Lovies, Treasures, forgive my not posting on here.
The only way I can explain is to liken it to a serieal I've been reading in My Weekly. There is a little girl somewhere in Texas who gets hauled away on a horse by some Comanche Indians. She grows up, marries the big chief, has kids, and then gets hauled back again by her brother to Texas . Well, thats what the outside world does to me sometimes. I get pulled from one culture to another.
Anyway, the equivalent of one of those red Indians was my new career, Invigillating at Daughter's school. Well, what a complete load of shit. It was a disaster! It was not the walkover I thought it was going to be, I tell you.
I mean, my old maths teacher used to read his paper, have a fag under the desk and walk around humming during our exams. Not now, mate, oh no. Had to take the labels off all drinking bottles, had to give triple science to some candidates and double to others. Then you had to make sure their keys and things were on the floor. I mean, for Gods sake!
I think I made one girl fail. One girl put her hand up for a tissue (you would have been told to lump it in "my day") and I got her one. But then I couldn't find her again. They all looked the same. I mean they really did. With their heads bowed, identical hairstyles and blue sweatshirts. Anyway a girl started sniffing so I barged in there and gave her the tissue! Wrong girl! Completely interupted her chemistry paper! Oh Lord!
Oh and then, collecting up the papers - well, that was fun too! Reverse order they told me just after I had scooped them up in my arms. And even the canditates little name and number cards had to be done in a certain order too. Think I'll go back to babysitting.
Been on Facebook lately. Got in touch with an old schoolmate, who the last time I had spoken to her was during a screaming row at a holiday camp in 1977. So there was a lot of ground to cover. Anyway, this boy - well, 51 year old bloke now - but one who was in our school year, has been in touch with her and they have met up several times. "He just wants to get into my pants," she writes to me (on a private message), "I don't want to know". Then why do you keep meeting up with him then? I wanted to say. But didn't want to start another screaming row.
And I know the answer really. She wants to feel young and wanted again, like we all do. But surely not with some little snit who used to shout at us from the back of the maths class! Think I'll deactivate my membership.