Stroppy.

To put it simply, this week has been a bad week and I am now sitting in my room alone, eating 'health surprise'*, drinking wine out of the bottle and swearing aimlessly at inanimate objects.

Classy, and oh-so productive.

Pondering my rather vile mood, I thought I would take this chance to politely raise the following issues I have with the general public, and in the case that people have the same problems, urge them to forward the message of discontentment to those concerned.

(*Health surprise, for those unlucky enough to not know, is a fine concoction made of butter and sugar. It has been medically proven to promote a better mood, and stop crying in times of desperation. Also increases essay and dissertation productivity rates by at least 5%.)




Please stop pointing out the bleedin' obvious.

Namely:

"What's wrong with you today? You're well moody."

Apart from being an utterly stupid thing to say, it does nothing but make said moody person even more moody (and hate you).

Plz stp rytin lyk dis

wt u chatin brv? dere shud b no imigrints in dis cuntry cuz were british nd we wn2 stay british nd al de imigrints r durti nd smell ov curry init.

Your point is invalid, you moron.

Please refrain from Facebook photo dick comparison.

(Might I just point out, not actual dick comparison.)
I mean the endless photo comments which involve statements such as:

"Ohmigawd Jessica, can you just go and get ugly please?!?!"
"Don't even know why I uploaded this photo, I'm soooo ugly."
"Ew ew ew, I look horrible, you look so hot! ohmigod I'm ugly. Ug.Er.Lee."

And other mindless drivel.

Please stop harlem shaking.

I am out of the loop; watching the videos makes me feel old, because I simply don't get it.


Please stop making me jealous of your life.

Okay, I get it. You are wonderful. You don't sit alone drinking wine out of the bottle. You are in the gym. You can already speak 4 languages, including Mandarin. You donated all your money to charity 'cos you haven't racked up a huge credit card bill or horrendous overdraft you can't pay back. You don't cry when you stub your toe or swear when you get mascara in your eye, because you always look where you're going and don't need to wear makeup. Your YouTube videos are witty and charming, and when you sing along to your guitar, my heart really does melt. You are naturally that tanned, that blonde, that laid back, and when people say 'she's the nicest person I've ever met', they really do mean it.

I'm cool with that.

Please stop hashtagging things on Facebook.

It's endlessly annoying, and it shouldn't be. The fact I am annoyed at such a triviality is in itself annoying. I am so annoyed that I just wrote that. Why am I annoyed?! AH!

See, the complexities of my brain cannot handle any confusion between Facebook and Twitter usage.


By writing this down, I feel as though I've done my bit for society today. I am ridiculous. Ignore me.

Muma.

When I was little and ill (or not so little and horrendously hungover), Muma Ford would take pity on her eldest daughter's whimpering and bring me hot Ribena. She'd say:

Blow on it before you drink it Joanna, it's hot.

And as she'd walk away, I'd mumble how I was ill and not stupid, before preceding to burn my lips and tongue on scalding blackcurrant squash.

Today, feeling rather ill and whimpery, I made myself some hot Ribena. I burnt my lips and tongue. I cried. I then calculated the exact distance my darling mother is from me on Google maps, whimpered some more, then went to sleep.

Please, if you see your Mum today, give her a hug from me.

I miss mine.

Alive.

Smile and the whole world smiles with you.

That much, at least, is true on a sunny day. Even the resident chavs and emos in the park cracked a grin my way when I inanely flashed them my widest grin and then carried on humming to myself. On second thoughts, they probably just thought I was crackers.

As the earth warms up, it seems everyone's moods do too - even if it's just for a little while. Snow is forecast to make its unwelcome return next week, so it's as if everything is living twice as hard while they have the sun on their backs.

The birds are singing twice as loud. (As I write this I can barely hear myself think. Ducks vs. Sparrows, I have a feeling. The ultimate standoff. The ducks are winning on the noise levels, the sparrows on the quality and variety of tone.)

The old men playing chess are bellowing insults at the children with twice as much gusto.



The boys playing football are using twice as many swearwords.

The gossiping Italian women are throwing their arms twice as wide in exclamation. (Oh my God the sun is shiiiiiiiningggg!)

There are twice as many couples bickering lovingly on the streets, and I've spotted twice as many stolen kisses at the back of classrooms.



Everything has been swept up in this sudden tide of warmth, and for the first time in a long time, the world is trembling with life.

What's on Your Mind?

(Excellent lesson on how to make toast. Top teacher.)

Today I discussed with some Abitur students what, and what is not, appropriate to reply with to the question; "How are you?"

It seems the common German stereotype is correct; when faced with the challenge of answering that question, they will undoubtedly tell the truth.

"Oh yes, Miss Ford, I am very tired today because my parents kept me awake all night with their loud and violent argument about who took out the gelbe Sacke recycling bag last week."

It does not just sound rather obtuse to my delicate English ears, but also completely uninteresting and awkward. I simply do not want to know the personal intricacies of a relative stranger's familial existence. Nor do I particularly care, on closer inspection, how he really is; I just want to carry on my selfish little day uninterrupted and only asked about his state of affairs that day in order to maintain an illusion of politeness.

After presenting my case to the students, they all protested that British people must all be liars if they answer the obligatory, "yeah, I'm fine thanks, you?", when they are actually thinking, "I have never felt worse, now piss off". I kindly explained that it was not lying, as such, more masking the truth with a more palatable and less socially awkward answer.

My explanation was a waste of breath. To no avail I was left flapping around in front of the blackboard trying to defend my culture’s anally polite ways.

Fast forward 24 hours, a little research and a wrestling match with the photocopier, I arrived back in the classroom armed with enough sheets to wallpaper the whole school, and plonked them on the desk with a satisfactory smug thump that only teachers and their wannabes can perfect.

Humbly, I admitted defeat (which to anyone who is personally acquainted with me knows, is nothing short of a miracle) and stated that they were right; British people, on-the-whole, are concealers of the truth, and that their pants should be continually smoking by the amount of fire they generate even by saying the daily hello etc. in the office each morning.

What I also pointed out, however, is that we Brits have a whole subculture of truth telling which has become an art form in itself. It may be socially unacceptable to pour over the details of your heart's desire with a real human person, but an anonymous note to an artistic keeper of secrets will do just fine.

So in the name of art and British etiquette, I got my students to participate in the following project aptly named What's on Your Mind? (http://whatsonyourmindblog.tumblr.com/). You send in a totally anonymous email with the hope that you will relieve yourself of an otherwise catastrophic social faux pas. Of course, they all thought I was balmy, but took part happily, and included delightful notes such as 'Lena is hot' and 'I need a piss'.

An interesting social experiment, I think. Not everyone cares or worries about the same thing, and it might make others feel a little less crazy when they read the deep dark depths of their teacher's mind...

I wonder if dogs in different countries bark in different languages...