There was no reading of books.
Instead, I watched The History Boys on DVD with my flatmates. We liked it. I thought it was an interesting take of a few things. I found the teacher in me quite in conflict with the rather sensitive portrayal of Hector feeling up his students and the teacher agreeing to go for 'a drink' with his student at the end.
Maybe I'm just a prude. I don't really like any films that portray a romantic relationship between student and teacher (at high school age, anyhow). The power dynamics are just all wrong. And having taught teens for years now, I just fail to see them as emotional equals. So the dynamics are just all wrong. Very wrong. Makes me totally unsympathetic to the teacher-character.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Last Night
I wanted Thai food. A red curry. Or tom yum soup.
The wind was biting and I only had a cardigan over my summer dress,
which I stubbornly still wear.
I dug my hands deep into the pockets and shrugged down into my scarf.
But the Thai shop was closed. No sign or lights.
Disappointment. No other take-aways seemed quite right
last night.
Burgers seemed too bready. Fish and chips too greasy and yellow.
I decided on a saag curry.
Only females waiting in the shop.
Over the road, the men were getting greasy chips.
We sat, legs crossed, reading months old women's mags.
The woman next to me, in shiny maroon heels
tapped her feet in time to the Indian music.
So did I.
The old Indian lady walked out from behind the counter
to give us our food. Neatly stacked and tied up in plastic bags,
puffed out with steam.
I liked her.
To walk home quicker
I counted my footsteps, in multiples of 6.
I stumbled at 78 and 102. But in no time I was home.
And I'd barely thought of the cold.
Only counting up to 120 in time with my steps
over and over again.
Home to a gas heater, bottle transferred from the barbecue.
And my dark green curry, carefully forked onto naan bread.
And Shortland Street.
And cosiness in late April.
* * *
Small Confession
I have been using someone else's shower gel at work. I like the smell of it. I only use a squirt of it each time. I wonder whose it is.
* * *
Weeding through Memory Lane
I have boxes of things from Dad's house in my car. There is nowhere else to put them right now. I unloaded two of them already.
They had stacks of baby clothes knitted by my grandma (knitting for hypothetical great-grand-children she wished for when we were still children ourselves). And puppets sewn by my mum when we were little. And my dad's 7th form year-book. And my brother's teddy-bear. A genuine 1970s fondue cook-book. And a small white crocheted blanket made by my grandma, which I used yesterday while I was reading (after I'd washed it with my newly bought wool detergent). It has holes just big enough to poke your fingers through.
They were packed by my step-mother and have been in her grandson's flat in Petone for a couple of years (long story).
I haven't seen Ellie (my favourite stuffed animal) or my mother's wedding dress yet. But I think they're in there somewhere. Along with a bunch of crap that has followed me for years and needs to be culled.
And which will make me sneeze.
The wind was biting and I only had a cardigan over my summer dress,
which I stubbornly still wear.
I dug my hands deep into the pockets and shrugged down into my scarf.
But the Thai shop was closed. No sign or lights.
Disappointment. No other take-aways seemed quite right
last night.
Burgers seemed too bready. Fish and chips too greasy and yellow.
I decided on a saag curry.
Only females waiting in the shop.
Over the road, the men were getting greasy chips.
We sat, legs crossed, reading months old women's mags.
The woman next to me, in shiny maroon heels
tapped her feet in time to the Indian music.
So did I.
The old Indian lady walked out from behind the counter
to give us our food. Neatly stacked and tied up in plastic bags,
puffed out with steam.
I liked her.
To walk home quicker
I counted my footsteps, in multiples of 6.
I stumbled at 78 and 102. But in no time I was home.
And I'd barely thought of the cold.
Only counting up to 120 in time with my steps
over and over again.
Home to a gas heater, bottle transferred from the barbecue.
And my dark green curry, carefully forked onto naan bread.
And Shortland Street.
And cosiness in late April.
* * *
Small Confession
I have been using someone else's shower gel at work. I like the smell of it. I only use a squirt of it each time. I wonder whose it is.
* * *
Weeding through Memory Lane
I have boxes of things from Dad's house in my car. There is nowhere else to put them right now. I unloaded two of them already.
They had stacks of baby clothes knitted by my grandma (knitting for hypothetical great-grand-children she wished for when we were still children ourselves). And puppets sewn by my mum when we were little. And my dad's 7th form year-book. And my brother's teddy-bear. A genuine 1970s fondue cook-book. And a small white crocheted blanket made by my grandma, which I used yesterday while I was reading (after I'd washed it with my newly bought wool detergent). It has holes just big enough to poke your fingers through.
They were packed by my step-mother and have been in her grandson's flat in Petone for a couple of years (long story).
I haven't seen Ellie (my favourite stuffed animal) or my mother's wedding dress yet. But I think they're in there somewhere. Along with a bunch of crap that has followed me for years and needs to be culled.
And which will make me sneeze.
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