef is now completely immersed in an ocean of wine spiked with vinegar, onions and spices. Tomorrow I’ll make the pudding – a Russian recipe, which has the distinct advantage of improving enormously if made well in advance. I know tomorrow isn’t well in advance of Christmas Eve, but …
I'd better get back to mind-numbing pedagogy. I am writing about how to stimulate a classroom full of people whose language I can’t speak, into speaking English. I have to describe appropriate gestures and facial expressions (and so I don’t upset anyone, also a whole lot of gestures and facial expressions which would be acceptable here but which are deemed rude in other cultures (I am now fluent in rude signs in Chinese, Arabic, Polish and Greek)). I have to write about games; how to use coloured bricks, pictures, maps, globes and (for reasons I can’t quite remember) plastic fruit; and how to draw on the blackboard. Hard to believe I spent the summer writing about Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments.
22 December 2005
17 December 2005
I have good news
I have good news. I have a washing machine again!! I collected it yesterday and spent about 3 hours trying to follow installation instructions which were either written by someone who had never carried out the procedure, or written by an intractable optimist with a vivid imagination. The instructions read: gently slide out the polythene bag. So I tried gently sliding for about 20 minutes and then twigged: 'Gently slide' meant 'get down on your hands and knees; stretch as far into the bowels of the machine as you can; grab hold of the bag with two hands; and tug, riddle, jerk up, jerk down, yank sideways until the bag gently slides out.' Then I had to slide out three plastic pins. This was easier, once I realised that 'three plastic pins' meant 'three brass rods' and 'gently slide' meant 'root round in the garage by torchlight until you have located a spanner that fits the nuts holding "the three plastic pins" in place'.
I wonder what a top-of-the-range washing machine does. I wonder how anyone manages to make a top-of-the-range washing machine do what it does. Perhaps people who have top-of-the-range washing machines have to go on 3-year courses to learn how to make a top-of-the-range washing machine do what it does (perhaps they have to pass exams before they are allowed to purchase a top-of-the-range washing machine (perhaps they have to pass exams and get a licence before they are allowed to purchase a top-of-the-range washing machine)). And I wonder all this because I have to make an extraordinary number decisions concerning temperature and spin speed and thoroughness of wash, and size of wash, and whether I'm feeling wealthy enough to afford an extravagant full wash as opposed to a more parsimonious economy wash just to coax my bottom-of-the-range washing machine into switching on the small green light that notifies me that it has received my application and will give me its decision in due course. And should it decide to honour my application ... well, I shan't need to buy a new set of Christmas lights this year. This, despite having worked out only the correct form for a polite request for a no-frills wash and spin. I am tempted to use the 'Specials' programme out of mere curiosity as I suspect it'll include such options as 'break into song' (song of your choosing - should you have the stamina to go through the process of decision-making again). I have a feeling that the winking blinking lights are Morse, but can't be absolutely sure as the machine's from Germany and I can't read German quickly enough.
Anyway, the machine is Morsely muttering away to itself as I write, and since it completed a cycle last night with no spillage at all, I may, I think, regard myself as having left the domain of the unwashed.
I wonder what a top-of-the-range washing machine does. I wonder how anyone manages to make a top-of-the-range washing machine do what it does. Perhaps people who have top-of-the-range washing machines have to go on 3-year courses to learn how to make a top-of-the-range washing machine do what it does (perhaps they have to pass exams before they are allowed to purchase a top-of-the-range washing machine (perhaps they have to pass exams and get a licence before they are allowed to purchase a top-of-the-range washing machine)). And I wonder all this because I have to make an extraordinary number decisions concerning temperature and spin speed and thoroughness of wash, and size of wash, and whether I'm feeling wealthy enough to afford an extravagant full wash as opposed to a more parsimonious economy wash just to coax my bottom-of-the-range washing machine into switching on the small green light that notifies me that it has received my application and will give me its decision in due course. And should it decide to honour my application ... well, I shan't need to buy a new set of Christmas lights this year. This, despite having worked out only the correct form for a polite request for a no-frills wash and spin. I am tempted to use the 'Specials' programme out of mere curiosity as I suspect it'll include such options as 'break into song' (song of your choosing - should you have the stamina to go through the process of decision-making again). I have a feeling that the winking blinking lights are Morse, but can't be absolutely sure as the machine's from Germany and I can't read German quickly enough.
Anyway, the machine is Morsely muttering away to itself as I write, and since it completed a cycle last night with no spillage at all, I may, I think, regard myself as having left the domain of the unwashed.
1 December 2005
Classes finished
Classes finished yesterday.
I now have to write three essays in three weeks, but since I haven't got to hare about first thing, walking dogs and making myself respectable before leaving in time to arrive at college by 9, it feels as if I'm on holiday. Classes don't resume until 9 February so it also feels as though I have all the time in the world.
I'll get complaint out of the way first. I'm exhausted - completely and utterly exhausted. Exhausted to the point of dropping off during classes.(And I've never done that before.) We all are. The pressure is incessant and, for me at least, the kind of pressure we're under is, in part, unfamiliar. Writing deadlines are pretty horrible but I know how to deal with these. The pressure of having to attend classes, I can also cope with.The pressure of having to attend three hour classes at which you learn nothing - the pressure of necessarily having to expose yourself to intense boredom is very odd. On days when I have one of these dreadful classes, I rush about getting ready to leave, trying to ignore the fact that mentallyI'm buzzing away, constructing all manner of wildly implausible reasons for not attending. I claim this kind of pressure is unfamiliar, but I ought to describe it as unusual - now - as it was once highly familiar - it's just like when I was at secondary school. But it's more interesting than that.The class which is most excruciating is the grammar class. I love thinking about the way languages work and I was looking forward to revising the basics. The woman who teaches it, leaches all interest from the subject,and has taught it so badly that those who haven't taken the subject before still haven't got a clue about what descriptive grammar is. I am trying not to think about the fact that this wretched woman teaches 3 of the 5 coursesI take next term...
Life has been maverick in the extreme for about a month. Last Thursday, for example, Himself had to see a GP having been terribly unwell for a night on Tuesday, then violently sick on Wednesday morning; well during the day, terribly unwell all Wednesday night before being violently sick again early Thursday morning. It transpired the poor chap had a virus, which promised to last four or five days - and did. On Thursday afternoon, I was trying to finish an essay due in by 4 pm (schoolishness which is par for the course)when my computer picked up a virus. (Fortunately, unlike Himself’s this virus could be eradicated quickly.) Then the washing machine flooded the kitchen. It was a new washing machine, a replacement for the new washing machine that flooded the kitchen the previous week and which I'd bought to replace an old washing machine because it flooded the kitchen. Then it started to snow. This kind of clustering of disasters has been par for the course for awhile! (I am proud to announce that I still managed to submit the essay on time - just.)
Another example. Cars here have to pass a safety test - an MOT - taken annually, to remain legal. There are heavy penalties for driving without an MOT - not least because this also annuls the insurance we have to have to drive, and driving without insurance can get you banned from driving for a very long time. My car's MOT was due to run out while we were on holiday in the Canaries at the beginnng of this month, and our flight time meant we could only get the airport on time if we travelled by car, so I booked the MOT slightly early; arranged to leave the car with the garage for a day from 8 one morning, while I was at 'school'. The night before the MOT was booked I had to rush out late to buy dogfood. It's very dark here at night and I have to back some way down the track to the cottage then round a tight hairpin bend, seeing my way by the glimmer from the reversing lights. I missed the bend, and ended up stuck firmly on a bank, with the car balancing on something high enough to ensure that at any one time only three wheels (but any three wheels) could touch the ground. The car sat there all night; dogs starved; and at 7 am I had to ask the farm manager to tow the car off the bank using a tractor. I was a little late in arrival at the garage (and for class), and the mechanic had to use a crowbar to remove mud and grass from the car chassis. AND the car failed (which meant a major palaver the day before we flew to the Canaries involving transporting dogs to kennels and cars to garages and me by a series of buses to a car hire place to ensure we could get to the airport at 5 am the nextmorning...)
The new cottage is proving demanding in interesting ways. The water supply still isn't entirely reliable. Last time I lost water for a day, and then couldn't use it for three as it was filthy - as I discovered when I tried to bath a muddy dog, only to find the water was dirtier than she was. It was bitterly cold for about a week - minus degrees when it was clear; snowing heavily when not clear, and blowing a gale continually. I have learnt that during wintry weather, the house is beautifully warm when the fire is lit, but will become unbearably cold as soon as the fire goes out. I have yet to work out a routine which limits damage on those occasions when I'm out all day. I end up turning circles on my return, as I try to decide which of the several tasks demanding immediate attention will best equip me to cope with the iciness: walk dogs in the dark? Light the fire? Make tea? ...
Another reason why the fact that classes have finished is such a relief: I no longerhave to march round with dogs in the dark at 7 am; nor do I have to do so at 5 pm. I can postpone the walking dogs until it's light (currently about 9 am); and before it gets dark (at about 4.00).
Good bits: some of the coursework has been fascinating. I've just finished an essay in psycholinguistics on teaching reading to second-language learners. Research into reading processes has proved so absorbing that I'm considering using it as a dissertation topic. Yesterday, I floated this idea past a friend also on the course, over a departmental lunch (in honour of St Andrews Day (haggis, neeps and tatties, which caused no little anxiety among the non-natives)). We had an (excruciating) hour-long class after lunch, taken by the woman who teaches grammar. Said woman inched through the points we have to make in the dissertation proposals we have to write during the vacation. We are, the woman said, to produce an quantitative analysis; we are to make full use of such facilities as tape- and video-recorders. My eyes met my friend's and we spent the next ten minutes trying to control violent giggles, as we both envisaged the kind of tape- and video-recordings that would accompany a dissertation on reading -a silent film with captions perhaps (and a quantitative analysis of sighs?).
Teaching methodology has proved absorbing. The kinds of techniques we have to use in second-language teaching are interesting as is the rationale behind them. I have a slight problem in that I dislike being classes involving group- and pairwork, handouts and ceaseless movement from one table to another, and so have found it hard to come up with suitable 'class activities' for lesson plans. My advisor assures me that I'll find this easier once I've started teaching - which I do next term. I sincerely hope she's right!
T'ai chi has become a lifeline again. Although I didn't ever consider giving up classes with the new teacher, I spent a few weeks battling with myself as the man's style is very different from the one I learnt before - very much more minimalist and on the face of it, much less beautiful. However, perseverance has paid off; and I'm now totally committed to the new form. And to the teacher, who I now see, was struggling with the fact that, initially, he had more than 20 people the class - too many. Numbers have dwindled, gradually at first, then abruptly once evenings started to be verydark and very cold and now there are half a dozen regulars.
Himself has proved amazingly tolerant; and unbelievably encouraging and supportive. I am still unable to believe my luck, but am getting better at it! I'll be at his house for Christmas. We plan four days of quiet self-indulgence: lots of good food; lots of good books. Aside from deciding where I'll be, and what I shan't be doing, I have given Christmas no thought whatsoever. I trust that I'll be able to 'catch up' after I've finished my last essay - sometime round 20 December.
I'll end on a gripe. I've been so pushed for time, and latterly so exhausted, that I've been unable to read anything not course related, and unable to write anything not course related. I worry that I have lost the capacity for creativity. Even my conversation is dull and predictable. I'd hoped to be able to rejoin a writing workshop for the couple of months between semesters, but realise I mustn't. Essay deadlines mean I haven't the time before Christmas, and I'm tired enough now to realise that if I commit myself to anything extra-curricular during January, I'll be similarly exhausted at the start the next semester. It's unbelievably frustrating. Not-writing has been such an issue that at one stage I considered changing my course registration to part-time. I was talked out of it. Both Himself and my course advisor said the same thing: it's better to consider myself as taking a sabbatical from writing for a year, and get the course over and done with, than to juggle both for two years. They're both right, and I can see they are, but the frustration remains.
I now have to write three essays in three weeks, but since I haven't got to hare about first thing, walking dogs and making myself respectable before leaving in time to arrive at college by 9, it feels as if I'm on holiday. Classes don't resume until 9 February so it also feels as though I have all the time in the world.
I'll get complaint out of the way first. I'm exhausted - completely and utterly exhausted. Exhausted to the point of dropping off during classes.(And I've never done that before.) We all are. The pressure is incessant and, for me at least, the kind of pressure we're under is, in part, unfamiliar. Writing deadlines are pretty horrible but I know how to deal with these. The pressure of having to attend classes, I can also cope with.The pressure of having to attend three hour classes at which you learn nothing - the pressure of necessarily having to expose yourself to intense boredom is very odd. On days when I have one of these dreadful classes, I rush about getting ready to leave, trying to ignore the fact that mentallyI'm buzzing away, constructing all manner of wildly implausible reasons for not attending. I claim this kind of pressure is unfamiliar, but I ought to describe it as unusual - now - as it was once highly familiar - it's just like when I was at secondary school. But it's more interesting than that.The class which is most excruciating is the grammar class. I love thinking about the way languages work and I was looking forward to revising the basics. The woman who teaches it, leaches all interest from the subject,and has taught it so badly that those who haven't taken the subject before still haven't got a clue about what descriptive grammar is. I am trying not to think about the fact that this wretched woman teaches 3 of the 5 coursesI take next term...
Life has been maverick in the extreme for about a month. Last Thursday, for example, Himself had to see a GP having been terribly unwell for a night on Tuesday, then violently sick on Wednesday morning; well during the day, terribly unwell all Wednesday night before being violently sick again early Thursday morning. It transpired the poor chap had a virus, which promised to last four or five days - and did. On Thursday afternoon, I was trying to finish an essay due in by 4 pm (schoolishness which is par for the course)when my computer picked up a virus. (Fortunately, unlike Himself’s this virus could be eradicated quickly.) Then the washing machine flooded the kitchen. It was a new washing machine, a replacement for the new washing machine that flooded the kitchen the previous week and which I'd bought to replace an old washing machine because it flooded the kitchen. Then it started to snow. This kind of clustering of disasters has been par for the course for awhile! (I am proud to announce that I still managed to submit the essay on time - just.)
Another example. Cars here have to pass a safety test - an MOT - taken annually, to remain legal. There are heavy penalties for driving without an MOT - not least because this also annuls the insurance we have to have to drive, and driving without insurance can get you banned from driving for a very long time. My car's MOT was due to run out while we were on holiday in the Canaries at the beginnng of this month, and our flight time meant we could only get the airport on time if we travelled by car, so I booked the MOT slightly early; arranged to leave the car with the garage for a day from 8 one morning, while I was at 'school'. The night before the MOT was booked I had to rush out late to buy dogfood. It's very dark here at night and I have to back some way down the track to the cottage then round a tight hairpin bend, seeing my way by the glimmer from the reversing lights. I missed the bend, and ended up stuck firmly on a bank, with the car balancing on something high enough to ensure that at any one time only three wheels (but any three wheels) could touch the ground. The car sat there all night; dogs starved; and at 7 am I had to ask the farm manager to tow the car off the bank using a tractor. I was a little late in arrival at the garage (and for class), and the mechanic had to use a crowbar to remove mud and grass from the car chassis. AND the car failed (which meant a major palaver the day before we flew to the Canaries involving transporting dogs to kennels and cars to garages and me by a series of buses to a car hire place to ensure we could get to the airport at 5 am the nextmorning...)
The new cottage is proving demanding in interesting ways. The water supply still isn't entirely reliable. Last time I lost water for a day, and then couldn't use it for three as it was filthy - as I discovered when I tried to bath a muddy dog, only to find the water was dirtier than she was. It was bitterly cold for about a week - minus degrees when it was clear; snowing heavily when not clear, and blowing a gale continually. I have learnt that during wintry weather, the house is beautifully warm when the fire is lit, but will become unbearably cold as soon as the fire goes out. I have yet to work out a routine which limits damage on those occasions when I'm out all day. I end up turning circles on my return, as I try to decide which of the several tasks demanding immediate attention will best equip me to cope with the iciness: walk dogs in the dark? Light the fire? Make tea? ...
Another reason why the fact that classes have finished is such a relief: I no longerhave to march round with dogs in the dark at 7 am; nor do I have to do so at 5 pm. I can postpone the walking dogs until it's light (currently about 9 am); and before it gets dark (at about 4.00).
Good bits: some of the coursework has been fascinating. I've just finished an essay in psycholinguistics on teaching reading to second-language learners. Research into reading processes has proved so absorbing that I'm considering using it as a dissertation topic. Yesterday, I floated this idea past a friend also on the course, over a departmental lunch (in honour of St Andrews Day (haggis, neeps and tatties, which caused no little anxiety among the non-natives)). We had an (excruciating) hour-long class after lunch, taken by the woman who teaches grammar. Said woman inched through the points we have to make in the dissertation proposals we have to write during the vacation. We are, the woman said, to produce an quantitative analysis; we are to make full use of such facilities as tape- and video-recorders. My eyes met my friend's and we spent the next ten minutes trying to control violent giggles, as we both envisaged the kind of tape- and video-recordings that would accompany a dissertation on reading -a silent film with captions perhaps (and a quantitative analysis of sighs?).
Teaching methodology has proved absorbing. The kinds of techniques we have to use in second-language teaching are interesting as is the rationale behind them. I have a slight problem in that I dislike being classes involving group- and pairwork, handouts and ceaseless movement from one table to another, and so have found it hard to come up with suitable 'class activities' for lesson plans. My advisor assures me that I'll find this easier once I've started teaching - which I do next term. I sincerely hope she's right!
T'ai chi has become a lifeline again. Although I didn't ever consider giving up classes with the new teacher, I spent a few weeks battling with myself as the man's style is very different from the one I learnt before - very much more minimalist and on the face of it, much less beautiful. However, perseverance has paid off; and I'm now totally committed to the new form. And to the teacher, who I now see, was struggling with the fact that, initially, he had more than 20 people the class - too many. Numbers have dwindled, gradually at first, then abruptly once evenings started to be verydark and very cold and now there are half a dozen regulars.
Himself has proved amazingly tolerant; and unbelievably encouraging and supportive. I am still unable to believe my luck, but am getting better at it! I'll be at his house for Christmas. We plan four days of quiet self-indulgence: lots of good food; lots of good books. Aside from deciding where I'll be, and what I shan't be doing, I have given Christmas no thought whatsoever. I trust that I'll be able to 'catch up' after I've finished my last essay - sometime round 20 December.
I'll end on a gripe. I've been so pushed for time, and latterly so exhausted, that I've been unable to read anything not course related, and unable to write anything not course related. I worry that I have lost the capacity for creativity. Even my conversation is dull and predictable. I'd hoped to be able to rejoin a writing workshop for the couple of months between semesters, but realise I mustn't. Essay deadlines mean I haven't the time before Christmas, and I'm tired enough now to realise that if I commit myself to anything extra-curricular during January, I'll be similarly exhausted at the start the next semester. It's unbelievably frustrating. Not-writing has been such an issue that at one stage I considered changing my course registration to part-time. I was talked out of it. Both Himself and my course advisor said the same thing: it's better to consider myself as taking a sabbatical from writing for a year, and get the course over and done with, than to juggle both for two years. They're both right, and I can see they are, but the frustration remains.
21 October 2005
Mid semester breaks
Mid semester breaks start tomorrow, but mine has started today: an enforced day off. Bugs!! Don’t you just hate those Stoics who go into work however unwell they are. I know exactly who gave me this cough and if I wasn’t feeling so dire I’d be tempted to go and complain.
So, here I am, at home on a Friday lunchtime when I ought to be coming to the end of a class, wondering whether I’ll have time to eat in the 15 minutes before the start of the afternoon class. It’s overcast and cold in that dead draining way that always accompanies a grey sky. Next week I fly away to Fuertaventura, and it all seems so unlikely that I’ve had trouble making such requisite arrangements as booking the dogs into kennels, and ensuring my travel insurance is up to date.
Today is not helped one iota by the fact that I’m very very tired, and would have been very very tired even without a cold as I worked through the night on Wednesday, after weeks of getting up to write at 4.30 am, before school, and an all-night stint last week the exhausting effects of which took three days to wear off. BUT I finished the MLitt and submitted last week; and yesterday finished an assignment for the MSc (on time- for once).
Disaster heaps on disaster however. The taps poured liquid mud yet again on Monday; poor B needed to see the vet on Tuesday; on Tuesday I booked the car into the garage for some work on the bumper to be carried out on Thursday and on Wednesday night had a small accident which meant the car needed more work – too much work for the original booking so it’s now booked in for when we’re away which meant hiring a car to get us to the airport … Berry needs to see the vet again next week, and I think Soot might be unwell too.
And …………………I have to complete both some editing and an essay before Monday and really haven’t the time to be unwell now!
Undoubtedly things will get better ~~~
So, here I am, at home on a Friday lunchtime when I ought to be coming to the end of a class, wondering whether I’ll have time to eat in the 15 minutes before the start of the afternoon class. It’s overcast and cold in that dead draining way that always accompanies a grey sky. Next week I fly away to Fuertaventura, and it all seems so unlikely that I’ve had trouble making such requisite arrangements as booking the dogs into kennels, and ensuring my travel insurance is up to date.
Today is not helped one iota by the fact that I’m very very tired, and would have been very very tired even without a cold as I worked through the night on Wednesday, after weeks of getting up to write at 4.30 am, before school, and an all-night stint last week the exhausting effects of which took three days to wear off. BUT I finished the MLitt and submitted last week; and yesterday finished an assignment for the MSc (on time- for once).
Disaster heaps on disaster however. The taps poured liquid mud yet again on Monday; poor B needed to see the vet on Tuesday; on Tuesday I booked the car into the garage for some work on the bumper to be carried out on Thursday and on Wednesday night had a small accident which meant the car needed more work – too much work for the original booking so it’s now booked in for when we’re away which meant hiring a car to get us to the airport … Berry needs to see the vet again next week, and I think Soot might be unwell too.
And …………………I have to complete both some editing and an essay before Monday and really haven’t the time to be unwell now!
Undoubtedly things will get better ~~~
28 September 2005
More on school
More on school
It’s hard work – lost of reading lots of writing, lots and lots of thinking and on the first day we were given an assignment due to be handed in the following week. It’s also extremely interesting, and for me a very strange experience as I spend a lot of time talking with L2 speakers. I have to admit that it was a relief, today, to have lunch with an L1 speaker. Modulating speed and register is exhausting. nI can’t imagine how I’ll manage teaching ESL/EFL.
It’s hard work – lost of reading lots of writing, lots and lots of thinking and on the first day we were given an assignment due to be handed in the following week. It’s also extremely interesting, and for me a very strange experience as I spend a lot of time talking with L2 speakers. I have to admit that it was a relief, today, to have lunch with an L1 speaker. Modulating speed and register is exhausting. nI can’t imagine how I’ll manage teaching ESL/EFL.
26 September 2005
My first coal fire
My first coal fire! The coalman arrived shortly after I got home after a long, early class this morning – well, a long early class followed by a long social chat over a mug of tea. Anyway having had to get up even earlier than early to finish some writing before starting the preparation for the aforementioned long early class, I wasn’t exactly bursting with vim and vigour at 1 pm, and ignored the coal and the possibility of lighting a large, comforting fire for a while. But I have now lit it. And instead of lazing in an armchair pretending to read a book, but actually drinking tea and watching glowing coals, I’m having to hang over the hearth at frequent intervals, in case of signs of a chimney fire. Or blockage. Or something. Still there is comfort even in this, this afternoon – it’s dour and grey and exceedingly wet. And there’s a bus strike.
We went shopping yesterday. When did we become so old as to spend weekends in DIY shops and Ikea? I bought 6 shelves for the wardrobe we bought at the beginning of August but which is still mostly flatpacked, and something for the hats and coats in the hall. H bought a table and bookcases. Ikea was hooching! Horriblehorriblehorrible.
We have been thoroughly irresponsible and booked a week in the Canary Isles in October. Irresponsible because I shall miss school, and we can’t really afford anything self-indulgent at the moment. But we’re going. It’ll be wonderful! A week in the sun doing little more than turning brown. We’re leaving the worthy holiday – the one where we visit museums and learn stuff and walk a lot and plan for - until January.
We went shopping yesterday. When did we become so old as to spend weekends in DIY shops and Ikea? I bought 6 shelves for the wardrobe we bought at the beginning of August but which is still mostly flatpacked, and something for the hats and coats in the hall. H bought a table and bookcases. Ikea was hooching! Horriblehorriblehorrible.
We have been thoroughly irresponsible and booked a week in the Canary Isles in October. Irresponsible because I shall miss school, and we can’t really afford anything self-indulgent at the moment. But we’re going. It’ll be wonderful! A week in the sun doing little more than turning brown. We’re leaving the worthy holiday – the one where we visit museums and learn stuff and walk a lot and plan for - until January.
7 September 2005
There seems to be a national obsession with lists at the moment. A couple of weeks ago the winner of the title Best Scottish Book or something similar was announced (Grassic Gibbon, Sunset Song). To my horror and the horror of most people I know, Harry Potter got in on that list too (God knows ...) but James Hogg didn't! I sometimes wonder whether Harry Potter will last as even as long as Swallows and Amazons, for example. I rather hope not. Harry Potter hype is tedious in the extreme, and while the books are good children's books they are not great literature.
But I digress: yesterday another list winner was announced: Britain's Best Painting (which began as the Britain's best-loved painting apparently), launched by the BBC Today programme in the summer. Nominations had to be from paintings in British galleries, with only one nomination from each artist to reach the shortlist or something complicated. The final ten were selected by a panel of experts, and contained no Picasso, no Lucien Freud, and none more recent than Hockney. The winner was a Turner: The Fighting Temeraire; The Haywain was second - the appeal of that picture eludes me; and the Arnolfini portrait was 3rd or maybe 4th. Very very very dull in short.
Things are progressing here too - if a little slowly. Last night I had my first Tai Chi class with a new teacher. I was very confused - actually very disappointed by the class which was very different from my last; but I'll persevere with it. I had dinner with Himself afterwards which was a treat - as it always is. I want to send a him a quote from Iris Murdoch - a way of saying he makes me feel luckyluckylucky, but I daren't. Odd how I seem to be able to be candid about how much I love him with everyone BUT him. The quote:
Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.
It's hard to believe I'll be back at school by this time next week. I have an awful lot to do in the interim. I lost this morning to reviewing an article for a journal. My co reviewer sent a message last week in which she raved about it and suggested it was published almost untouched. I read it this morning, found it vacuous; sent an email to explain why; and worried about the outcome as we are supposed to reach consensus before returning the paperwork etc. to the journal's editorial board, and that didn't seem achievable in the time available. Half an hour later I received an email in which the reviewer explained she'd changed her mind after reading my report and agreed that the article should be binned. I'm now veering between guilt at having inadvertently browbeaten her into acceding; and feeling cross that she hadn't done the work properly. I have this vague notion that this journal editing is doing me good; or is going to stand me in good stead later or something. I have no idea where this idea comes; nor why I don't stop persisting in the belief and give up the post. While the time investment is minimal, but the emotional costs are disproportionate!
I want to visit the Gauguin exhibition on Sunday I love living this close to Edinburgh and Glasgow and suspect when I next move it will be into a city - dogs/work permitting of course.
But I digress: yesterday another list winner was announced: Britain's Best Painting (which began as the Britain's best-loved painting apparently), launched by the BBC Today programme in the summer. Nominations had to be from paintings in British galleries, with only one nomination from each artist to reach the shortlist or something complicated. The final ten were selected by a panel of experts, and contained no Picasso, no Lucien Freud, and none more recent than Hockney. The winner was a Turner: The Fighting Temeraire; The Haywain was second - the appeal of that picture eludes me; and the Arnolfini portrait was 3rd or maybe 4th. Very very very dull in short.
Things are progressing here too - if a little slowly. Last night I had my first Tai Chi class with a new teacher. I was very confused - actually very disappointed by the class which was very different from my last; but I'll persevere with it. I had dinner with Himself afterwards which was a treat - as it always is. I want to send a him a quote from Iris Murdoch - a way of saying he makes me feel luckyluckylucky, but I daren't. Odd how I seem to be able to be candid about how much I love him with everyone BUT him. The quote:
Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.
It's hard to believe I'll be back at school by this time next week. I have an awful lot to do in the interim. I lost this morning to reviewing an article for a journal. My co reviewer sent a message last week in which she raved about it and suggested it was published almost untouched. I read it this morning, found it vacuous; sent an email to explain why; and worried about the outcome as we are supposed to reach consensus before returning the paperwork etc. to the journal's editorial board, and that didn't seem achievable in the time available. Half an hour later I received an email in which the reviewer explained she'd changed her mind after reading my report and agreed that the article should be binned. I'm now veering between guilt at having inadvertently browbeaten her into acceding; and feeling cross that she hadn't done the work properly. I have this vague notion that this journal editing is doing me good; or is going to stand me in good stead later or something. I have no idea where this idea comes; nor why I don't stop persisting in the belief and give up the post. While the time investment is minimal, but the emotional costs are disproportionate!
I want to visit the Gauguin exhibition on Sunday I love living this close to Edinburgh and Glasgow and suspect when I next move it will be into a city - dogs/work permitting of course.
28 August 2005
Surfacing - kind of
I had a slight shock on Thursday. The main electricity cable for the estate was damaged and we were without power from mid-morning until about midnight. I had forgotten how hard it is to manage during power cuts when the house hasn't got gas. Couldn't even make a pot of tea. I'd filled the car with a load of rubble and rubbish and taken it to the tip, first thing, and returned home caked in dust and 'glour' - in short I was gey stoory and clarty and in desperate need of a shower. The worst of the situation was the realisation that I couldn't call on anyone locally to bail me out. The only person I know here is Himself and he was at work. I'll be glad when the course starts next month and I can get to know a few more people. It's been a very long time since I was in this situation socially! (Which means it'll probably do me a great deal of good.)
The rubble was generated by Himself. He's had a fit of home improving lately. It began quietly: he repainted his hall. Then he decided to knock down an internal wall. (Actually it's both more and less complicated than that, as the wall was false, but I won't go on: after all the mess from a false stone-built wall is as great as that from a real one.) So last weekend I did a great deal of rubble removal; and I shall be doing the same again on Sunday. On Monday however, as recompense, we're spending the day at the Edinburgh Festival: we've booked tickets for several shows, and will have to hurry, and perhaps even run, from one venue to another at least twice during the day. It's gluttony pure and simple and I'm looking forward to it hugely.
The rubble was generated by Himself. He's had a fit of home improving lately. It began quietly: he repainted his hall. Then he decided to knock down an internal wall. (Actually it's both more and less complicated than that, as the wall was false, but I won't go on: after all the mess from a false stone-built wall is as great as that from a real one.) So last weekend I did a great deal of rubble removal; and I shall be doing the same again on Sunday. On Monday however, as recompense, we're spending the day at the Edinburgh Festival: we've booked tickets for several shows, and will have to hurry, and perhaps even run, from one venue to another at least twice during the day. It's gluttony pure and simple and I'm looking forward to it hugely.
21 June 2005
I'm still merely paddling in the shallows vis-a-vis the move - still only making phone calls to enquire about x/y/z - but despite jettisoning all manner of activities I haven't really time even for this! My life is dwindling: I weed, I write, I worry.
However, I did take last Saturday off - for the village Highland Games. It was gloriously hot and sunny, and by mid-afternoon the field was littered with spectators invarying states of intoxication having either availed themselves of the beertent or arrived with a rug and a bottle and, in many cases, wine glasses,napkins and bowls of crisps. I drifted from one hazy conversationalist to another. I was accompanied by Himself who availed himself of the beer tent, so by mid-afternoon I was drifting with my own hazy conversationalist in tow.
There were the usual hoards of young Highland dancers making very heavy weather of jigs, reels and sword dances; there were runners and cyclists andhammer throwers; the local pipe band put on a display. For the second year running the caber tossing was cancelled because the cabers were too long. We were astonished by the appearance, seemingly out of nowhere, of an enormous pipe-and-drums band, outlandishly embellished with a brass sectionwhich included two poor mites playing tuba; then astonished again, when welearnt that the band was from Oregon. Possible explanations for such alarge band from such a long way away pitching up at our small, homespun games preoccupied hazy conversationalists (my own included) for most of the rest of the day. In fact it was still being debated that evening, when we arrived at the pub at the bottom of the village, for a drink in the sun-drenched beer garden, on the way home from a dogwalk along the river path. Naturally, the day ended with a fish supper bought on the way back from the pub.
On Sunday, I went to the new house and measured things. Correction, we wentto the new house where Himself measured things and I wrung my hands. I found windows that don't open and learnt that the wall I need to be long enough for my piano, isn't. I discovered the kitchen won't accommodate my [tiny]chest freezer; and there's nowhere for a catflap; and I can't live with the lino in the bathroom; and my desk won't fit anywhere; and that Himself is amazing. Amazing because he allowed my rising panic to wash round him, making soothing noises when it threatened to drown him, but otherwise calling out lengths and widths like a sailor navigating by depth-soundings through a dangerously narrow, rocky channel. The fact that in the main, I had no idea what these measurements were for made it seem only more miraculous. (I learnt last night when Himself explained that he'd worked out how many tins of paint I'll need to buy. To someone who has always first assumed one tin will do and subsequently hared into the local DIY,paint-splattered, exasperated, and halfway down a wall, to buy a second, the fact that you can do this kind of sum was pure revelation - cravenly I didn't say so.)
This morning an estimator has been and gone - the twelfth and last.
This afternoon I am collecting hImself from work so we can attend a book launch Edinburgh this evening. I hope we'll arrive early enough to visit Plaisir du Chocolat http://www.restaurantdirectory.co.uk/Plaisir-du-Chocolat_564.html
for a cup of very, very, very good tea before joining the hooley - although since there was mention that I [which I trust in practice means Someone Else] price paint en route I might have to argue my case for this rather strongly.
However, I did take last Saturday off - for the village Highland Games. It was gloriously hot and sunny, and by mid-afternoon the field was littered with spectators invarying states of intoxication having either availed themselves of the beertent or arrived with a rug and a bottle and, in many cases, wine glasses,napkins and bowls of crisps. I drifted from one hazy conversationalist to another. I was accompanied by Himself who availed himself of the beer tent, so by mid-afternoon I was drifting with my own hazy conversationalist in tow.
There were the usual hoards of young Highland dancers making very heavy weather of jigs, reels and sword dances; there were runners and cyclists andhammer throwers; the local pipe band put on a display. For the second year running the caber tossing was cancelled because the cabers were too long. We were astonished by the appearance, seemingly out of nowhere, of an enormous pipe-and-drums band, outlandishly embellished with a brass sectionwhich included two poor mites playing tuba; then astonished again, when welearnt that the band was from Oregon. Possible explanations for such alarge band from such a long way away pitching up at our small, homespun games preoccupied hazy conversationalists (my own included) for most of the rest of the day. In fact it was still being debated that evening, when we arrived at the pub at the bottom of the village, for a drink in the sun-drenched beer garden, on the way home from a dogwalk along the river path. Naturally, the day ended with a fish supper bought on the way back from the pub.
On Sunday, I went to the new house and measured things. Correction, we wentto the new house where Himself measured things and I wrung my hands. I found windows that don't open and learnt that the wall I need to be long enough for my piano, isn't. I discovered the kitchen won't accommodate my [tiny]chest freezer; and there's nowhere for a catflap; and I can't live with the lino in the bathroom; and my desk won't fit anywhere; and that Himself is amazing. Amazing because he allowed my rising panic to wash round him, making soothing noises when it threatened to drown him, but otherwise calling out lengths and widths like a sailor navigating by depth-soundings through a dangerously narrow, rocky channel. The fact that in the main, I had no idea what these measurements were for made it seem only more miraculous. (I learnt last night when Himself explained that he'd worked out how many tins of paint I'll need to buy. To someone who has always first assumed one tin will do and subsequently hared into the local DIY,paint-splattered, exasperated, and halfway down a wall, to buy a second, the fact that you can do this kind of sum was pure revelation - cravenly I didn't say so.)
This morning an estimator has been and gone - the twelfth and last.
This afternoon I am collecting hImself from work so we can attend a book launch Edinburgh this evening. I hope we'll arrive early enough to visit Plaisir du Chocolat http://www.restaurantdirectory.co.uk/Plaisir-du-Chocolat_564.html
for a cup of very, very, very good tea before joining the hooley - although since there was mention that I [which I trust in practice means Someone Else] price paint en route I might have to argue my case for this rather strongly.
17 June 2005
This is our Highland Games weekend. Tonight there'll be a boat race on the firth - heavy, wooden, two-man cobles rowed half a mile against the tide and half a mile with the tide. A gun shot begins and ends each heat. There's a beer tent, and a barbecue, a band and a flypast. For spectators, the whole event will seem as arbitrary as the Caucus race in Alice in Wonderland.
The weather forecast for this weekend is amazing! Sun and [C degree] temperatures in the 20s!! I shan't go to the race tonight, but if the weather is real, I'll spend tomorrow afternoon under a straw hat, lounging around on the grass in the games field, drinking cold beer, and passing the time with the rest of the village, while men in kilts toss cabers and girls in kilts dance between crossed swords and dozens of pipers compete to produce the longest, most elaborately mournful variations on a pibroch.
Today I have a visit from another estimator ~~~
The weather forecast for this weekend is amazing! Sun and [C degree] temperatures in the 20s!! I shan't go to the race tonight, but if the weather is real, I'll spend tomorrow afternoon under a straw hat, lounging around on the grass in the games field, drinking cold beer, and passing the time with the rest of the village, while men in kilts toss cabers and girls in kilts dance between crossed swords and dozens of pipers compete to produce the longest, most elaborately mournful variations on a pibroch.
Today I have a visit from another estimator ~~~
15 June 2005
Estimator no 8 arrived en masse - 3 of them: one very old and smelling of stale alcohol; one young man who was, first extraordinarily rude about the number of books I have, then upset by the sight of a toad lying by the front door step, which reaction became more acute and verged on the messy when he realised the toad was headless (the headlessness wasn't very pleasant I admit, but the boy was so obnoxious that his discomfort only delighted me); and the estimator proper who was very small, and stank so strongly of wine and cats that he's made the cottage reek. I didn't bother to show him everything, couldn't get rid of them all quickly enough, and am now typing in the eye of the hurricane I have created by opening all windows and doors as wide as possible on what is akin to an evening in March.
I've found a lovely cottage with high ceilings at the end of a farmtrack, with no neighbours and a small sunny garden on an estate in the hills. The dogs are very welcome; my old, deaf cat will love it. It isn't as pretty as where I am at the moment, because the estate is a working farm but in all other respects it's well nigh perfect. I move in, in August, so I'm getting quotations for removal costs.
Removals estimator no. 7 has just left. Two more are booked in for this afternoon, two on Friday, and one next Monday. So far I've had one chancer who submitted an outrageously expensive quote, one very nice lady who undoubtedly will need to be similarly outrageously expensive to cover the cost of the glossy brochure and the cards and pamphlets she insisted on talking me through before she began assessing the volume, weight and associated moving-man hours of my worldy goods and chattels; one man whose aftershave was very nearly visible; and four who left me convinced that they knew what they were talking about. I have learnt that I shall have to move Calor gas bottles, paint pots, wine bottles, cleaning agents and all other inflammables myself; and that I am to expect to pack between 100 and 120 boxes of books. I have been left no room whatsoever for doubt about just how unpopular the sight of a piano is to a representative of a removals firm (although since last time I moved house I had to move two pianos, I am completely immune to this kind of adverse reaction).
Friends are becoming veritably enthusiastic about the move. One will, he said, help with the redecorating. Thank you, I said, somewhat puzzled - I hadn't planned on redecorating. He will, he said, help me put up shelves and look for wardrobes and find a good barbecue. Thank you, I said, still more perplexed - which shelves? What wardrobes? And since I don't cook, do I really need a barbecue? We can, he said, tackle the garden over the summer. Shocked, I sat down abruptly - he hates gardening. Another friend has told me he'd be more than willing to sort out the problem of phone jacks for the computer - a problem I wasn't aware I had; and a third has volunteered to lay carpets I haven't got. I am beginning to feel a little cowed - I appear to have an alter ego who is managing this move far better than I. As soon as I'm sure she and I concur on when I am moving and where I'm moving to, I think I'll slope off and leave them all to it.
Estimator no 8 is due soon.
Removals estimator no. 7 has just left. Two more are booked in for this afternoon, two on Friday, and one next Monday. So far I've had one chancer who submitted an outrageously expensive quote, one very nice lady who undoubtedly will need to be similarly outrageously expensive to cover the cost of the glossy brochure and the cards and pamphlets she insisted on talking me through before she began assessing the volume, weight and associated moving-man hours of my worldy goods and chattels; one man whose aftershave was very nearly visible; and four who left me convinced that they knew what they were talking about. I have learnt that I shall have to move Calor gas bottles, paint pots, wine bottles, cleaning agents and all other inflammables myself; and that I am to expect to pack between 100 and 120 boxes of books. I have been left no room whatsoever for doubt about just how unpopular the sight of a piano is to a representative of a removals firm (although since last time I moved house I had to move two pianos, I am completely immune to this kind of adverse reaction).
Friends are becoming veritably enthusiastic about the move. One will, he said, help with the redecorating. Thank you, I said, somewhat puzzled - I hadn't planned on redecorating. He will, he said, help me put up shelves and look for wardrobes and find a good barbecue. Thank you, I said, still more perplexed - which shelves? What wardrobes? And since I don't cook, do I really need a barbecue? We can, he said, tackle the garden over the summer. Shocked, I sat down abruptly - he hates gardening. Another friend has told me he'd be more than willing to sort out the problem of phone jacks for the computer - a problem I wasn't aware I had; and a third has volunteered to lay carpets I haven't got. I am beginning to feel a little cowed - I appear to have an alter ego who is managing this move far better than I. As soon as I'm sure she and I concur on when I am moving and where I'm moving to, I think I'll slope off and leave them all to it.
Estimator no 8 is due soon.
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