twenty-three sixteen

Seven hours and 14 minutes of potential slumber if I can stop my brain having mini giving-out sessions to students who have forgotten their books, or those incessant “Miss, do we skip a line/do we write in pen?/ what page is it? / Is french a language? from whirring about the bloody environs of my skull for long enough to let some REM wash over me.

The black lines have graduated to my ankles.

I’m tired of feeling tired.

I have nothing to report apart from a new watch.

One from the men’s line, if you don’t mind. I would feel a little hypocritical buying a watch for a lady, being someone who never manages to eat anything without wearing half of the ingredients, who finishes class with more marker marks than the bloody whiteboard, and who would put any red-blooded man to shame in a birping contest.
That’s right, half-man, half-beast I art.

or so my Mother says.
“Willya not just write something on the blog there, now?” I’m asked.
“I will, of course….”
and then we shoot a blank ( a literary one of course. )

Little time for reflection these days, little time for noticing the little things I used to pick up on when sitting at my desk, reading my novel or updating my personal journal, or just general head-on-the-desk-post-weekend fatigue as was the case in Nihon.

The only thing which has struck me of late is this, and forgive the potential stupidity of it, but as I sat on a homeward bound train in Saturday, and the sky covered ove with menancing charcoal-like clouds, the carriage felt sombre. But who decided that black would represent gloom, and that the-end-is-nigh feeling…
that big light switch up there in the heavens, sometimes barely illuminated by a single 30 watt solas, and sometimes flourescent.

I’ve a sore back. I think it’s from lugging around secondary school books with me and a mother-fucker pencil case. I take the backpack to class with me, but I can’t help but feel that to be a “proper’ teacher you’d have something a bit more boxy and official to keep your things in.
I said to P. once, I think I’ll know that I’ve finally transcended the adult world when I lose the backpack. It definatey defies the clickey court shoes, sensible monocrome shirts and cardie look.
Still though, with all due prespect to the old North face ensembe, I will certainly be giving it a proper burial, as a symbol of my eternal gratitude of having been stuffed to the gills far too many times yet managing to “keep its mouth shut!”. Yep, I’ll have a big wake and you’re all invited!

while I’m at it, I might as well, throw up another few.

and one from Thailand.

I have a huge space where I could type a litany of excuses as to why I’ve been so neglectful but they all amount to a few things: the stress and heart-annoyance of shipping out of Japan; a weird two-weeks in Thailand and a month’s worth of readjustment in the Mother isle.

I thought I’d put up some pictures of things I miss, there are other things of course, but at ten at night and two five-page lesson plans to prepare, I throw up just a few. Here goes:
Oh Nihon, how I pine for thee so.

The simplicity of it, and no battling for your life on O’Connell bridge as you attempt to orienteer on a bike.

Now, not him specifically, as if I recall, this young chap was quite the pain in the arse, wannabe -yakuza type, more the students.

And herself, of course, young Misako, me auld pal, the regret at mistakes made and time lost, came out through tears in the end.