Ems in London

Variations on a Theme

2009-10-26T18:54:00.004Z

The postman brought a bundle of cards made by some of my pupils today. They're all aged thirteen and fall into the disaffected/disruptive label dished out by schools and I until I left I taught them along the primary model - all of us in the room together with me doing my best with every subject under the sun. And a great time we had. I thought their basic literacy had improved but their spelling needs some work:

Essebella
Iserbell
Issebella
Issabell

My favourite comments are Yes, you was pregnant and you did it! You had a nice girl! and You must love her very much because you love us and we're not yours.

Autumn in Barking

2009-10-10T15:20:00.002Z

One of the (very few) benefits of the garage having had your car for three weeks (yes, that does read three weeks) is walking through the church and abbey ruins to the supermarket.

Whilst this fella is a little shy about helping himself to the nuts, his mate has no such qualms.

Smelly Pear Core

2009-09-23T19:55:00.001Z

I wish it did do what it said on the tin

2009-09-21T07:02:00.003Z

Whether or not you've ever used Ronseal, I'm guessing most people haven't, you're probably familiar with their slogan, and like me, try to apply it to everything. Including Mothercare maternity bras like this one:

The tin declares it to be a "fashion support bra".

Please do believe me when I point out it is neither fashionable nor supportive.

I'm back...and 35 weeks pregnant

2009-09-20T16:59:00.003Z

(Yes, I did scan it a little on the wonky side).

I decided I wanted to create page borders.

I've been reading Nigel Slater's latest offering Tender which is full of vegetables.

I can draw leeks (just).

I put the two together.

A Fear of Big Brother

2008-12-29T21:15:00.002Z

Old Street

Sun Street

My cup of coffee

2008-12-28T11:38:00.004Z

We considered a spot of cycling but the weather is against us. I have visions of me skidding along on my elbows in the opposite direction to the bike.

I considered going to the Tate but couldn't be bothered to get dressed.

I decide, after two years of them gathering dust, to arrange the statue photos into order and stick them in a book. After various exclamations and questions beginning "Where the fuck...?" the seemingly innocuous "I seem to have lost Queen Victoria in Kensington Gardens, seated, " tips C. over the edge. I can only guess he is seeking sanctuary in the bookies. (He isn't gone long; too early on a Sunday to be open). Perhaps I should point out, in his defence, that his sofa is in front of my bookshelves and I do make him (and the sofa) move so I can find a blank book, then the photos, then E.V. Lucas himself... I feel I may have been forgiven, when unprompted, he brings me a box of photo corners. I don't point out that they are the one thing I laid my hands straight on thanks to my desk. Third drawer down on the right.

It is strange though. I'm also at a loss to find the Duke of York "of discreditable memory on his column in Waterloo Place, doing all he can by his sheer existence to depreciate the value of the national tribute to Nelson close by", Queen Anne by "her beautiful gate" and Wellington at Hyde Park Corner.

I need a new project now. I keep taking Macauley and Browne's The Night Side of London (1902) from the shelf but I'm not a night person; I'd never stay awake. I've yet to come across London Mornings which would clearly be much more my cup of coffee.

A notebook is something to be loved

2008-12-27T19:40:00.004Z

I am enlivened by 'Bennett's Dissection' in the LRB. 'Around 1964 I took to carrying around a notebook in my pocket in which I used to jot down scraps of overheard conversation, ideas for plays, sketches and (very seldom) thoughts on life'. Hurrah! There's hope for me I scribble in the margin before reading the notebooks became 'a reproach, a cache of unused and probably unusable material'.

Oh well! I soldier on. The current notebook (orange, on top of the pile) is nearly three-quarters full. I detoured from my last minute shopping on Christmas Eve to Liberty to choose the next one. Unless, like me, you are obsessed with clean pages and the smell of leather as you read and write, you won't understand the anticipation and the excitement this provokes. A notebook is something to be loved, cherished and fondled.

I love a layer of frost - particularly when I can simply gaze out the window onto it. I call these crunchy mornings. They make me happy inside. Today, however, is different. The problem with deciding to leave your car somewhere (to have a drink) is having to go back for it. Romford beckons (before the parking restrictions kick in out side my parent's house at 8.30am).

I wrap up new socks, new top, new jumper and new cashmere mittens on a string. (I do remember to put on my old jeans, old trainers and old coat too in case you're wondering). I walk briskly through Upney, a slight incline you only notice on foot or bike, towards the no. 5 bus, and eye a stretch of pristine frost-encrusted grass. The noise I want is precise: a crisp, clear crunch. I check over my shoulder before pulling my arms back and propelling myself forwards and up. My two-footed landing is met with a disappointing damp sloosh.

I must have heard the news of Harold Pinter's death on the radio. The television has been unplugged and removed to make way for the Christmas tree. With the exception of my sister's partner we all thought this perfectly normal behaviour on my mother's part.

E: That's sad.

E: I saw the Caretaker when I was in Swansea at uni.
W: Was it good?
E: I don't think I understood it.

A colleague recently explained to me something about teachers and stress. Apparently, it takes a zillion days of consecutive holiday for the stress levels of a teacher to decrease to those of the average person. (You may be able to tell I was paying really close attention to these facts; anything to do with the Union currently leaves me cold - another reason, no doubt, to back up Pat's theory that one day I will be a Conservative MP). I spend all term somewhere on the spectrum between very stressed and breaking point. I leave all this behind on holiday. Very quickly.

Holidays are for luxuriating in your pyjamas on the sofa. All you need for company are a few good books, a pen and a notebook. A window with a view of trees, birds and squirrels , for staring at intermittently and ordering your thoughts, is helpful but not obligatory. Combine these days with those spent tramping the streets of London with a camera (and a notebook) and the odd trip to the Tate or a museum and you have a happy, relaxed teacher.

Admittedly, I don't manage to sit on the sofa all day. It may be conjecture (one of the flaws of an otherwise enjoyable book) but I (possibly) find myself in good company:

While reading Wilde would have been in constant motion, lifting objects to this mouth, such as food, paper, pens, drinks and cigarettes. According to his friend, the author and caricaturist, Max Beerbohm, Wilde had 'the vitality of twenty men'. We can imagine him hastily hunting the pages of the volume in front of him and rapidly scribbling lines in his notebooks as he did so. And, when the tension and restlessness became acute, Wilde would have risen from his chair or divan and paced around his library. He must have frequently walked across to the bookshelves to check a reference, or over to the fire to dispose of a half-smoked cigarette.

Oscar's Books. Thomas Wright.

Fragments

2008-12-26T19:47:00.005Z

Holborn.

After two enjoyable (unintelligible) conversations with an inebriated Scotsman on the Kingsway (much was made of a foil carton of Capri Sun in his Sainsbury's carrier bag) we make for the Freemasons' Arms on Long Acre. Closed.

A right and a couple of lefts later we're at the Two Brewers on Monmouth Street. Calling time at 5pm.

I rage about big chains and head for the Montague Pike on Charing Cross Road.

"Justin Timberlake," comes C's weary response as my eyes seek out a video screen and my mouth starts to open. "I'm not answering that question every time the track changes, Em".

I decide he won't have to as I cannot bear the team manager's choice of tunes. I gulp my Guinness back and set forth for the Spice of Life. A sign on the wall reassures me we have at least a couple of hours before last orders (7.50pm).

We're in good company. A fisherman. An aged Graham Norton. A South Korean Elvis.

We debate who's from where. A new couple join the crowd. "Sign of a true foreigner - pint of water," mutters the boy from up North.

Romford.

The following day, post-dinner, laying on the living room floor, I show my brother a photo take on my phone in the pub's loos. "I know I probably shouldn't laugh but the language us so funny".

W. reads it out to the privileged slumped on chairs:

ROBBERY ALERT
'HUGGER MUGGERS'

Be vigilant, watch out for unsolicited
approaches from people you do not know.

Be careful when engaging with strangers
who wish to hug or dance with you.

Please help us by keeping your mobile
phones and other valuables safe.

Tottenham Court Road.

I give Barry some loose change as we wait for the 25. He says he ended up on the streets because of his ex-girlfriend. A Long Story. He offers us a can of Stella to share and tries to swap C's cap for a suede ear-flap hat someone had given him earlier in the day. He's plotting his journey to the Crisis shelter somewhere near Camberwell. There is one nearer but it's dry. We exchange kisses and handshakes as our bus arrives.

Whitechapel.

A last bastion against gentrifcation in the east End proper. (Tesco, Starbucks and Argos have all lais claim to the Aldgate East end but have yet to encroach on the main drag).

I have left the bus and am looking for a down-and-out. I've had a drink or three by now and have the idea in my head my money would make a nice Christmas present.

C. trots along behind me as I take purposeful strides towards the war memorial. "You've just passed one".

I look behind me and see no-one. The High Street is unusually deserted. A banana skids along the pavement. An offering from the entrance to the tube.

I turn on my heels and head in the fruit's direction. Just inside the doors is the kind of wide-eyed, wild-haired Whitechapel wino who can trace his lineage back through the generations. Fletcher. London. Booth.

I hand him the money and wish him a "Merry Christmas". He looks at me stupified. Silently, rooted to the spot, he pulls a shiny green apple from his pocket and pushs it towards me. I shake my head. "Don't lose it; spend it, " I advise over my shoulder.

The apple follows the banana out into the night.

Things you only get to do on holiday

2008-12-23T17:28:00.000Z

1. Read the LRB from cover to cover in one sitting.
2. Write, and re-write, a letter.
3. Cook things that take ages in the oven like lamb with flageolet beans and tonight's offering of goulash.

Only a mum knows where to buy...

2008-12-23T17:16:00.001Z

...drawer liners for my lovely desk.

They wear you down...

2008-12-15T19:18:00.002Z

...and then pick you up.

A Christmas card:

To...
The BEUTIFULL TEACHER MRS G
AND SAFERST TEACHER IN THE WORLD
WISHING YOU A VERY MERRY CHRIST-
MAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR AND
HOPING YOU WILL TAKE CARE OF
YOUR SELF.
AND
HAVE A BRILLIANT HOLIDAY.

Love M.!!!!!

YOU ARE KIND AND CARING AND
MAKE ALL YOUR LESSONS VERY
FUN AND INTERESTING AND HAVE A
LOVELY PERSONALITY.

2008-12-15T19:16:00.000Z

There was another silence. I felt, above all, tired. Tiredness: if there was a constant symptom of disease in our lives at this time, it was tiredness. At work we were unflagging, at home the smallest gesture of liveliness was beyond us.

Netherland. Joseph O'Neill.

2008-12-12T05:59:00.000Z

2008-12-11T06:37:00.000Z

2008-12-10T06:31:00.000Z

The Regency Tavern

2008-12-09T20:44:00.003Z

Nice-looking exterior. White with a touch of pale blue. The interior is crackingly-tacky.

The walls are decorated with wide two-tone green stripes. They are bedecked with plastic gilt mirrors, cherubs and candlesticks sporting electric bulbs.

Ponderous runners of plastic mistletoe dangle clusters of red baubles and red and white fairy lights between beams.

The unidentifiable battered bust behind us is wearing a red tinsel scarf and felt reindeer ears.

Giant, sparkly snowflakes hang behind the bar alongside a frosted pine garland displaying bluw twinkling lights.

My pint of spitfire doesn't taste of much.

A hen party slowly gathers numbers. Older rather than younger. Dressed mostly in black. ("Are you sure it's not a funeral?" asks C.). They acquire garlands of gold tinsel in a bid to match the Christmas decorations.

One of the younger women, certainly younger than me, has her boobs pushed up and out of her dress.

"Does that look attractive?".

"It might after ten pints".

The Bishops Finger tastes marginally better.

A glimpse of the entrance to the gents loos suggests something more in keeping with the alternative Brighton scene. The walls are covered in tiny mirrored tiles.

The ladies, on the other hand, are painted in red. The stage of the theatre confronts you as you enter; the side walls contain the boxes and their illustrious guests.

The Black Prince is the best pint of the evening.

Spot the Connection.

2008-12-09T20:42:00.000Z

Regency Tavern. Regency Hotel. Prince Regent Hotel. Regency Restaurant. Regency Square.

But where was I?

2008-12-09T20:38:00.002Z

Following a tractor on the A13 got me thinking...

Repeat to oneself...

2008-11-04T20:10:00.004Z

I am not in pain.

I am not in pain.

I am not in pain.

I am sat typing this with a bag of frozen peas strapped to the toes of my left foot with a tea towel (clean). I have only just about got over the embarrassment of the last major toe incident (circa late November/early December 2007) which involved me walking around school with no shoes for almost two weeks.

Want some background here goes....

C. text me to say: he'd found my (lost) pencil case in a fishy bag [that is a bag with fish on it; it doesn't smell]; my tax disk had arrived with a bright yellow letter and could I buy some milk on the way home.

I was ever so pleased about the pencil case - even the kids were worried about my multi-coloured Muji pens (not to mention the English coursework on my memory stick) and very excited about the yellow letter (the latter's me not the kids).

I played it cool when I eventually arrived home (if there's something wrong with the Blackwall Tunnel there's no getting off that damned Island; even though the two aren't directly linked). I called my parents about arrangements for mum's birthday meal tomorrow.

On asking for details (like where and when) my sister could only tell me she was going to the doctor's, my mum told me she can't drive and (thank the non-existent lord) my dad and I managed to agree a time and place convenient to ourselves.

I calmly cooked my dinner (simple tomato pasta with olives and manchego) and took the yellow letter and a glass of red wine excitedly into the front room...

...where I SMASHED my left foot into the bottom right hand corner of one of my recently acquired sofas (swapped with sister for a camera). Being something of an expert in the toe-injury field I'm beginning to think (an hour after the event) that the littlest one may be broken.

I will share two things with you from the envelope of my yellow letter (the third's my full name and address and you're not having that):

2008-11-01T21:31:00.005Z

I am waiting for friends in the Starbucks behind the Founders Arms (a Youngs pub on the river). I choose to sit in the window to watch the world go by but it's so bright in the coffee shop and so dark on the street outside all I can see is myself in my red-nosed reflected glory.

We eat opposite St Paul's. I like the fact I can look out at Brandy Nan as I sip my red wine (the others are still on coffees).

Before we leave, Pat lavishes us with gifts. I excitedly receive signed copies of:

On Brick Lane. Rachel Lichtenstein.

Phoenix. Leo Hollis.

Tate Modern

2008-10-29T08:58:00.003Z

Me and a thirteen year old at the Dominque Gonzalez Foerster TH.2058 exhibition at the Tate.

October 2058 - Tate Modern - London

It rains incessantly in London – not a day, not an hour without rain, a deluge that has now lasted for years and changed the way people travel, their clothes, leisure activities, imagination and desires. They dream about infinitely dry deserts.

This continual watering has had a strange effect on urban sculptures. As well as erosion and rust, they have started to grow like giant, thirsty tropical plants, to become even more monumental. In order to hold this organic growth in check, it has been decided to store them in the Turbine Hall, surrounded by hundreds of bunks that shelter – day and night – refugees from the rain.

- They let homeless people sleep on the bunkbeds?

- No. It's art and it's set in the future. 2058.

- But it says there about 'refugees from the rain'. That's homeless people isn't it? Why say it if you don't let people sleep here?"

- It's art. It's an idea.

- I don't understand it. Do you?

On the beds are books saved from the damp and treated to prevent the pages going mouldy and disintegrating. On every bunk there is at least one book, such as JG Ballard's The Drowned World, Jeff Noon's Vurt, Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle, but also Jorge Luis Borges's Ficciones and Roberto Bolaño's 2666.

- Emma, did it say upstairs the books were rescued from the damp?

- Yes.

- That's not true. These are new but someone's crunched up the corners to make them not look new.

- Is that a real man on that bunkbed?

- Yes. He's obviously taken them up on their offer of refuge.

- Are you sure he's real? Haven't you been trying to tell me this is art; an idea in the future...

2008-10-28T08:13:00.002Z

Advertising posters line the route in and out of most tube stations. Occasionally, you will see a piece of strategically-placed chewing gum (on someone's nose or such like) and at other times a small sticker protesting.

Ascending the escalators at Angel yesterday there were posters promoting cosmetic surgery at HarleyMedical which made me frown. That is until I saw one displaying a hand-written label: "self-esteem cannot be purchased". That made me smile.

Playing in Victoria Park

2008-10-28T08:11:00.003Z

Two young blond-haired boys are wrestling at the edge of the grass.

Their mother approaches shouting at them to stop; they shouldn't be fighting one another.

"We're not playing fighting. We're playing mummies and daddies".

Vingt-quatre heures

2008-10-19T20:11:00.002Z

Looking at myself in the rear view mirror stuck in traffic this afternoon I laughed as I remembered something I read trackside yesterday:

My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether is was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap.

I now find myself teaching something called academic support. Students take one less GCSE to access support for the others. So, I'm a jack of all trades. To help out with current coursework demands I'm on a crash course to read Great Expectations and Of Mice and Men for Tuesday. The quote above comes from the former novel. (Anyone brings maths to the lesson and the game's up).

I am bright red. The nutmeg-grater sprang to mind but I think we can blame the cold.

Last night, I slept in 3 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of leggings, jeans, 1 vest, 4 long-sleeved t-shirts, 2 hoodies, 1 scarf, 1 pair of thermal cycling gloves and 1 hot water bottle in a tent. It's mid-October and bloody cold.

On another note: how do big people fit in sleeping bags? Do they come in different sizes? I slept remarkably well in my borrowed tent but when I moved the sleeping bag moved with me. Trying to turn in the bag was pointless; I fitted it too well.

The boy completed his third 24 hour race in one year and one week. A personal best of 119 miles. He assures me this is the last....