So the great thing about tumbling into ruts of frustration and vexation is that when you finally clamber out, OH! how irradescent the world is.

So lovely in fact that we can remark, having removed the gloomy blinkers that the new PE teacher is quite something to behold. ….

(dangerous pause)

if you`re partial to porn-star lookalikes.

He has it all.

The dodgey tash, beady eyes, small fish-mouth…and a dreadful collection of 2 piece tracksuits.

He also sounds like a girl.

and a japanese girl at that. His voice is surely a good octave higher than mine. Poor lad. I feel sorry for him because, afterall, Junior high school aren`t usually the place where Oscar-warranting porn appearance dreams can come through.

I will continue to feel a little pity for him, as long as he keeps his camera-phone from under my skirt.
Yea, he`s got that, you really don`t want to know what he does when alone look.

anyway…

Film of the book: top 50 adaptations revealed

Mark Brown
Wednesday April 19, 2006

Guardian

As anyone who has seen any version of Anna Karenina knows, a great book does not necessarily make a great film. And while The Godfather was a great movie, was it a great novel? Probably not.
These and other debates went into deciding a longlist of what are deemed the 50 best film adaptations of all time. Organised by the Guardian, a panel of experts has drawn up the list, which will be voted on by the public. The chains Waterstones and Borders are also involved and will promote the books in shops.

Andrew Pulver, the Guardian’s film editor, who was on the panel, said: “There was some vigorous debate.”

Among the issues under discussion was whether the film could be adapted from non-fiction. The answer was yes, but only in the case of Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese’s mafia classic based on Nicholas Pileggi’s account of the life of the gangster Henry Hill.

Short stories are allowed and Brokeback Mountain is there, based on Annie Proulx’s piece originally published in New Yorker magazine.

Stephen King could have been in the list three times over for short stories from one collection. In Different Seasons, three out of four of the stories became films - The Shawshank Redemption, Stand By Me and Apt Pupil.

The films of Stanley Kubrick could also have been in there several times since most of his movies were adapted works. The two which made the list are his version of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange and Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita.

Jane Austen is included once, for Pride and Prejudice rather than Emma Thompson’s Oscar-winning adaptation of Sense and Sensibility directed by Ang Lee.

And then there are the ones which are not there - no JK Rowling for Harry Potter or Tolkien for Lord of the Rings, nor EM Forster for Howards End, Room With a View or Maurice.

The Guardian, in association with the Book Marketing Group, will publish a supplement in the Film & Music section on May 5 when voting will begin. The winner will be revealed at the Guardian Hay literary festival at the end of May.

From words to pictures

1984
Alice in Wonderland American Psycho
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Brighton Rock
Catch 22
Charlie & the Chocolate Factory
A Clockwork Orange
Close Range (inc Brokeback Mountain)
The Day of the Triffids
Devil in a Blue Dress
Different Seasons (inc The Shawshank Redemption)
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (aka Bladerunner)
Doctor Zhivago
Empire of the Sun
The English Patient
Fight Club
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
Get Shorty
The Godfather
Goldfinger
Goodfellas
Heart of Darkness (aka Apocalypse Now)
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Jaws
The Jungle Book
A Kestrel for a Knave (aka Kes)
LA Confidential
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
Lolita
Lord of the Flies
The Maltese Falcon
Oliver Twist
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Orlando
The Outsiders
Pride and Prejudice
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie
The Railway Children
Rebecca
The Remains of the Day
Schindler’s Ark (aka Schindler’s List)
Sin City
The Spy Who Came in From the Cold
The Talented Mr Ripley
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
Through a Glass Darkly
To Kill a Mockingbird
Trainspotting
The Vanishing
Watership Down

The expense of Mother`s day cards, international calls home, nursing home fees, funeral untaker charges-all unecessary expenses according to the subect of the following article.
Read on:

Just ditch those difficult parents

‘Bad Childhood, Good Life’ by Laura Schlessinger is published by Harper Collins, (｣7.99).

The crumbling house, the delicate home.
you tell the child you`re going to leave. It`s as if you are laying dry wood down on the carpet.
“I’m telling the pair of ye”. So as to leave no doubt that the flame’d ignite, throw on some petrol.
“I’ll walk out that door!” strike the match, “and I’ll not come back!” and watch a child’s security go up in flames, as the house that represents everything they rely on, crumbles. Her mother is her home. Without her mother there’d be home, there’d be no food, there’d be nothing. It’d be a simple shack they’d live in, of a six year old’s means, insufficient to protect from the elements, temporary, and liable to fall down around itself in failure at the slighted gust of wind. The homely feeling had taken a beating, but there were sturdy foundations. The father’d left it so that even from the heavens we’d know that he’d wanted the house to be solid. He’d picked sturdy materials when he chose my Mother, but sometimes the storms got to her. The gale force of single motherhood seemed as though it would floor her again and her already struggling to get up from her knees. How would you do it? It was no surprise that your stance looked weak, that your eyes were often sad, and that you faced God everyday guilty because you were so angry at him for the cards he had dealt you. An internal anger that was sometimes so oppressive that it spewed from your mouth after a long day, and reminded your children of how vulnerable they actually were because their Mother had lost her footing with the world. A widow on the icy road of life, floundering, wishing for the sun. You could barely see through this choking cloud of grief. When was the glory day to come? When was this damned burning to stop inside? When would things ever get easier? If you’d known then, what you know now, would you have continued?
And it wasn’t as if you could shield yourself from his face. His eyes were stolen by his daughter. Every time she smiled she was him. And the happiness of her face would jolt you with grief. Didn’t you want her to let you forget him even for a moment, to enjoy a smile with your daughter without his interruptions? You wanted those eyes to be in his grave, not teasing you from across the kitchen table, the six year old smile mocking the loss.
“Mammy, I got my spellings right today and Mrs. Cooney said that I was the best in the class! Isn’t that good?” she smile at her mother, waiting for confirmation.
“What ‘s “good” pet?”
His gaze was upon you, reminding you to be good to his children and to do his part and yours all at once.
“I got my spellings all right and teacher reckons I’m the best in the class!”
What was she saying? Your eyes can’t focus. His eyes are asking you something. Focus. Remember to focus.
“Eat them beans. They’re good for you.”
Now the eyes spoke of disappointment. Why was he suddenly looking disappointed? How could he be disappointed? He was the one who had left YOU. How dare he leave you like this.
“I am eating my beans! I’m just eating a bit of rasher first.”
What was she saying, this child of yours who sat before you? He started to drift. His eyes had had enough of this conversation. He left, and he became her.
“What?”
“ I’m eating my beans. What’s wrong Mammy?”

“Nothing.” You lie. What’s wrong is everything. What’s wrong is that nothing is right, is that everything is not how it was supposed to be. That you are in love with the eyes of a six-year old, whose every glance your way pierces your heart that tries so hard to heal. What’s wrong she asked. Pet, if you only knew, if you only knew. If every single blessed thing was different it’d be ok, it wouldn’t be so hard to continue.

“Can I have a wafer?”
“Finish your dinner.”
“It’s finished.”
“It’s not. Look at them beans.”
“They’re bad.”
“Bad?”
“They’re a funny colour. I’m not eating them.”
She knew that something was wrong with you, that you didn’t care in the slightest whether or not she ate the funny-coloured beans. God, you weren’t even fooling a child. In fact if truth be told, you might not even bat an eyelid if she started chewing on the plate, or took a bite out of her brother who was much too involved in some cartoon to notice. What would you do if there was one less of them? Would it be easier? If she hadn’t come along, it’d be you and the boy. He was more like you. She was like her father. God had made you trade in him for her. If God had bothered to ask how you felt before he made the decision, what would you have said? If he’d asked you which you’d prefer to have with the promise that he’d never let your answer be known to a soul, what would you have said to him? You know what you would have said, but you could barely allow this thought into your consciousness such was the immensity of the guilt it would trigger and God knows, you were already holding a lifelong membership card to the society of permanently guilty hearts. You hadn’t married the girl. You had married her father. What made the divine forces above us think that she could substitute for your husband?
“ There’s no wafers.”
“ I bought some today. There are at the side there.”
“Where?”
“At the side.”
Bloody ice cream and spellings. If you could turn back the clock even further, forgetting the ultimatum, and be that girl who stood before that gaping freezer door, reaching in to find the treasure of raspberry-flavoured ice-cream, content that twenty correct spellings out of twenty, and a side of ice-cream sandwiched between two wafers was all that was needed to flick the light switch to your heart you’d be grateful beyond words. A few lightly-intended words spoken by a teacher, allowed you to believe that you were indeed far and above your classmates, in all aspects of life, your character a shining beacon of perfection, proven by your ability to memorise a few words. If only it were that easy. If you went to school tomorrow and sat in the miniature seat, scribbled a few spellings, and showed your work to this lady would she too manage to transform your dull spirit? Would the past few years of struggling under burden after burden, of toiling, of grinding be struck from your record, as you sat there, Gulliver like, amongst school children, and proved that you were indeed the best speller in Lilliput? How could it be that easy for her? Why was so little expected of her? You were expected to do so much more for so little praise. Why wasn’t the world ringing you, and its voice on loudspeaker, telling the nations that you had managed thus far so you were a much better mother than all the others? Why wasn’t someone phoning to exclaim that you were far exceeding the expectations laid out for an ordinary mother yet, you were handicapped. You were competing in the grand parental Olympics, yet you were a special athlete. You were facing able-bodied pairs. It was as if you were playing solo parental tennis yet the match was being held on the doubles court, and there were two players on the other side of the net. You said it to everyone you met.
“How are you?” they’d ask.
“Struggling,” you’d say, thinking that they wanted to know exactly how miserable your life was by times, flailing arms signalling that you needed to be rescued. You wouldn’t smile because then they might think that you were actually coping. You said it in words and you didn’t want to take any chances so you said it through your eyes too.
Yet sometimes people wouldn’t react so you’d feel the need to say it again.
“I’m struggling.”
You had so much on your plate that you couldn’t think to ask how they were. What if they were to say that they too were struggling with this labour called life? Who was struggling more? No one could possibly have it harder than you, could they now? You’d win hands down on this one? There would be no struggle to see who was struggling more. You’d floor them with the dept of your woes. Wouldn’t you? Everything was so much easier for everyone else. Everyone else had it dandy. They were strolling along under the cherry-blossoms that tickled the bright and defiantly blue sky. They wouldn’t go grey early like you had, and if they did they had the money to cover it up. Of course, they’d probably cover it up because they’d surely be ashamed of looking like life was taking its toll. They wouldn’t want others to know of their difficulties, because it’s wasn’t the fashion. Now you had to say that everything was fine. Pretend to be happy. Fake it. Smile even when you don’t want to, and even when you haven’t in a long long time, even when you can’t truly remember the last time you smiled. Look on the bright side it’s often said. But you can’t see that is a bright side. Where in God’s name would you look for some consolation? It was all dark as far as you were concerned and that was the truest word ever said.

Be positive. Such rubbish. What was wrong with complaining? I suppose they’d be telling you next to investigate your sadness. Telling you to go and talk to a psychologist to make you better. And he’d turn around and tell you that you’d suffered a great loss and that it was hard for you. Wouldn’t he then charge you fifty quid for the privilege more than likely. Yes indeed, pretend that it was all fine. Sweep the dirt under the mat, bleach the tea stains out of the mugs you and others had held when they came to see him laid out, hoover the dirty footsteps of life’s journey, slosh white paint over the bleeding heart and break through that kitchen window, open it up and make a new room for what’s to come. Then it wouldn’t be exactly as it had been when he was alive. He’d start to look like he hadn’t been there at all. His radio would go and you wouldn’t be able to tell listeners that he’d bought it just before he’d been diagnosed, and that he’d listened to this very radio in his sick bed, most likely listening to the word’s events for last time before he became too weak to try to care about what was going on beyond the hospital walls. It wasn’t just a radio to you: it was a piece of him, and there were few enough of those for you to cope. If you were one of these new age types you’d probably give away the crutches too, to someone who needed them because they’d broken a leg at a football match and would be out of action for at least six weeks. It’d be helpful. You could say, “Oh these were my dead husband’s. He’d want you to have them. He loved football. Here, take them. (My therapist says it’s best for me to associate these with someone who can recover. Your leg will be better in no time, and then he reckons that I’ll feel better when I see you back on your feet. Don’t go and die now in the mean time. Then I’d surely think that I was cursed.”)
You wondered how this would make you feel any better, seeing someone else’s husband recover and run off in the sun-filled horizon. It’d only remind you you’d drawn the short straw. You know that you’d wish that it had been them and not your husband who’d suffered and departed.
How could you move on? You could barely straighten your back to stand. Who thought up these tiresome and insensitive ideologies?
“She ate all the ice-cream.”
Jesus, what now.
“She left me none. Mammy, she left me none.”
“There’s some there.”
“It’s all gone.”
For blessed sake.
“Did you leave him none?” you ask the gorging child.
“NO!”
“Ah. There’s none.”
“Come here to me. I bought more yesterday,” fool that I was, stretching to have some ice-cream to make things the slightest bit easier. Now this. There was going to be a row. It never ended.
“You’re so selfish!”
“I didn’t eat it all! There’s more there!”
She didn’t think. She never thought. The way she looked at you with his eyes, never once stopping to consider the enormity of her action, and how it was tunnelled through your soul. She didn’t stop to think of her brother. She hadn’t checked to see if there’d be enough for him. In the same way she hadn’t stopped to think of you. Her brother was you, and she was him, looking at you, questioning the necessity of the attack. I’m only looking at you Mammy. I can’t help it, that I have his eyes and his smile. You are blaming me but I can’t do anything about it. Stop putting the onus on me. I’m not trying to wound you. You just have to look to see that. And while you’re at it, get your son to open his eyes too, and see that there is ice-cream for him, that I hadn’t been so greedy as to eat it all. You can hate the fact that he left you, but don’t hate me for taking his place. There’s ice-cream for everyone and my eyes aren’t a weapon I use against you, she was saying back you. I wasn’t asked either whether I should come and he should go up above to sign St. Peter’s register.
There it was-the anger coming to surface again. Why had you taken it out on her? What had you meant by telling her that she was selfish? She was a child for God’s sake. Didn’t you see that? She wasn’t her father. Now you could see that she was starting to feel a little of what you were feeling. She didn’t understand why you’d lashed out like that. She felt angry that you’d said what you said before even checking that there was ice-cream. She was feeling guilty now as she looked down at her ice-cream that was starting to trickle down her fingers and the joy it had permeated was the trickle. Now maybe she understood that this was how you felt every living moment. You woke up angry and alone. Then the guilt arrived because you were supposed to be thankful for all that you had in your hands. I supposed someone somewhere said, “Well, it could be worse.” You said it to her because she wasn’t like you. You wouldn’t have said it to her brother because he was like you, and if there was one thing you weren’t and that was selfish. Who was selfish was him, for dying. No one could ever call you selfish. You were the walking antisesis of the definition, for the love of almighty God. You gave, gave, gave and gave again, and when you needed something you gave your last remaining speckle of soul.
And there you had it. How completely and doubtlessly unselfish you were.
“Did you find it?”
She wasn’t going to enjoy the remainder of her dessert until she was sure that he’d get some too.
“Behind the chips.”
“Told ya!”
You should apologise but then she’d look at you, and now her gaze was down ward and you could relax ever so slightly.
“Get that homework done.”
You didn’t even need to tell her because she’d do it regardless. He wouldn’t. He’d do it half-heartedly, half learn his spellings and leave it at that. She’d do it with perfection, as if she needed to hear those words of praise from her teacher again tomorrow after this evening’s attack. She needed to enjoy her ice-cream tomorrow and she wanted to make sure that she would.

go for a swim…I swear.

Just get up, pack my bag and go.

How hard can it be?

He hasn`t talked to me since the Friday incident.

( let`s not notice how I`m not taking any responsibility for the lack of communication. I haven`t attempted to talk to him either. )

Anyway, let`s toss him to the mountain of failed conquests to be one with those who…(sob!)… rejected me.

Moving swiftly on.

Twas a strange day yesterday filled with coincidences.
Got news that a firend passed away, and arrived to school late. Told the vice- principal through tears. She started to cry.

She invited me and another teacher to go for a drive to the coast because she believes in water`s calming effect.
Before I approcahed her, she and “another teacher” had chatted about the theory of positive statements and feeling on water. And because we are made up of 70% water that positivity can scientifically help well-being.
The same idea as is represented in the “What the bleep do we know” documentary. Loved it byt the way. Good-viewing when you feel like a good think.
We went for the drive.
And had ice-cream and had dinner.
When we walked into the restaurant Westlife was playing. Oh so go and have yourself a good sneer at Westlife, but it seemed weird. I`ve never heard Westlife be played in Japan before. Turned out the restaurant owner loved Irish music for some reason and had shelves of all kinds of irish music styles.
Anyway, vice-principal talked about a special needs child she had taught and whom she cared a great deal about but hadn`t seen nor heard of in a long time.
The restaurant owner announced that before we arrived, the said special needs lady had sat in the very seat vice-principal had sat and talked about her.

Just a bit weird.

heading for the sloshy lights of Bangladesh on Saturday.

Poor old Bangladesh.

No matter how I say that I’m off there for two weeks, the people I’ve told are mostly bewildered.

The Lonely Planet guide to it is surprisingly slim.

Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, nor can i say that I’m not looking forward to it.

In all honnesty I can’t actually say that I’m thinking about anything else other than the blasted fecking Dip in UCD and whoring myself out to some school or other and whinging about the fact that I have to go and find a fecking school out of the two-hundred and fourteen, when there’s perfectly capable secretaries who could just do it for us.
Save a whole lot of hassle.
Is there anything more hateful than writing up a CV and begging letters, gloading about the basketball match you once played in ten years ago, and how you were the last sub for Fenagh Ladies GAA, careful to not mention the nearly failed final exams, because you were so busy coordinating the world, overseeing the UN, successfully implementing anti-poverty legislation
and voluntarily translating Ulysses into Korean.
still though, the Bangladesh trip is for de children. For de poor beggers who live there. I’m not lying about that.

“I hope you’ll never have my life.” I translated from her voice as she choked with tears. It was only a card but that was all it took. A Mother’s day card that said too much. I wanted to make her happy but instead the card had her in tears. There was a girl of six on the card. She was standing in a kitchen and all around her were the remnants of a chaos created by a six-year on a mission to make her mother a breakfast. There she was doused in flour, standing amidst smashed eggshells, spewing cornflake packets, tumbled saucepan piles smothering a mound of filthy delph. In her hands she held a tray with a buttered piece of toast. She was wearing strawberry jam in a rouge-like effect. “I wish you were still that age.”

What?

“I wish you were still that age,” she repeated.

“Why?”

“Just.”

Just. Just so I wouldn’t be gone most of the time. Just so you wouldn’t be in an empty house most of the time. Just so you could devote all your time and energy to caring for us, in an attempt to distract yourself from the huge void inside you. Just so you’d never have to really realise exactly how sad and pathetic your life was. Just so you’d never know that because you’d sacrificed for us, you’d given up living your life. It wasn’t easy to stand by and watch your life investments pack their bags and leave. Where was the pay-off? Where was the gratitude? Shouldn’t it be more than a card once a year or a bored phone call once a week? The dinners you’d handed out; the brittle tenners on a Friday evening, the scrimping and saving, the driving her and there, the struggle to wake every morning, knowing that this was it. This was the life you’d been dealt. Somehow this wasn’t what your fifteen year old day dreams had been like. And as if it wasn’t hard enough to have to struggle in front of such a force of solitude, society kept throwing it back at your face. “Mary and friend” the wedding invitations said. Would you turn up one day with the dog by your side because my man is gone, I thought I’d bring his best friend. Didn’t you know that my husband died at the age of thirty-five from lung cancer even though he never smoked? Didn’t you know that I’m the black widow/ Didn’t you fucking know how painful your fucking wedding ceremony will be for me? A celebration of a couple’s love for each other. Why on earth would you think that I’d want to spend the day wallowing over an empty chair? You don’t want this life but you can’t get out of it. You want her to know. Sometimes you need to say it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were never meant to be lumbered. The world should pay you more admiration. Everyone should know how hard it was for you. Hearsay wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough that people spoke of the day when he died and the infant sat in it’s Granny’s arms, and the toddler played quietly in the pen, and how they’d pitied you, with the new house and two young ones, and a barely-risen byre. They weren’t to forget it. They had to know that the suffering intensified. That with time, things were supposed to have gotten easier, but they didn’t. As your children grew, and as their needy grip on you weakened, you were starting to grip them because they were all you had. They were your spoiled career; They were the relationships you might have known had you let yourself ever reopen your heart, they were every bloody sacrifice you’d ever made. Why should you be the only one with scars? Let them feel some of that guilt you feel for the anger you have inside you. Guilt can make people do anything. Guilt made you head for mass every day, made you reach for the beads, made you say the words “it’s God’s way”, “God works in mysterious ways”. You were ridden with guilt because you shouldn’t feel like this.

“I’m only your Mother. I bend backwards for you.”

“Well I never asked you to.”

It’s true. No one asked you to do what you did. No one. God never asked you if you’d life to trade your husband, your love and security for twenty years of crippling struggling? The child at nine moths never asked you if you’d mind her. She’s assumed. The same way God had assumed that you were able for this. Well ought he not have bloody well asked. Shouldn’t he have asked you first? You’d have said no. You’d have turned and walked. Walked out that door and never looked back and never had to know the betrayal that life was to do to you.

“Why just?”

“Looked ! Just.” And you’d turned and walked because you were afraid that you’d say too much and let her know that you were angry that your existence was likened to that of a trampoline, people pounding off you to move up in the world, but they’d grow out of it and you’d rust and break eventually.

How do you tell someone you really like, a close friend, to fuck off? to leave you to fuck alone? to not correct every last irrational statement you make ? You know yourself these exclamations are irrational but because your head is aswarm of should-i’s-will-i’s and you feel as though you’re being stretched in ways the karma stura could never have imagined, you just feel like letting off some steam? When your head is at war with itself, and you don;t know which way to turn, someone is going to get bruised.

There’s an interesting psychological technique called the antiwhiner technique” which , funnily enough, is a way to deal with misery guts. The whiner complains about something or other.You feel the sincere desire to be helpful so you make a suggestion. The person immediately squashes your suggestion and complains again. You feel tense and inadequate, so you try harder and make another suggestion. You get the same response. Anytime you try to break loose from the conversation, the other person implies he or she is being abandoned, and you are flooded with guilt. In fact, it is your urge to help complainers that maintains the monotonous interaction. Paradoxically when you agree with their pessimistic whining, they quickly run out of steam. When people whine and complain, they are usually feeling irritated, overwhelmed, and insecure. When you try to help them, this sounds like criticism because it implies they they aren`t handling things properly. In contrast, when you agree with them and add a compiment, they feel endorsed, and they usually relax and quiet down. Our instinct is to look for solutions when someone starts to rant about what or all that is wrong in their lives.
for example: “oh! I’m so bored. I’m so tired of everything. I’m sick of my life. Such-and-such is a prick!”
instinctively we counter: “why don’t you do something else? go and find a new job. he’s not really a prick he’s just pmsing.”

which leads to the following reaction from the whinger:
“God! They think I can’t even find a solution to my own problems. Now i feel worse.” The whinger feel defensive, as though their capabilities to manage their own life have been questioned.
I’m sure we’ve all done it, and perhaps we’ve all experienced someone trying to help but you come away feeling like an incapable twat.

In actual fact, when someone goes on a rant, it’s merely to let off steam. They most likely know that there are solutions to what is bothering them, and can find them themselves. What they need though, is not to hear what they ought be doing, but rathar, empathy for the situation they find themselves in.
e.g. “I’m sick of work. My boss is a twat.”
“You’ve been working so hard lately, I’m not surprised you feel tired. I’d feel tired too if i worked as hard as you. You try so hard. That was unfair of your boss to do that. But you handled it well. Your company owes you a lot.”
m
So there you have it.
God help ANYONE who attempts to advise me this coming week. I know that the sentiment is kindly, but…that’s exactly it. I know that you fucking mean well. I know THAT. I know that I shouldn’t shout at the lady at the admissions office of the University i hope to go to. I fucking know.
We know what’s right and what’s wrong. We know we shouldn’t smoke, or eat crisps, and we know we should exercise every day.
But sometimes, you just don’t want to. and sometimes, just sometimes you don’t give a shit. We are afterall, not machines.

I might take a day off from the outside world, in fact and spare the nations my buddling wrath.

Stand clear!

Distinct absence of kitkatts today.
an even distincter lack of love today.
an undeniable lack of greeting exchanges today which leads me to think that tonight is not the night the much anticipated thank-you-for-the-chocolate-NO!-thank-YOU-for-the-cd-let’s-copulate festival will be taking place. No tonight and probably not ever!

Here’s why:
Today was the thundering halleluia of a disaster, known to those not present in the gym as “the English Club’s annual three minute recruitment presentation”, and to those whose presence at the spectacle I cringe to consider, “a Pavarotti-style belly flop”, the preparation for which I oversaw, so the Japanese tradionalists and zenaphobes can sleep tight tonight, knowing that foreigners can officially do nothing right, not even manage a small presentation.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if i’d just let it die it’s pathetic death, disowning it momentarily, and sat quietly. NO! I couldn’t let it be. The sight my little babies hanging, hands gnawing a brittle branch, swaying over the mighty grand canyon of adolescent shame, their reputations about to fall to a lonely death compelled me to action. So…I stood up, she of the pigen Japanese, she of the rank BELOW the school caretaker, she of the non-japaneseness, she of …NOTHING…and tried to save it, forgetting the golden rule of life-saving-Don’t put yourself in danger.
This, the week, of chocolate treats, of smiles, of “oh we could have our wedding dance to Nirvana’s “lithium”, wouldn’t that be lovely!” , of taking care to hold the tummy in when prancing around the staff room, of the freashly groomed eyebrows, and toes. It was looking so good.

And now…

OH THE SHAME!

I get flashes every now and then of those three minutes…
OH!

Enough! Let’s just not talk about it anymore.

You’d think I’d be a wee bit more savy at 26 wouldn’t you. Honnestly.

Today`s update:

He likes Nirvana too.
Excellent.

Reasons why I think he`s husband material:
(1) He has nice eyes.
(2) He has nice forearms (Misako will agree on this-pushed up sleeves which reveal nice hairless tanned arms are one reason to love being in an over-heated staffroom over Winter).
(3) He seems like a nice lad. No criminal record to report.
(4) He doesn`t speak a word of English-I`d be fluent in Japanese in no time.
(5) He likes Nirvana.
(6) Says his favourite colour is emerald green-PING-PONG-mine too. That`s the house-paint colour sorted then.
(7) says he feels an affinity to Ireland-PING-PONG again. I do too! Hurrah!
(8) likes Guinness. favourite drink apparently. Hurrah! I`d love the stuff too were it not for the fact that it`s a demon known to swell the frequent drinkers belly to pregnant-like proportions.
(8 1/2) …(hmmmm…..stuck….) drives a nice truck landrover thing.
(9) Even though I`m from Leitrim, I`d always be exotic in his eyes. Who`d have thought eh!
(10) He has lovely tanned hair-less skin. No Pinkness anywhere. No back-shearing required.

now the bad news:
(1) he smokes. (he could stop, couldn`t he?) which leads me to number 2.
(2) bad teeth. bit black around the edges. (there`s always the dentist. “oh look, where we`ve found ourselves today, right outside the dental clinic, and would you look at that, an appointment for you to go have your teeth powerhosed, then bleached, a whole day before you move to Ireland forever. well! what a coincidence!” )
(3) no arse to speak of, or that I can detect through sensible teacher trousers.
(4) drives a silly big car, that tears me between, “WOW! nice truck!” and “that`s a ridiculuous size of a vehicle for one person to use simply to drive to and from work in. Is this some kind of a manhood extension?”
(5) He`s Japanese. sometimes a good thing, and sometimes a bad thing. Like, my repetoire of Father Ted quotes would be wasted on him. He`s never know the hilarity of mine and Regina`s midlander accent. (sigh!).
(6) No English. Mental anguish for a lady who`s not the most partial to study.

Well, look at that! More pros, than cons.
Funny that it turned out like that.
It`s as if I`m trying to convinve myself of something.

ah, the coincidences continue.

Mission-bag a Japanese man before I leave is looking up.

Let me share with you the illustrious relationship to date.

Some 12 months ago, new male teacher arrived.
We never spoke to each other.

In late June last year, I bumped into him at the train station-i was off out to meet friends and he was going to a work party.

I barely recognised him. We said hello.

The following october, we introduce each other at a staff party and he reminds me of the time we met at the train station. We “chat”, about such matters pertaining to verbs I can congugate in the japanese language.
As night wears on, an empty bottle is spun to decide who, among the poor collection of male colleages I should marry (baring in mind they`re all married, the result was to be expected-best to marry her off to the only single man in the school which happened to be train-station teacher). With blood -alcohol levels reaching unknown heights, my decision to marry him was met with him declaring, that he “wanted me. needed me, loved me”.
Second leg of the party ends and some decide to trundle back to my apartment, with train station man, being one of the three visitors.

Monday whirrs around and it seems as though, the marriage proposal is null and void. The next time we talk is when the phone rings at school and he answers. It`s for me.

The following February, I go on the teachers trip. It is decided once again that we should get married. We discuss some dates, and it`s settled. Karaoke is sung and a marriage based on a tolerance for ACDC has got to be something. He`s more than welcome to come along to the U2 concert with me and my bro in April.

The photos from the trip are passed around upon our return to school and no, he doesn`t particularly want a copy of any of his karaoke action shots. I make copies of my photos and put them into envelopes with the various recipients names on the envelopes. I mistakenly write his name as, I have since learned, “vomit rice field” instead of “100 rice fields”, a blunder I didn`t realise for a month. Go me and my wooing techniques.

The following day he arrives into school, Mr. Vomit at the train station, with a six pack of Japanese black beer for me, to say thanks for his newly coined name, no doubt.
“hey, drink these, Aine and we can be vomity together!”.
He even gave me a little bag to carry them safely on my bike.
ahhhh!

I didn`t allow any visitors to drink the love beer but then, i relented. It did taste nice. and i`M sure after enough of it, you`d certainly feel like a bit of loving.

I decide one morning, that despite reeking of garlic , three cloves of which I consumed the previous night, I would break the awful news that U2 had canelled their concert. What was to be done. He reached across to look at the screen and I cursed the timing of my garlic craving.

Bit more chatting was done at the following staff party so I took the plunge.

I did it.

God, nerve-wrecking it was.

but, it had to be done. The initiative had to be taken. I mean at the rate this thing was going, we`d be holding hands for the first time, in fifteen years time.

I made him a cd.
Oh, hell! well, not just one cd, actually 2 cds, with every second song being some tune or other from some of the bands he likes. One is pretty rocky, the second as bit more pensive. Granted, not so sure how “pensive” a cd can be in a language you don`t understand.

anyway, I chickened out of giving it to him yesterday. I needed some egging on. Told another teacher. She was the encouragement I needed.
I watched him eagle-like this morning from the right-hand corner of my supposedly lowered eyeball, and once, when, loud-mouth busy-body married teacher, took to the phone, I darted over with it to him.
“HERE! ” thrust. (it`s a cd I spent ages making because you`re lovely).
” music.” ( so you can listen to it and think of me, granted only nice thoughts are allowed)
“free time, I having.” (I could have done anything with my free time but I choose to spend it, on a project devoted to you.” )

turn on heel and tear back to the sanctuary of own desk, to practice some deep breathing and return heartbeat to healthier pace.

Next thing, he`s standing beside me. “OH! I love this group. It reminds me of when I was in High School. ” ten points to aine.

“here!”.
he hands me a funsize kitkatt.

Could this day get any better?
I`m sure babies have been made for worse reasons that for simply wanting to show apprecition for delicious Nestle treats, right?

(Yes, this is whay Japan has done to me. )

It`s grey outside but this murkiness is appealing for some reason. Maybe it`s because when confronted with such a scene, you`re happy to be sitting at your desk, happy to be safely sheltered from wet exposure. Clouds swish about, flicking the mountain heads, the sky is the lightest shade of grey inaginable and the sodden green looks even more dramatic against the demure white.

It`s a start.