dyscalculia

Time of the Month.

Oh, I am so very very proud of myself.  And also incredibly frustrated. 

The proudness comes in the form of completing 8% of the Sudoku puzzles on my NintendoDSLite [guess who got Dr. Kawashima’s Brain Training, How Old Is Your Brain? (mine is currently 39) for Christmas?] despite my dyscalculia and my apparent lack of logicalness. However, the frustration comes from being unable to complete any more of the Sudoku puzzles.  Humpf. 

It seems I have peaked in the Sudoku stakes. 

I arrived at work on Wednesday to discover an email [sent only to important people, not me] proclaiming that I am to be the Teaching Assistant not only for Ms. Hippy/English, but also for Maths, the works skills ‘team’, and the Pastoral People [who are worshipped by the TwoFacedBitch, even though the rest of the staff find them arrogant and lacking in team spirit].  This hasn’t been discussed with me.  On top of this I am ‘teaching’ fifteen 1-1 lessons of English [most of it GCSE], plus a dash of ICT and a bit of something else.  There are also countless meetings to attend and cover for ill members of staff.  I am obviously Wonder Woman, and therefore would be grateful if you would all treat me accordingly.

I never check my work emails at home.  But I did just now.  The kids only came back on Thursday.  My timetable has already changed three times.  Oh well.  C’est la vie, eh?

I am now going back to never checking my work emails at home.  I don’t get paid enough to worry about it.  Of course, the standard response to that is, but goodness, you obviously shouldn’t be working here if you’re not dedicated to checking your emails at home – you really should question your commitment to the position

F*ck Off.

Also, I can’t stop listening to Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack.  Help me, please!  And The Blokey has a sore mouth and is doing the ‘man thing’, and the cat won’t go outside to poo because of a little bit of wind/rain, and it’s always me who has to make the bed, and as soon as I clean up the place becomes a mess again …

Oh, my bloody massacre is due.  Could you guess?

please God, bless this coming week at work and if you want me to suffer an illness for a couple of days then that’s fine, thanks xxx Elsabeth

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Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.

I find it difficult to cope with change, particularly in routine.  I spill toothpaste down my [clean, grrr] top in the morning and the very act of having to change it will affect me negatively for the rest of the day. 

In my Ordered Little World everything is precise.  On a weekday I get up, I do my business in the bathroom, I get dressed, I pull the curtains in the hall, I swear at the cat if she’s done her business, I put the kettle on and whilst it’s boiling I feed the cat, fluff up the cushions on the settee, pull the curtains in the lounge, put the tellybox on, open the door into the garden.  I then put my cereal in the bowl, at which point I get the milk out of the fridge and put it into the cup, so that I can make my coffee, and into the bowl, so that I can eat my cereal.  I then sit on the settee and eat breakfast while stroking my pussy and reading the news on that Ceefax Thing, which is always different to the news on BBC Breakfast.  I get up from the settee at the same time each morning, clean my teeth, have a wee, kiss The Blokey goodbye, in a while crocodile, put my lippy on and leave the house.  I double check that the door is locked, and then check it again. 

My coming home from work routine is also very precise, but I shall spare you the details.  The only time either change is when I have to get the bus to or from work.  For some odd reason I can cope with this, perhaps because until Chav Who Drives Me To And From Work started to drive me – to and from work – I had to get the bus anyways.

Speaking of the bus I was on it last night and spent much of the journey imagining that myself and the Good Folk on it with me were from the past.  There was the extremely sexy young man that all the girls would lust after, the posh young squire travelling home to his wife and baby, the common as muck dirty paupers, a woman of the street and the travelling musician who wished the giggly girls would lust after him.  This is what happens when your brain gets tired and the only thing it can remember is trawling through census returns from one hundred years ago.

But back to change, particularly in routine.  I’m the girl who will panic if the bus is two minutes late, if the cat chooses to use the litter-tray just after I’ve freshened it [I have a picky cat – she won’t use her litter-tray more than once which can create problems], if there’s a traffic jam, if the phone rings when I should be in the shower.  I actually panic about everything.  This morning I was watching the car in front and began panicking about having to drive and how I can’t do it – this is despite me not having driven for over eighteen months and having no intention of ever getting into the driver’s seat of a car again, and not forgetting the fact that I don’t have a license anyway. 

Yeh, I digress.

There is some point to this.  What is it? 

*places chin in hand and drums fingers against cheek whilst gazing blankly at the ceiling*

… it’s ironic that I work in the place that I do.  There appears to be some secret motto, probably written in Latin and hidden in a locked box with no key in the boiler room, about how important change is and how it should be a daily occurrence.  Last academic year I knew my timetable off by heart.  This year I daren’t commit it to memory because it’s likely to change before the week is out, not once, not twice, but at least three times.  One minute The [Unable To Manage Anything] Boss wants TAs to be classroom assistants.  Then suddenly she wants us to teach 1-1.  No, we can’t do that, we’re incapable.  Oh, but now teachers can’t have TAs in their rooms because they should be able to cope.  So what to do with the glut of TAs?  I know, they can teach 1-1!  And then, when it becomes apparent that they suffer from some form of dyscalculia, I can accuse them of being incompetent as they obviously can’t teach GCSE Maths.  Oh, I’m waiting for her to say something about that and I expect that this quiet little mouse will really let rip when that one comes.  Let’s do this for the naughty children.  No, not with him – he’s special, we must not treat him as we do the others.  Everybody do this.  No, do that.  Oh, do this again. 

I wish I could spin my head round like that girl in The Exorcist.

please God, thanks … xxx Elsabeth