Repeat to oneself...

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):

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

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...

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

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

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....

I love this photo...

Brother, sister and 7 of my 25 or so cousins.

The Anti-Colouring Book

Design a postage stamp for the first letter mailed from Mars:

The beautiful in-between bits

I have a new-found respect for the words "unremitting" and "unrelenting".

The most accurate description of anything, ever, has to now be "a swine of a climb up the B6278 to the Waskerley Way, aptly called Crawley Side".

Coast to Coast

Whitehaven to Tynemouth traversing some of the most beautiful parts of Britain.


The start found us sheltering in a tunnel for Tesco's trolleys in a rather derelict Whitehaven (where the sea gulls like to party ALL night). The rain soon became a permanent feature of the holiday along with the wind, which, according to the C2C Bible, should be behind you. I can confirm this was not the case.


The finish found us sitting in the sun outside the Baltic sipping coffee and debating whether or not the newly-found sly cake was better than an Eccles.

Holiday reading...before the holiday

The guidebook I borrowed from the library informs me that the essential holiday reading for Kefalonia is Captain Correlli's Mandolin and The Odyssey.

The former was read long ago and I have no desire to re-visit it. The latter scared me half to death. Without opening the book to even peek at the pages I'd decided this was something I'd never manage. I had visions of lists of names that meant nothing to me - like in the Bible: the sons of Obed Edom - Shemaiah, Jehozabad, Joah, Sachar, Nethanel, Ammiel, Issacher and Peullethai or Russian literature - hang on, who's Bosoi? Is that the same fella as Nikanor Ivanovich?

However, having despatched all reading materials back to London by Parcelforce from the Lake District (along with the tent, sleeping bags and superfluous items of clothing; the hills!) I was in need of something to read on the train journey back from Newcastle.

Blackwell's provided me with The Odyssey. I'm wondering if, deep-down somewhere, the argument was put forward that having just cycled 160 miles in five days through the lakes and over the Pennines, wind-whipped and rain-lashed, I can now do anything. Including reading The Odyssey.

And, you know what? I can and I did and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm amazed.

Learning to draw

One of the things I thought I would never be able to do is draw.

On a whim I picked up an 'inspirational self-help' guide in the Tate (goodness ever knows why). Oh, what fun I have had!

It started off well when I drew a rounded bottom to my mug (Amnesty Women for freedom, freedom for women that I've had for about thirteen years). He (Danny Gregory) tells me "the test of whether they are really looking comes when they draw the bottom. Almost everyone will just draw a straight line across". And, I didn't.

I've realised I don't actually care how good my drawings are in the traditional sense. I'm enjoying myself immensely (and they can only get better!).

A. I have been treading grapes.

B. My shoes got so wet at Ascot yesterday they dyed my feet.

London buses

I like buses. Especially the top deck. You have the choice of checking out the odd bunch on board or the passing humanity down below; or a combination of both.


The downside to bus travel is attempting a new route or destination. How do you know where to get off?

There is an answer.

(As I discovered about thirteen years ago in Berlin). I've experienced my first talking London bus. The "2-0-5 to Mile End". The next stop is announced shortly before you arrive. Simple...but so useful.

Just a shame I knew where I was going.

Cameron and his bike

I do consider myself a cyclist now (which is fortunate given I depart for the C2C tomorrow) so I do feel qualified to mention Cameron and his blessed bike.

C. has had two stolen over the past couple of years. I am lucky enough not to have suffered the same fate.

The Sunday Mirror recovered Cameron's bike and reunited it with its rightful owner.

There are, I believe, two lessons to be learned here:

1. you need to exercise a certain amount of common sense when deciding where to secure your bike (twat)

2. it still helps to be Somebody (even if that it is the leader of the Tories) than a Nobody (my bike would surely not be returned).

Leake Street. Waterloo.

Street art allowed; tags and names not.

Three teenagers are approached by two police officers.

"Where's the spray can, lads?".

One of the boys stutters, "Our teacher's got it".

All eyes turn to me.

Finding out just how reslient you are

Two funerals in ten days.

Fourteen year-old pupil. Police investigation on-going.

Father of four, mid-thirties. Completely avoidable.



"Miss, do you wonder sometimes if your heart is too big?".

Looking after the class pet

When I asked C. if he minded me bringing home a pet from the school's animal club for the holiday he shrugged disinterestedly. I took that for a no and he guessed he'd be sharing the flat with a hamster or a gerbil.


Meet George.


A two-foot long water dragon.

Holiday Reading

Breakfasts

Saturday. Bar Italia. Frith Street.
2 large black coffees and 1 bacon and egg ciabatta.
Discussion: final plans for Cuba.

Sunday. Patisserie Valerie. Spitalfields.
1 large black coffee and 1 croque monsieur.
Discussion: snow, tourists and moustaches.

Monday. Burger King. Ilford.
1 black coffee, 1 fries and 1 whopper.
Discussion: none.

Tuesday. Debenhams Cafe. Oxford Street.
1 black coffee and 1 pain au raisin.
Discussion: when the Easter holidays should be.