Dog Eat Dog

When Human Remains get involved in the shenanigans at the School for Naughty Children, it becomes obvious that changes are to take place.  And not just any changes, oh no.  These must be Big Changes, otherwise my boss would just get on and make them regardless.  She’s not one for listening to anything the county council have to say, usually.

She wants rid.  The nasty R word.  Nastier than rid. 

The teaching staff are safe [in fact, the teaching staff are so safe that she’s been able to employ two new teachers, starting in September.]  Nearly all the administration staff are safe.  Which just leaves me, and the other five Teaching Assistants.  Between us we are three full-time and three part-time.  She needs to whittle it down to the equivalent of two full-time.

She needs to save some money.  She stressed that it isn’t happening for financial reasons, but the fact that she needs to stress that it isn’t just proves that it is.

My head is in a bit of a muddle today. 

The arrogant, egotistical, big-headed part of my brain knows thinks that I’m safe.  Whether it be full-time or part-time as a jobshare, I know think that one of the two positions is mine if I want it.  I know, my arrogance is horrifying.  Ms Hippy thinks I have nothing to worry about, Bubbly thinks the new job description and person specification was written with me in mind, and even Dotty and Old-Hat have admitted they will be surprised if I don’t get it [if I express an interest in it, obviously.]

[aside: if i do express an interest and then don’t get it, please feel free to laugh at my expense – i will deserve it]

Apparently my boss has even told Ms Hippy to tell me that the essential bit about having the ability to travel shouldn’t put me off expressing an interest.  Ms Hippy told her to tell me herself, but then told me anyway, and we laughed because Ms Hippy thinks that my boss is scared of me.  Ha. 


I told Ms Hippy that I thought the wording had probably been with me in mind, as a non-driver.  That’s arrogance for you.

But, there’s a part of me that feels sick to the stomach, and panicky.  I work with some amazing people and I’m proud to call them my fellow TAs. We’ve laughed together, grumbled together and even cried together.  We regularly put the world to rights, and we’re very supportive and protective of each other.  I love [most of] them to pieces.  The threat of redundancy creates an air of paranoia and mistrust.  It shouldn’t do that.  I have Guilt sitting on my shoulder telling me that I don’t have children and that my husband earns good money.  Pity bops me on the head [lovingly] and suggests that I just leave because I can’t bear to see anybody else upset and worried.  And Fidget stumbles by to take me by the hand, and guide me along the long and dangerous road of Maybe It’s Time To Move On

I would say that I don’t know what to do, that I’m lost and confused.  But this would be a fib.  I know what I want, and I know think I can get it.  I just don’t want to see other people get hurt in the process, and I worry that Pity and Guilt will cause me to do or say things that I don’t really want or mean …

Why is grow’d up life so bloody difficult?  And why am I so cock-sure of myself right now when usually I’m the first one to belittle myself?  Is it survival instinct? I don’t really like it, whatever it is …


please God make everything hunky-dory xxx Elsabeth


Insert Relevant [and possibly witty] Title Here.

I took my pastel coloured stripey broken umbrella for a walk this morning.   In the rain.  My warm red coat came too. 

I did not a fashion-conscious person look. 

But as I was ill, and the only people I was likely to bump into were old ladies in brown plastic coats and see-through plastic headscarves [maybe with fetching pink polka-dots on], I really didn’t care.  I jumped in some puddles, got ever-so slightly agitated in the Post Office [this PO lark is costing me oodles this month, what with more foreign cards and a birthday belonging to a nearly six year old nephew], and battled with some wet blustery wind. 

I don’t like being poorly.  Poorly-ness has been doing the rounds at work and suddenly realised it had been giving me a wide berth.  It rectified this with passion, resulting in me leaving work early yesterday and clambering into bed in the early afternoon after catching up with The Tudors.  So, we didn’t get to the cinema to see Northern Lights* last night.  Pfft.  I even had every intention of going into work this morning, but a horrid night made me see sense and I spent half an hour plucking up the courage to ring my boss … who then shocked me by being really quite nice.  Hmmm.

Of course, I have to go into work tomorrow.  There are only two of us who can do a certain thing on a Friday afternoon and the other person has Chicken Pox.  She’s the same age as me – who on earth gets Chicken Pox when they’re thirty-three!?  Plus we’re going out in the evening for my work-do [unofficial, because we’re boycotting the official one] and I can’t be ill and then turn up for that. 

Or can I?

Darn, I intensely dislike these feelings of guilt I have when I don’t go into work, despite the fact that I have no reason to feel guilty because I haven’t had a whole day off ill since way back when [February, I think].  I’m sure it has something to do with the English culture.

I plan on snuggling up in bed inabit [the kids at work are always saying in a bit (you have to say it really fast so it’s inabit) to each other instead of something more refined like, good-bye old chap, or it would be a pleasure to meet up with you after school for some good times, and now I can’t stop saying it] and sleeping till The Blokey gets home from work.  Then a session at Gym tonight should sweat Poorly-ness out of my system for good.  Or at least until the next time it’s doing the rounds.

I had the most horrid dream last night, which resulted in me waking up to find myself trying to spit nasty stuff, that wasn’t really in my mouth, onto my pillow.  Nice.

please God bless my fuzziness xxx Elsabeth

* I know that The Golden Compass is probably a more fitting title, but it’s still Northern Lights for goodness sake – why, oh-why, do we … ? 

I am a bad girl.

The Room Upstairs
The House on the Corner
The Place Where the Lands are Flatter

Dear To Lovely Ugly Spider,

Last week you chose to visit my house.  I wasn’t happy that you chose to visit my house.  Why didn’t you visit next door instead?  Do you now wish you’d visited next door?  I expect so.

You made me squeal.  You were big and brutish.  If you weren’t big and brutish I might have just let you wander around, but you scared me.  That’s why I popped the pint glass over your head.  I know you didn’t like it – I saw the way you kept giving me poisonous looks with all of your eyes.  I saw you trying to escape.

I did think about trying to move you outside, but Tabatha seemed to like having you as a pet and I will admit that I did like toying with you.  It was funny to see you angry, but unable to vent your venom in my direction. 

When I saw you all huddled up yesterday morning I thought that maybe you were just sleeping.  But you didn’t move when I tapped the glass.  Ah, I thought.  He’s just playing.  He’ll be up and glaring angrily at me in no time.  But you stayed all huddled up. 

OhmyGod, I killed a spider!

I am so very very sorry.  I didn’t mean to kill you, really I didn’t.  But you scared me, lots.  Why couldn’t you have just stayed outside in the garden?  I feel so very bad … *sigh*

Please forgive me?

From, the girl with the pint glass x

The Blokey tells me that I’ll be haunted for always now, by big huge massive large spiders.  Yikes!  And it’s true – I didn’t mean for it to die and I do feel exceedingly guilty.  Exceedingly.  I’m just far too nice …

I’ve had a very busy week at work [teaching myself to play Spider Solitaire amongst other things] and now I would just like to kip, lots.  And deeply.  Hey, tomorrow I may even get to go shopping, what with The Blokey being all recovered.  Yay! New boots!

please God bless me for I have sinned, again xxx Elsabeth

A Hospital is no place to be sick.

I quite like hospitals.  I think this might make me a bit of a freak. 

I stayed in hospital once.  I was six years old and I’d fallen off my bike whilst whizzing around the corner.  Banged my head, I did.  They thought I’d fractured my skull, but it turned out I hadn’t [although I like to think that I did and would like to see the x-rays to prove it], and I was left with nothing but a big black eye and a bruised six year old ego.  Oh, and a Mr Topsy-Turvy mug, and painful memories of crying for my mummy – who I knew was outside the ward but who couldn’t come and see me because daddy and his new friend [who he now lived with] were visiting me.

Apart from that my hospital visits have been mainly confined to a) casualty, for various reasons including a broken wrist, a fractured elbow, another fractured elbow that never got seen to medically because I couldn’t be arsed to hang around for four hours and some overdoses [not mine], b) visiting Mumsy and nana, oh and a friend who was a bit of a nutter and c) to annoy Mumsy at work, for she worked/s in a hospital but not as a nurse. 

But I digress.  I quite like hospitals.  They’re very clean, squeakily so in fact.  And they’re very big.  If you go at the right time you can have a very long squeakily clean corridor all to yourself and if the fancy took you it would be quite a novelty to run screaming down it.  There are calm pictures on the walls in hospitals, usually green and blue, which are often quite nice and make you think nice thoughts.

And there’s the alcohol hand rub stuff lotion-y thing at every corner and the end of every bed, for heaven forbid! you bring germs into the hospital.  I love that stuff.  I’ll quite happily spend all day rubbing that into my hands.

You can also get lost in hospitals.  And we did nearly, yesterday. 

My Father-in-Law did a very silly thing.  He climbed on a chair and then fell off it.  Now he has some bleeding on/in [?] his brain and we’ve just heard that it seems to be stable [no swelling] so they won’t need to operate.  The Blokey feels guilty because we have my Father-in-Law’s ladder, and if we’d given it back to him ages ago then he wouldn’t have been standing on the chair.  But the doctors don’t know whether the fall and subsequent knock on his head caused the bleed or whether the bleed was already there and it caused him to faint. 

He seemed ok yesterday [it happened on Friday but they sent him home from casualty on Friday afternoon and then he got really sick on Saturday so he went back in and they actually did a CT scan, and the doctor said she wished they’d done it on Friday, bloody silly beggars]; very very sleepy, and his head was obviously causing him pain – but he was a little like the Father-in-Law that I know and love, so he’ll be fine.  Hopefully he’ll be home asap.

If you’re so inclined please send get well vibes in his direction.  Ta.

In good news I won some money on the Grand National on Saturday. It was extremely exciting – but I shan’t get addicted.  Go me!

please God bless those poor students in Virginia, and their families xxx Elsabeth

[and a message for azn_qt1: i can’t get on your site to tell you that i was joking – i know that there can’t be that many women in the world with no nipples … yikes]