WAR! HUHH! What is it good for?

Do I have 'lunch' tattooed across my forehead? Am I distinctly delicious? (I'd better explain now or else this will be taking on a rather sinister sexual turn...) I have been made the exclusive dish of the entire crop of mosquitoes that live here where I work (and live). Actually, I am not the only one because all the boys have suffered too (Ah! Young blood). They must look a treat when they're all together. It looks like puberty has had a sudden and violent strike. Either that or we have been visited by a plague of boils. Anyway. In my view, I am easily the worst afflicted because I have this 'allergy' to mosquito bites.

Yes, yes, I know everyone is to some degree or another because they swell up and itch. That has no real bearing on my bites. Some - like the one on my face right now - remain small and red and lumpy as per usual. However there are some that spread and swell to such elephantine proportions that people are left staring in the street. Just as an example, the one just above my elbow (currently the most impressive) is a gargantuan 12 cm in diameter, bright red and swollen and exuding enough heat to warm a Russian winter. It's gross. Though it does help me with my John Merrick impersonation, which is going from strength to strength.

That's only half the problem. These mossies, they come in the night and make a noise like an aeroplane landing. Where is it they are landing, like chunky little pennies from heaven? Oh yes. ON MY FACE!! Seriously, I sleep like the dead. It was like being slapped with a fly swat. At four in the morning. Every morning. Ironic, because a fly swat is the last thing that comes to hand when you're swiping wildly at your own face in the dead of night... Usually, what comes to hand is a glass of water, a massive copy of Phillip Pullman's 'His Dark Materials' trilogy or a pair of glasses. None of which you want to be jabbing at yourself, especially around the eyes.

Speaking of glasses, have I mentioned that my eyesight is tragically bad? Well it is. Without my glasses, there's no chance of my hunting down and killing the little git in the manner it best deserves. (which is violent and hopefully painful.) The first night I got in a lucky slap to the forehead before it got me at all! (Having hurled a glass of water into my face prior to this.) Smug much? I was ninjalike in my attack. That mossie never saw it coming. Eat it, Obama!

However, I paid for it the next night, or should I say bloody early in the morning, because sure enough, at the stroke of 4 am, a familiar whine woke me from my slumbers. And this one was a whopper. I was woken by it gently crashing into my face at what felt like 70mph. Despite my best slapping actions, the beast was still at large, waiting seemingly until I had drifted off before returning with a vengeance. After what felt like an hour of battle I realised the only way to defeat the insect foe was to get cunning. I know that they are attracted to noise and to carbon dioxide so I did what must have sounded like some rather fine cow impressions to my neighbours and huffed a lot and allowed it to get as close as possible before launching a whirlwind of slapping and screeching. No luck. Finally I put my glasses on and turned on the light. To my horror, the little fucker was lounging on the edge of my pillow! Like it was having a little rest to watch the show. Holding my breath, I slowly reached for my doorstep- style bedside reading and dispatched the fiend immediately and very satisfactorily.

Sadly, as I noticed during the dispatching, the mossie left rather a large blood spatter on the pillow. MY BLOOD! Damn it! So really, it's clear that although I won the battle, mosquitoes are truly winning the war... That is until I went and purchased antihistamines and one of those mosquito murdering plug in things from the shops. Yes, I'm inhaling a million cancer causing carcinogens, but I'll be laughing all the way to the grave!

Handwashinggate

Well the school is currently in the grip of handwashing obsession. Which you'd think would mean that everyone was washing their hands as much as possible. No. I am going around nagging all and sundry. Boys are dirty. It's mostly an attempt to stop getting a bloody cold every five minutes. I think I'm managing to shake one off as we speak. Tuesdays are a nice day for me. I don't have to teach much, but I do have to go into lunch. Worse luck...



Having realised that I am now too fat to comfortably wear my favourite skirt, I have had to take drastic (ish) measures. Annoying, seeing as I have been out to eat more in the past week than I have in the past eight weeks of summer! I have been fairly good and eaten a salad for the most part. Washed down with large quantities of high calorie wine I have conveniently forgotten. Still, I had an excellent evening last night with two of my oldest (in terms of aquaintance) buddies; Angus and Mavis. Of course it seemed like an excellent idea to bookend the night of three bottles of rose wine with two large tequilas. Very well done. I regretted it briefly this morning when the alarm went off just before six. GAH! However, apart from doing a series of wine flavour belches, I now feel fine and dandy. Whether I smell like an alcoholic's cast offs or not. ...I don't. Showering is important!!



Exciting update: I have just burped. It was unfragranced. Good times.

Back to school...

Well, new term = new stoat. Or not really. I am the same as ever, but I have a new class. The problem with my being a teacher is that I have this five second memory. At the beginning of the year, I conveniently forget that a whole year of nagging and coaxing turns little 8 year old boys into normal pleasant members of society. Ish... Then it is seemingly inconceivable that when the new class arrive that they are rude and weird. They aren't bad actually. A very sweet bunch this year all things considered, but they must get used to my way of working. This can roughly be described as 'Do as I say without question lest you incur my wrath!'. It's awful when you have to be all wrathful with tiny little children who have been thrown in the deep end. But these are surprisingly resilient little oiks, who are back doing the same thing you were wrathful about 20 seconds ago. (Hm. Seems they are a little lacking in memory also. Definitely my class...)



What's really weird is seeing the tiny little boys of yore as great hulking year 8 chaps now. Funnily enough, they are just as soppy as they were then, but now in a five foot eight, burly package. Creepy. I'm never having children if this 'growing up' thing is what happens. It's weird enough when you personally produce real and vivid, screaming, vomiting life. How very strange when that life becomes a grown up person. It's funny that I hadn't considered this before. It's that kind of thinking that leads to breast feeding your child up to the age of 25 or whatever weird stuff goes on today. The Pook and I have discussed the issue of 'Breast is Best' (presumably in a lull of more sparkling conversation, or on the train or something...) and decided that while breast-feeding is a wholly important thing, no child should actually have to live with the memory of doing so. That would surely fuck you up. Pardon my french!



Anyway... speaking of the hulking great brutes: I had my first bedtime duty of the year last night. Everyone was alarmingly free spirited in the bathroom, I had to spend most of my time staring at the ceiling every time I had to go in and tell them off. I find a reprimand lacks something if you need to deliver it to an inanimate object. I mean, I knocked on the door and shouted 'is everyone decent?' through the crack. Jeez.

In other news: I am trying to eat more veg. Unfortunately I have gone about this with a little too much gusto with explosive results... Charming.

Holy Crappity Crap, Batman!

Oooo. Sheesh. Has it been that long? I'm lame. I keep getting all keen to write and since I have stopped keeping a diary apart from entries that begin with 'here is a list of things I need to take on holiday...'

I'm not dead, excitingly, after my plane journey. Despite the fact that I had the sore ass of 'rabbit seat' They take those three inches of extra leg room away from your ass space. I was lucky enough to be steering clear of any turbulence. Not that I was doing any of the steering. That was all down to 'Captain Tim!' Why he kept calling himself that was a mystery. It had the exclamation mark and everything.

Anyway. I tire of this motif. My DS is sitting next to me and I'm itching to return to the wonderful world of Lego Batman (TM). Strangely, I keep talking to whoever my second in command character is. Obviously this makes me look just super-normal. Who cares?! It's all in good Fun (TM)...