YA: Herbstferien

So, I´m back D-side after probably the greatest fortnight I've ever experienced. Let me tell you, my friends, when you´ve been away from ye olde England for a month, going back is absolutely excelent in every way; even the crappy Northern weather knocks your socks off. There's real tea and real pillows and a variety of food due to the availability of a freezer (the lack of freezers is not typical to Germany, just to my flat, where I can't even squash in a bag of frozen peas alongside all the pizzas and weird ice-bound mashed potato). If I haven't said enough in the past: I love England, I really do. I really, really, really do.

As soon as I stepped of the plane at Manchester, I was greeted to the sight of Wayne Rooney's big ugly mug blown up to colossal billboard-sized proportions. Truly, I was back in my beloved Heimatsort. There was no time to drink in this awe-inspiring sight however; my plane had been delayed in Germany by almost an hour and now I only had twenty minutes to bomb through passport control, grab my bags, find the train station, buy a ticket and throw myself on the Trans-Pennine Express bound for Sheffield. Because I am obviously super woman, I achieved all this with five minutes to spare, though I'm sure watching me half walk, half run through the airport with a laptop bag swinging precariously round my neck was a hilarious sight for all. Once on the train, I bounced around like an excited child, unable to read or even sit still, occasionally pressing my nose to the glass to see if could catch glimpses of the familiar sights that meant I was nearing Sheffield.* When I eventually hit the platform, the grin on my face was frankly indecently large, especially when a nice gent offered me help with my beast of a case (this just doesn't happen in Germany - in Duisburg at the start of my journey, people were content to watch me topple backwards onto an old man through the weight of all my stuff rather than stick out an arm and help me on board). Bags in order, I careered across the station towards the taxi rank and hit my waiting mother full in the chest with a bone crushing hug that probably knocked all the wind out of her. My dad, after he brought the car around, received similar treatment. I don't think I've ever been so happy to see them both.

The first couple of days back were mostly spent dossing around my room, drinking many cups of tea and catching up with vast quantities of television online. Though I should have been spending every single moment with my 'rents, they were packing for their own holiday and didn't really need me under their feet giving them sporadic hugs and bewailing how much I'd missed them. It was nice just to sit quietly, listen to the customary bickering which accompanies any holiday preparations in our house** and feel comforted that they were, well, there. We did have an excellent meal out at the local italian where we've celebrated every birthday/ anniversary/ new job/ set of exam results since I was tiny (and probably before that as well), a meal which included steak and my parents' first ever limoncello. The verdict: good. Very good. Unfortunately I didn't get to hang out with Mum and Dad for very long because of their jet-setting ways (I'm joking - they've been planning this holiday to Australia for damn near two years) and it felt a bit soon to be saying bye all over again. It's a good job really, then, that I went and stopped with my grandma where there are hugs and homemade pie in abundance; I spent a wonderfully chilled out night and day there before beginning my ultimate floor tour of the UK.

I say UK. Nottingham, Sheffield and Leeds. I say floor tour as well, but I only slept on the floor twice (not including the two air beds) in the whole eleven days. My friends are very generous with their mattresses. My first bed-partner was Bex, who treated me to an overly classy night at Forum (vodka from mugs, sambucca shots and shoe removal) and cooked me bacon sandwiches the next day. Then, stocked up on this hearty British breakfast, I waved goodbye to Nottingham until Christmas, and headed back to good ol' Sheffers and the student lifestyle. Within the first few hours I'd already pulled in a trip to Cav, a Forge Radio show and a takeaway curry - it was like I'd never left. The following night, things got even more back to normal, in that I got well and truly Corped. Blue pints and terrible vodka galore, all I really remember is stealing geek glasses off people's faces, Gemma giving me a piggy back down the road and Heli holding my hair back whilst I was... well, you get the picture. Needless to say, I was horribly hungover the next day, something which delayed my arrival in Leeds by about four hours.

Leeds, once I got there, was an absolute blast. Ruth met me at the station, we dumped my stuff at hers and then headed out for one of the nicest meals I've had in a good long time (thank you, Student Beans, and your two for one Strada offers). Lemon baked sea bass with rosemary roast potatoes - it was so good I nearly died. Then, because we're party animals, we headed back to Ruth's and snuggled up in bed with a bag of chocolate buttons and a not-entirely-legal copy of Toy Story 3. The next day witnessed the reunification (like a nation - her phraseology, not mine) of me and Charlie. There was laughter (in abundance), tears (not really) and country music (LOTS). There was also fancy cocktails and dancing the night away to sexy motown tunes and the discovery of our unfortunate ability to attract strange bald men. Ah well, life can't be all win. Then, on the way home, I positively demanded takeaway, something which Charlie declared to be awful until I actually had it, whereupon she stole half my chips.

After this, it was once again back to Sheffield.*** Pop Tarts beckoned, an amazing night in which I drank fancy cider under the Concourse with Heli and watched Matt rugby-tackled to the ground by some of the 418 boys (a dramatic show of birthday love from drunk strangers, that). The next day I headed back to Spesh and Gem's and indulged in interval food because the chip shop was closed. We then watched DVDs and drank copious amounts of tea; it's the little things like that that makes me love being a student so much. Monday was equally lovely; Flat 19 were altogether for the first time in months (something which was made all the better with fancy sandwiches and cakes at Twenty Two A) and I kipped down at Mike and James'. I succeeded in talking Mike out of seminar prep in favour of 'Get Him To The Greek' and realised my attitude to work has not changed one jot over the summer. Tuesday saw the arrival of Sarah from Newcastle and my first ever night at Crystal (it wasn't as hellish as I had predicted it would be). We made dodgy cocktails from a suspicious Pina Colada pre-mix. They did not taste good.

Then arrived my last proper day, a day I mostly used to spend chill time with Katie; I introduced her to the excellence of Zooby's soup and we went on the park on the way home like the big kids we are. Unfortunately the crazy swing made me feel a bit sick, but the zip-wire was awwwwesooome! Spesh came round in the evening and there was more chocolate, tea and filmage (and a crafty three-way spoon, for tradition's sake), and then that was it. I slept, I got up, I packed, Katie dropped me at the station, I went to the airport, I got on the plane (despite threatening that I would just live under somebody's bed forever)...

And now I'm back in Germany. After such an action-packed couple of weeks, I'll be honest, it's currently a bit of an anti-climax. However, when the weekend rolls around and I start doing things again, I reckon my enjoyment-o-meter will be looking a bit more healthy. I hear talk of good old British binge-drinking Halloween shenanigans and I'm holding out great hopes for that. So, finally, I think that all that remains to be said is thank you to all my fantastic friends and family for giving me an truly lovely holiday. You are the best. You hear me? THE BEST. I love you all more than I could possibly articulate, and I hope that I can return the favour one day. Take care, stay cool, and I'll see ya'll soon. These nine weeks'll fly by. You just watch.

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*"Bloodaxe" graffiti, anyone?
** "How many pairs of shoes do you need, woman!?"
***Apparently all roads lead there, or at least all roads that I happen to be on.

Creative Writing: "Misty Lights"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. Like music? Like stories? It's your place to be of a Sunday afternoon. This piece was inspired by George Linton's "Misty Lights", and has a much happier tone than the last two I've written. Really, I don't know what's gotten into me. 
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I’ve been travelling for over twenty six hours. Two flights, three trains and now a hire car collected at Dover to carry me the rest of the way. It’s just gone half past two in the morning and I’ve stopped on the M1 for petrol and what feels like my millionth cup of coffee. It’s from grubby fast food restaurant and tastes foul but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine kick. I can barely keep my eyes open; perhaps I should just give in a catch a couple of hours sleep before I hit the tarmac again. It seems silly though, when I’m so close. I should just plod on through, clear the last few miles and then when I do sleep it can be between deliciously soft white sheets that smell of lavender and with pillows as crisp and as cold as the frost outside. There I can drift off, happily, with my arms tightly wrapped the person I’ve been missing the most since I boarded the plane out of Edinburgh all those months ago.

As I sip my insult to the world of hot-beverages, I glance about at my fellow travellers. I’ve always loved service stations; even at night they remain full of life, half-way houses for hundreds of people trying, like me, to be somewhere else. I watch a lorry driver, alone in the corner, ferry a dubious looking bacon sandwich to his mouth whilst he absent-mindedly thumbs through a copy of yesterday’s Daily Mail. A few tables away is a young father, looking exhausted to his very bones and cradling his tiny daughter on his shoulder. She is sound asleep and wears a pink bobble hat that has slipped slightly so that it obscures one eye, giving her the look of a miniature blonde pirate. Next is a dishevelled business man, chugging the same horrible coffee as I am and, despite the early hour, talking loudly into his expensive mobile phone about stock prices or some other such business nonsense. Over by the door is a group of teenagers looking barely old enough to drive, all wrapped up against the fierce November air and laughing as they pass round a steaming hip-flask. Last but not least, the cleaning lady, her pinny slung over the back of her chair as she sneaks a crafty break with a magazine and a packet of custard creams.  Oh, and me, all puffy eyes and crumpled skirt, sleep-deprived and in desperate need of a shower. I wonder what I look like to these people? Do I just look dog-tired, or can they tell, perhaps by the way I’ve been smiling into my coffee, that I’m uncontrollably happy?

I drain the dregs from my cup, pick up my coat and scarf and head for the door. The business man, still shouting into his phone, follows me out. He slams off toward his sleek Mercedes, business jacket and briefcase flying, whilst I wander serenely over to the rented Fiat and clamber inside. I drop my bag onto the empty crisp packets on the passenger seat, laughing at the crunch, buckle my seatbelt and kick the engine to life. I say good bye to the service station and pull out of the car park and onto the motorway, full of bustle and noise and a blaze of light. And as the miles fall away behind me, I find myself drawn, with a smile, to the tiny pin-pricks that are the street lights stretching all the way into the distance, forming a glittering gold path in the sky. They dance, twinkling, in front of my tired eyes, giving me a lease of life the coffee never managed to, and they pull me towards them, inviting me onwards to join them in the stars…

They are my own private path of light, my very own yellow brick road, but they’re better than that because they lead somewhere much, much more magical that the Emerald City. They lead to the most important place in the whole world. They lead to home.

Creative Writing: "Choices"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. LISTEN, it's ace. It was inspired by Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band's song "Choices", as well as a touch of Trainspotting and a dash of Forgetting Sarah Marshall. 

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Choose to wake at noon. Choose to call in sick to work for the fourth day in a row. Choose to wear only joggers and T Shirts that no longer fit and not to shower. Choose to stay indoors with the curtains drawn and eat nothing but frozen pizzas and increasingly stale biscuits that leave crumbs on the carpet and down your front. Choose to ignore those missed calls from your friends. Choose to ignore, too, that text from Jeff or Dave or whoever inviting you to the pub. Choose, instead, to spend your evening alone again, pouring too many whiskies and watching terrible late night television. Choose to venture out only for cigarettes, occasionally buying a DVD or two from the bargain bins beside the till. Choose to watch these DVDs repeatedly despite their mediocrity, and even choose to cry at the weepy bits. Choose to cry about other things too, things you’d rather not talk about just now, or next week, or ever.  Choose to spend hours just staring at a picture of her face. Choose to drunkenly burn that picture before bottling out at the last minute lest it feel like losing her all over again. Choose to realise that it was your fault she left, your own stupid fault. Choose to acknowledge yourself as the architect of your own misery, and pour yourself yet another drink. Choose to drain the bottle because that’s the only way you’ll sleep. Choose to end your day when the birds begin theirs, falling onto your mattress as the first thrush sings. Choose the engulfing arms of sleep, even though you know, you know, she’ll be there still, haunting your dreams. 

Choose, eventually, to break the cycle of lonely self-loathing. Choose to leave the whiskey in the cupboard. Choose to accept that invite to the pub, to see people. Choose to put on a clean shirt for the first time in what seems like years.  Choose to smile wanly at the cheers that greet you as you arrive, accept the slaps on the back without comment. Choose to lie to their grinning faces when they ask how you are and say that you’re fine, that you’re doing ok. Choose to order a pint. Choose to sit quietly and drink it. Choose to quash your desire to bolt for the door when the conversation inevitably turns to your consolation. Choose to nod in meek agreement when Jeff says that she was never good enough for you - even though you know deep in your wasted heart that she was far better than you’ll ever be - and listen as your friends tear apart the woman you love before your eyes and ears. Choose to wish you were anywhere else, anywhere but here. Anyone but you.

Choose, then, to order another beer, then another, then another and another. Choose watch the grins turn to grimaces as you sink pint number twelve, the note of false cheeriness in your voice becoming louder and more slurred with every sentence. Choose to remain oblivious to the increasingly nervous atmosphere, ordering drink after drink, knowing that happiness will be at the bottom of the next glass. When the room begins to revolve, choose to stumble from the pub to the street, the cool air hitting you like a fist, worried shouts from your friends still ringing in your ears. Choose to shake Dave’s concerned hand from your arm when he follows you outside and set off for home at a run, just wanting to get away, from the pub, from yourself, from everything.

Choose, after to ten minutes, to sit, head spinning, on somebody’s front wall to catch your breath. Your phone is ringing – Jeff – choose to reject. Instead, stupidly, choose to call her. Choose to believe in your desperate drunken way that, this time, begging her to take you back again will actually work. Choose to dial her number. Choose to listen to the ringing on the other end of the line as you clutch the handset to your cheek, breathing harsh and ragged. Ring ring. Ring ring. Choose to gasp with fear and hate and anguish when the sleepy voice that answers is not hers at all, but his. He’s there, him, in your place, where you should be. With her. Choose to let the phone slide from your face to your lap, still wrapped in your shaking fist. When the sleepy voice says ‘hello’ once more, choose to frantically mash the call-end button with drunken fingers. Then silence. Then rage. Hot, boiling, venomous rage. Choose to hurl your mobile phone against the curb, choose to watch it shatter, slow motion, into a million tiny fragments, shattering just like your heart shattered when she told you she was leaving…

Choose to sit on that lonely wall until dawn, not moving, making no sound. Numb. A statue. Choose to watch the sun rise over silent suburbia without actually seeing it at all. Then, as the world around you begins to wake, choose to make a decision. Choose to collect the little that remains of your phone, to pick yourself up, to walk unsteadily home, to find your keys, to go inside, to shower, to have a decent breakfast, to get ready for work, to face the day, and the next day, and the next. Choose to clean the house and to wash the dishes, to sort the mail and to take out the rubbish. Choose to start answering your emails again. And, when you catch your own eye in the mirror, hair combed, fresh shirt, clean-shaven, choose to know that, finally, you’ll be just fine. 

Creative Writing: "We Could Pretend"

This piece was originally written for 'Folk Tales', which is broadcast 3-4pm every Sunday on LSRfm and is hosted by the wonderful Charlie. It was inspired by Ruth Moody's "We Could Pretend", and though it was inspired by the title only, but I urge to listen to the song as well, because it is beautiful. 
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When we were kids, we could pretend. We could pretend for hours and we would never get bored or tired. We could pretend for hours, shunning food and water, our appetites satisfied and our thirst quenched by the sparks in our own synapses as we quested for make-believe adventure. We could pretend for hours and hours and hours and our imaginations, our wonderful, youthful, vibrant imaginations would never fail us, never let us down.

What could we pretend today? Let’s pretend, yeah… let’s pretend we’re astronauts! Yeah, and we’ve got this huge spaceship with a thousand rocket blasters on the back, shooting us through space, past the moon and the planets and far out into the starts. We’ll whirl past Jupiter and Saturn, dodging asteroids and clouds of mysterious space dust and we’ll wave to the tiny blue men who live on Pluto who eat nothing but ice cream because it’s so cold there. We’ll stop for tea with them maybe, and tell them about our little blue planet far away full of lush green plant life and bustling cities and thunderous seas, and they’ll tell us about the Plutonian ice mines deep underground with walls that are as smooth as glass and that sparkle like diamonds…

Or we could pretend, right… we could pretend we’re pirates! Vicious, blood-thirsty pirates, wielding cutlasses and touting pistols, feared throughout the Spanish Main! We’ll be captains of our own vessel and it’ll be the fastest ship on the entire ocean, with rows and rows of cannons and a polished mahogany wheel at the helm and a fierce carved dragon leading the way as we plough through the water. We’ll raid merchant ships, stealing their gold and their silver and stuffing our hold with swag. If anyone is fool enough to attack us we’ll show them no mercy, running them through with our blades or slitting their throats and taking their ships for our own. We’ll be on the most wanted list in every port, constantly evading capture by the skin of our teeth, and at night we’ll sit on deck and reminisce about our last daring escape, swigging rum from the bottle and laughing so our gold teeth glint in the moonlight…

Or how about we pretend… no, listen! How about we pretend that we’re explorers? Yeah, yeah, explorers, hacking our way through the jungle in search of a legendary tomb that has been lost for over two thousand years, and that is said to be cursed... We’ll carry guns slung across our shoulders and knives at our sides to protect ourselves against the dangers that may befall us, such the poisonous snakes disguised as vines that hang precariously from the jungle canopy, or the spiders the size of dinner plates that hide, poised to strike, in the undergrowth. A tiger will emerge suddenly on the path ahead; a fierce, snarling tiger, its beautiful orange and midnight fur speckled with drops of blood from its last kill, and we’ll run, faster than we even knew we could run, stumbling over roots and rocks until suddenly we’re falling, falling down into darkness… We’ll land with a jolt that knocks their air from our lungs, not on cold earth but on cold stone – we’ve found the tomb! We’ll prize open the ancient door, coughing as dust millennia old finds its way to our throats, and peer deep, deep into the darkness beyond…

When we were kids, we could pretend a million and one things, for a million and one reasons: because we were bored, or afraid, lonely or in pain, for fun or to escape the real world. Our imaginations would never cease to create new scenarios in which to immerse ourselves and every Saturday afternoon saw the birth of a new favourite game, games that always begin with the words “let’s pretend…” But as we slowly slip into adulthood, into rental agreements and nine-to-fives and coffee, as responsibility settles on our shoulders, at first like butterflies but then like bricks, we discover we can no longer pretend. We can no longer retreat back into that shining world behind our eyes where we’re heroes and where we could control our own destiny. Imagination, our childhood protector, saving us always from tedium or anguish, is gone, leaving reality, a brutal, unrelenting force as a poor replacement. And throughout every test of reality - a bounced cheque, a lost loved-one, another broken heart – we can’t even count on our own minds to wrap us in the comforting blanket of make-believe and, for just a couple of hours, make everything ok. Some say this makes us stronger, better people, that pretending never helped anyone, that action is better than words and that memories and other substance-less imaginings are a waste of valuable time, are childish and nonsensical…

But is it so wrong to cherish those substance-less imaginings, those memories of when the line between reality and pretence was precariously thin and when we used to dance, laughing, along its edge? Is it so wrong to want, occasionally, to be childish? To want to forget in times of sorrow, to be a hero for a little while? No, it is not. It is natural regret that we can no longer be a pirates or a spacemen or a cowboys or any number of fantastical things. It is understandable to mourn for our deceased imagination that means we must always be an adults and boring, accepting this one existence that is sadly lacking in mysticism and excitement. Our imagination has poured away through our fingers along with the sands of time, and it is a shame, a terrible, terrible waste. We miss it, always, and look on jealously at those still youthful enough to be able to construct another, more brilliant reality for themselves, a new reality every day. And, most of all, at those moments in life where we want to escape, when we feel suffocated by our surroundings or when the pain is too much to bear, we wish with all our hearts, that as adults we, too, could create a new reality. That we, too, could pretend…

YA: No, I've Not Died...

I'm aware it's been a while since I last posted. So much for the "twice a week" goal I had when I started this thing up. In my defence, I've been a very busy bee recently. Since starting to actually teach, my evenings have been taken up with researching Cambridge Language Certificates, planning lessons and making handouts. Meanwhile, though I am now sitting in less lessons at school I'm spending vast amounts of time acquainting myself with the photocopier. I've done so much photocopying this week I could rival John Bellamy (joke for the Sheffies there).

Because, yes, I am now doing the exact thing that the powers at be in Altenberg told us not to do: I am planning and teaching lessons entirely on my own. I think the only reason this is sort of allowed is that I am tutoring pupils for a voluntary exam, and am not actually in charge of anything that may affect their curriculum-based education. However, it's still pretty damn nerve-wracking, and I can't help feel that it's a pretty large responsibility for entirely untrained newbie such as myself. My first lesson was for the higher level exam and was frankly a disaster; due to various sporting commitments, only two pupils out of sixteen could actually make the class and I spent most of the time chatting to two said pupils about how I had little idea about how to go about teaching them the stuff I'm pretty sure they already know anyway. Fortunately, the two lower level classes I have since taken went much more swimmingly, mostly because it's easier to teach people from basics because there's no threat of patronising them. The Wedneday class of twenty or so students was a bit more raucous than Thursday's fourteen (and Thursday's class are already by far my favourites as one of the girls gave me half a bag of gummy bears) but I plodded resiliently through and hopefully didn't make too much a pig's ear of the whole thing. I now have two weeks of Herbstferien to panic about how to teach them the next bit.

That's the work update. Now for the social side. I have, since I last posted, experienced my first proper German night out. It was one of the most bizarre nights out I've ever had. Deprived of our binge drinking student lifestyle for so long, we all went a bit bonkers, downing Lidl's bargain wine and beers with gusto, shotting neat vodka and sampling large quantities of Satan's hell-water itself, Obstwasser.* The result was brutal: we were all ridiculously smashed, and I can't speak for anyone else but I remember next to nothing of how we got to into the club (other than managing to muscle our way in without apparently having to pay or give proof of ID) and even less of what happened inside it. I know I liked it, even though I have since discovered from a Referendarin at my school that "it's the place you go when everything else is closed". I know we accidentally split up into two groups, reunited only when the club closed at the stupidly early (for Germany) time of around 3am**. I know I moshed to Papa Roach, and acquired two beers that I'm fairly sure I didn't pay for. I know, too, that I somehow managed to lock myself in the toilets, and stood there panicking for a while before I realised I just hadn't pushed the door handle down properly. The walk back to Matt's is even more blurred, save for Sarah taking a detour through the fountain, and to this day I don't know how we managed to make it back there - Amelia apparently has a superhero like sense of direction when sozzled. We eventually crashed out at about 6am (some of us with our head on our arms at the table) and awoke early the following afternoon nursing horrendous hangovers and trying to piece our memories back together. Absolute insanity. I can't wait to do it again.

That was Saturday. Fast forward to Wednesday and a German BBQ. I still don't really know why I was there, because it was for the Klasse 9 and 10 mentors to swap stories and advice and nothing to do with the English department at all. But, as ya'll know, I'm never one to turn down a social invitation particularly when there's the promise of free sausage, so I trundled happily along and had a nice time. Thursday promised yet more opportunities for social buttiflication in the form of Stammtisch (for you non-German types that essentially an excuse to meet up and drink beer under the pretext of speaking German). I went along with some other lovely English Fremdsprachassistenen from the Ruhrgebiet area, and though due to a late arrival we unfortunately failed to locate the actual Stammtisch with all the other nationalities, we had our own we Stammtisch auf English which proved to be just as much fun. I unfortunately had to leave just as the party was getting started (not before getting me a proper German Erdinger Weisbier though) but I hope we have a repeat at some point where I can stay longer.

And now, unbelievably, I'm back in England. I know it seems like I've hardly been in Germany five minutes, but it's the Herbstferien for two weeks, so I thought it's be an idea to come back and have a catch up with my homies. To be perfectly honest, I think I needed this break - Germany has been excellent so far, far surpassing my expectations (which were, let's face it, pretty damn low), but it's been both a difficult and hectic month and I just needed some good ol' comforts of England. I've already had a cheese sandwich, drank a million cups of tea (or so it seems after my stringent rationing) and given both my parents several bone crushing hugs a-piece. Over the next couple of weeks I'm staying on several different floors and in several different beds, all the while in the company of those I've been a-missin'. I'm very, very, very excited about it, and I'll be sure to give you a low down on my antics once I'm back D-side. For now, stay cool, amigos and enjoy your Autumn as much as I'm going to.

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*Think tequila but mixed with armpit and that smell you get when too many different dinners are cooking at once in a busy block of flats. Vile beyond belief, it burned my throat all he way down and I could still sense the foul aroma on my tongue days later.
** Direct and melodramatic quote from me to Lyndsay: "I thought I'd never see you again!" I'm such a drama drunk.