I think my degree has made me very bad at learning languages. I can't learn to count to ten, without stopping to initiate an involved discussion about phonology or to introduce myself without heavy morphosyntactic analysis. I find myself asking: is there a case system? how rich a verb inflection system is there? And if that weren't impediment enough, the level to which I now speak French, means I find any lesser degree fluency in a language highly irritating. Memorising simple phrases is so frustrating compared to discussing politics and poetry, especially as I am clearly not a nice enough person to find common courtesy a more compelling reason to learn a language than reading gloomy literature.
Stansted at 3, oh joy...
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Stuck in the middle with...
Well, aside from imparting useles information about household pests or quoting obscure French bands, I should probably talk about myself extensively and boringly, seeing as this is what I started this for in the first place.
Work finished, in a haze of sulky, bitchy classes and white wine spritzers, sadly not simultaneously. Overall, I enjoyed the six weeks, but it ended on a rather sour note, leaving lovely colleagues, the local pub and good pay as higher-ranking rewards than, like, the warm, fuzzy glow from helping shape young minds and inspire the generation of tomorrow, etc, etc... Wednesday was fab, in that I was in the fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on which way you look at it) position of being offered two fancy meals, with wine, paid for by someone else, at the same time - and it was too rainy and far away to do the Mrs Doubtfire thing of running between them both. The two occasions were Nik's mum's birthday and the celebratory end of summer school dinner, so I sandwiched dinner at the Randolph between an afternoon in the pub and an afterparty which, if the smell of wine emanating from my dress the next morning was anything to go by, saw my hand-eye co-ordination hit a particularly low ebb... Also, the next morning, I was unable to get out of bed or eat anything until about 3 p.m. I blamed certain people, who have refused to acknowledge responsibility.
After a couple of days faffing and feeling purposeless, punctuated by trying to learn something about language policy and/or planning, the boy and I decided on the spur of the moment to go home to Northumberland, where we were well-fed and it rained a lot. We went into town, where I bought some humongously exciting books, I did the obligatory tour of A.N. Other piece of Hadrian's Wall and we met Sarah for drinks, quiz machines and curries in Hexham last night before driving back at some ungodly hour this morning.
"We haven't had that spirit here since 1969"
My wikipedia search for 'nasal vestibulitis' turned up no results but a link to 'sexology topics'. Dear God. The good news is the consultant says that I don't need rhinoplasty. Hurrah.
The American Election board game being designed by everyone in the house but me is in the next trial phase. It's not a fantastic spectator sport, but has kept Nik and Jamie quiet for quite some time.
I have another teaching job for next week and the week after. Hurrah. And I get to go to Oxfam tomorrow, which means more batty old ladies, biscuits and books!
Work finished, in a haze of sulky, bitchy classes and white wine spritzers, sadly not simultaneously. Overall, I enjoyed the six weeks, but it ended on a rather sour note, leaving lovely colleagues, the local pub and good pay as higher-ranking rewards than, like, the warm, fuzzy glow from helping shape young minds and inspire the generation of tomorrow, etc, etc... Wednesday was fab, in that I was in the fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on which way you look at it) position of being offered two fancy meals, with wine, paid for by someone else, at the same time - and it was too rainy and far away to do the Mrs Doubtfire thing of running between them both. The two occasions were Nik's mum's birthday and the celebratory end of summer school dinner, so I sandwiched dinner at the Randolph between an afternoon in the pub and an afterparty which, if the smell of wine emanating from my dress the next morning was anything to go by, saw my hand-eye co-ordination hit a particularly low ebb... Also, the next morning, I was unable to get out of bed or eat anything until about 3 p.m. I blamed certain people, who have refused to acknowledge responsibility.
After a couple of days faffing and feeling purposeless, punctuated by trying to learn something about language policy and/or planning, the boy and I decided on the spur of the moment to go home to Northumberland, where we were well-fed and it rained a lot. We went into town, where I bought some humongously exciting books, I did the obligatory tour of A.N. Other piece of Hadrian's Wall and we met Sarah for drinks, quiz machines and curries in Hexham last night before driving back at some ungodly hour this morning.
"We haven't had that spirit here since 1969"
My wikipedia search for 'nasal vestibulitis' turned up no results but a link to 'sexology topics'. Dear God. The good news is the consultant says that I don't need rhinoplasty. Hurrah.
The American Election board game being designed by everyone in the house but me is in the next trial phase. It's not a fantastic spectator sport, but has kept Nik and Jamie quiet for quite some time.
I have another teaching job for next week and the week after. Hurrah. And I get to go to Oxfam tomorrow, which means more batty old ladies, biscuits and books!
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Propaganda pheromones
Here are some interesting facts about ants:
Ants communicate mainy through pheromones. When a forager finds food, she will leave a pheromone trail along the ground on her way home which other ants will follow, thus reinforcing the trail and attracing more ants.
Crushed ants emit an alarm pheromone which in high concentration sends nearby ants into an attack frenzy and in lower concentration merely attracts them. Some species even emit propaganda pheromones to confuse their enemies.
They even exchange pheromones as compounds mixed with food to share information about one another's health and nutrition
Ants can constitute up to 15% of the total animal biomass of a tropical rainforest; in the Amazon the combined weight of the ants is said to be four times larger than that of the tetrapods in the same area.
In some parts of the world, large ants have been used as sutures by pressing the wound together and applying ants along it. The ant in defensive attitude seizes the edges in its mandibles and locks in place. The body is then cut off and the mandibles can remain in place for up to three days closing the wound.
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)
Stage one of battle: know your enemy. B******s keep invading our cupboard.
Ants communicate mainy through pheromones. When a forager finds food, she will leave a pheromone trail along the ground on her way home which other ants will follow, thus reinforcing the trail and attracing more ants.
Crushed ants emit an alarm pheromone which in high concentration sends nearby ants into an attack frenzy and in lower concentration merely attracts them. Some species even emit propaganda pheromones to confuse their enemies.
They even exchange pheromones as compounds mixed with food to share information about one another's health and nutrition
Ants can constitute up to 15% of the total animal biomass of a tropical rainforest; in the Amazon the combined weight of the ants is said to be four times larger than that of the tetrapods in the same area.
In some parts of the world, large ants have been used as sutures by pressing the wound together and applying ants along it. The ant in defensive attitude seizes the edges in its mandibles and locks in place. The body is then cut off and the mandibles can remain in place for up to three days closing the wound.
(Courtesy of Wikipedia)
Stage one of battle: know your enemy. B******s keep invading our cupboard.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Ramble, ramble
St John's Wood is the only one of 274 London Underground stations to contain none of the letters of the word 'mackerel'.
In the 1950s Jericho was a red light district and the Phoenix was a pornography cinema.
35-40% of all household waste which ends up in a landfill begins life as a purchase from one of the big five supermarkets.
I might have a rant soon. Can't decide.
Sleepy. Have spent all evening reading articles on Wikipedia and anti-supermarket websites in an attempt to keep myself awake until the boy comes back from work and we can watch the next episode of 24. ("Can you call in sick? I want to find out what happens.") It's that bizarre self-delusion thing again, where for some reason, even though you know you can't possibly watch the entire series at once, just seeing the next one would help, whereas in reality the cliffhanger at the end of that will just leave you with another insatiable itch to dive further into the story...
Circle. Vicious.
One more week left at work. It's been fun but I think any longer would probably kill me. There was a moment last week where I was so tired I came home and collapsed on the sofa, rousing only when coaxed by the boy to eat some dinner.
I want an MP3 player but there are so many and they're all so shiny and gadgetty that I get flustered and confused whenever I look at them. Humph.
In the 1950s Jericho was a red light district and the Phoenix was a pornography cinema.
35-40% of all household waste which ends up in a landfill begins life as a purchase from one of the big five supermarkets.
I might have a rant soon. Can't decide.
Sleepy. Have spent all evening reading articles on Wikipedia and anti-supermarket websites in an attempt to keep myself awake until the boy comes back from work and we can watch the next episode of 24. ("Can you call in sick? I want to find out what happens.") It's that bizarre self-delusion thing again, where for some reason, even though you know you can't possibly watch the entire series at once, just seeing the next one would help, whereas in reality the cliffhanger at the end of that will just leave you with another insatiable itch to dive further into the story...
Circle. Vicious.
One more week left at work. It's been fun but I think any longer would probably kill me. There was a moment last week where I was so tired I came home and collapsed on the sofa, rousing only when coaxed by the boy to eat some dinner.
I want an MP3 player but there are so many and they're all so shiny and gadgetty that I get flustered and confused whenever I look at them. Humph.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Funky cartoon - click here
Hehe. I love those chickens. I also feel pleased that I've finally found an internet cartoon of my very own. Cos I'm not competitive. Oh no. Particularly not with the boy. Ahem...
It's about 8.40 and I'm already up. Amusingly, it's Wednesday and I'm reading the Times magazine from Saturday, although the novelty of these staggered weeks is starting to wear off, and instead I'm just annoyed that on the one day in about a fortnight I'm going to get a lie-in, some ingrained habit caused me to wake up for 7 a.m. prompt and a month of having too many demands on my time and energy has made it impossible for me to lie in bed doing nothing. Ergo, I got up and am now listening to Bach, both I'm Sorry, I Haven't a Clue and Armando Iannucci's Charm Offensive having finished while I've been 'away'.
Part of my acquiescence in the face of such a life-consuming job is due to a more-or-less enjoyment of it. Yes, it's tiring; yes, some of my kids sit in class scowling and refusing to participate and then give me bad feedback; yes, teenage boys think it's funny to draw naked people while storyboarding a Simple Plan song; yes, I didn't get home till 11 on Friday and Saturday, yes, I got soaked on Saturday night. Still, there aren't many jobs where you get to discuss censorship, play scattegories, draw cartoons and compere karaoke in one day. "Never dull" - such a cliche, and I'm not naive enough to believe that any teaching job would be like this, but it's a far more rewarding way to spend a summer than temping or working in a supermarket would be. With this and volunteering in the Oxfam bookshop on Wednesday afternoons, I've met so many interesting people. There's this sort of belief that because all Oxford students are so clever, it must somehow be the most stimulating society to live in, but in truth I find many people remarkably boring. All my enthusiasm for coming back hangs on my course and the people whose company I genuinely enjoy, but no longer meeting people with a plethora of different experiences and opinions is the definite flip side. I feel about five years older than I am.
In fact, I feel like I'm turning into a thirty-something, Times-reading liberal, without the pretentiously-named children. I'm frustrating the boy with my anti-supermarket campaign and turning my fresh, locally-grown ingredients into increasingly peculiar dishes. I'd like to direct my social conscience and domestic drive towards clearing my stuff out of our housemate's room so she can move in, or doing some laundry. Alas...
I invited Matt over for dinner on Monday and he arrived while Nik, Jamie and Debbie's nascent board game was entering the test phase. Jamie and Debbie initially felt rather embarrassed, but when I explained, "we're designing a board game based on the American election," Matt's eyes lit up. People should not underestimate my ability to choose my friends. We all had a fantastic evening (I think) and afterwards Nik and I sat on the sofa listening to music and talking, which had a slightly alarming feeling of novelty to it, but was lovely nonetheless.
And today I am relishing the prospect of a trip to the market to rectify the 'no fruit and veg' situation and an afternoon fondly caring for old, yellowing, dusty-smelling books. And tomorrow I have to test new students but afterwards I get to go to London for lunch and African story-swapping with Nat. And soon I should get paid and then I won't have an overdraft any more (unless I get seriously carried away with the white wine spritzers and crinkly Cheddars in the pub). And in two weeks I will be free to do more reading for my project. And in September I'm going to Sweden.
Ack, I have purpose, and to a lesser extent money. Life is good.
One green bottle, drop it in the bank,
Ten green bottles, what a lot we drank,
Heaps of bottles, and yesterdays a blank,
But we'll save the planet, tinkle tinkle clank.
It's about 8.40 and I'm already up. Amusingly, it's Wednesday and I'm reading the Times magazine from Saturday, although the novelty of these staggered weeks is starting to wear off, and instead I'm just annoyed that on the one day in about a fortnight I'm going to get a lie-in, some ingrained habit caused me to wake up for 7 a.m. prompt and a month of having too many demands on my time and energy has made it impossible for me to lie in bed doing nothing. Ergo, I got up and am now listening to Bach, both I'm Sorry, I Haven't a Clue and Armando Iannucci's Charm Offensive having finished while I've been 'away'.
Part of my acquiescence in the face of such a life-consuming job is due to a more-or-less enjoyment of it. Yes, it's tiring; yes, some of my kids sit in class scowling and refusing to participate and then give me bad feedback; yes, teenage boys think it's funny to draw naked people while storyboarding a Simple Plan song; yes, I didn't get home till 11 on Friday and Saturday, yes, I got soaked on Saturday night. Still, there aren't many jobs where you get to discuss censorship, play scattegories, draw cartoons and compere karaoke in one day. "Never dull" - such a cliche, and I'm not naive enough to believe that any teaching job would be like this, but it's a far more rewarding way to spend a summer than temping or working in a supermarket would be. With this and volunteering in the Oxfam bookshop on Wednesday afternoons, I've met so many interesting people. There's this sort of belief that because all Oxford students are so clever, it must somehow be the most stimulating society to live in, but in truth I find many people remarkably boring. All my enthusiasm for coming back hangs on my course and the people whose company I genuinely enjoy, but no longer meeting people with a plethora of different experiences and opinions is the definite flip side. I feel about five years older than I am.
In fact, I feel like I'm turning into a thirty-something, Times-reading liberal, without the pretentiously-named children. I'm frustrating the boy with my anti-supermarket campaign and turning my fresh, locally-grown ingredients into increasingly peculiar dishes. I'd like to direct my social conscience and domestic drive towards clearing my stuff out of our housemate's room so she can move in, or doing some laundry. Alas...
I invited Matt over for dinner on Monday and he arrived while Nik, Jamie and Debbie's nascent board game was entering the test phase. Jamie and Debbie initially felt rather embarrassed, but when I explained, "we're designing a board game based on the American election," Matt's eyes lit up. People should not underestimate my ability to choose my friends. We all had a fantastic evening (I think) and afterwards Nik and I sat on the sofa listening to music and talking, which had a slightly alarming feeling of novelty to it, but was lovely nonetheless.
And today I am relishing the prospect of a trip to the market to rectify the 'no fruit and veg' situation and an afternoon fondly caring for old, yellowing, dusty-smelling books. And tomorrow I have to test new students but afterwards I get to go to London for lunch and African story-swapping with Nat. And soon I should get paid and then I won't have an overdraft any more (unless I get seriously carried away with the white wine spritzers and crinkly Cheddars in the pub). And in two weeks I will be free to do more reading for my project. And in September I'm going to Sweden.
Ack, I have purpose, and to a lesser extent money. Life is good.
One green bottle, drop it in the bank,
Ten green bottles, what a lot we drank,
Heaps of bottles, and yesterdays a blank,
But we'll save the planet, tinkle tinkle clank.
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