Back to school..

Today was the first day of my school based learning experience at St. Martin in the Fields School for Girls. The day started well with the sun shining and my journey surprisingly taking me less than an hour. As I walked up to the school I was very impressed with the entrance, lots of green with an impressive old building in the background that proved to be even nicer inside.

http://www.stmartins.lambeth.sch.uk/

I was invited to follow a year 7 class around which I was told was the top set. It was fascinating to observe the number of different characters within a relatively small amount of girls and how teachers would later use this knowledge to help them maintain order. Knowing who the strong characters were and how to keep them in check seem to be the trick, something I'll need to remember.

Their first lesson was an ICT class aptly based around how noise levels fluctuate within the classroom at different times of the lesson, these girls sure could talk! I felt like an old man in the corridor since a girl was trying to speak to me, but I couldn't hear a word she was saying over the noise of hundreds of girls all talking at the same time and had to keep asking her to repeat what she had said, much to her annoyance..

Looking forward to the rest of the week, but not the 6am alarm..

100 Word Plays

When I started this blog I was determined for it not to become a daily diary, chronicling information such as how many bowel movements I've had or how shit I felt that day on a scale of 1 to 10. I'd been aware I hadn't written anything for a little while but yesterday I came across an interesting article in the paper. It was about the Royal Court Theatre being plastered with short plays of 100 words or less on their walls inviting people to pen so-called 'Bonsai plays'.

* * * http://www.royalcourttheatre.com/whats-on/100-word-play * * *

I couldn't resist the urge to have a go myself, below is my first and only effort thus far:

A Chat On the Banks of Acheron

Death:     (Drily) I'm Death, welcome to your own. Any questions before you cross the river?

Man:       What does death feel like?

Death:     I don't like it when people refer to me in the 3rd person.

Man:       (annoyed) That's not what I meant. Anyway, we're talking so I can't be dead. If I'm dead,

                 who are you talking to?

Death:     I'm talking to the 20th letter in the English alphabet.

Man:        t, u, v, w... (sarcastically) Very funny. Is there anyway of getting out of this?

Death:     You must ask me a question I don't know the answer to.

Man:       (long pensive pause) Oh fuck it, but I'm not rowing...

A Spring in my Step

I have decided to write about something a little more light hearted from my previous post.

Spring has well and truly arrived to these shores - it feels as if the birds are singing louder, colours are more vibrant, the air fresher. For this reason I was determined not to spend my weekend behind closed doors.

On Saturday I decided to make the trip up to Hampstead Heath with a friend. Making the wrong way down the street upon arriving at Belsize Park was a minor hiccup for us since it was corrected by a short bus journey, but I suspect it was a slightly bigger obstacle for the man who was running the cross country race taking place that day whom I sent on his merry way in completely the wrong direction. For all the iPhone's prowess and gadgetry, it is on too often an occasion the loser when it comes to a direct fight between it and asking for directions.


Upon arrival to the Heath, we were greeted by puffy cheeked runners making their way around at what seemed a ridiculously fast pace, just watching them made me feel knackered. After about an hour's walk in the glorious sunshine we made it to our next stop, the Spaniards Inn, a must if you happen to be in and around the Heath.

http://www.thespaniardshampstead.co.uk/

I find the food there delicious and plentiful, providing proper sized portions much needed if you have exerted yourself prior to getting there. The meal and a beer topped of a great afternoon..


However, the day was not finished there. On the contrary, it was just beginning. I got a call from another mate to meet him for a drink. One beer became two, beer turned into whiskey (not our doing, we're not pretending to be Jesus), well you know how it goes. My friend smokes rollies and I attempted to roll my own. The first was bad but smokable, the second a better effort but as the night wore on, my attempts became less and less successful to the point where their shape resembled an anaconda that had recently devoured a camel. The drunken night ended in an Irish pub called the Boston, which for all its shortcomings, had the undeniable charm of a dump that makes you feel like you are in the waiting lounge of death.



Sunday was another scorcher and getting up to play tennis was not easy. Coordination and the ability to concentrate was greatly reduced, but it was as perfect a day to play as you will ever get. An added bonus was that I managed to sweat out most of the poison still circumnavigating my body. Luckily tennis is an individual sport and I didn't get too close to anybody, I must have smelt like the Old Boston itself..

Pet Hates

Since I've started University again, I've sadly resorted to using the tube to get there again since it's quite far from my house. This has increased my propensity for grumpiness somewhat and increased my awareness of the sheer stupidity of certain members of the human race.

Although they number many, my new pet hate is people hanging on to the overhead rail in the tube when the train has stopped and is completely stationary. I must add that these are able bodied people who for one reason or another seem incapable of standing upright on a stationary carriage without holding onto something. These very same people seem to get on fine at street level without anything to hold onto, yet this fact escapes them upon entering a train. In this way, they manage to keep their elbows in the way of most people trying to make their way past, completely inconveniencing everybody.

The sheer idiocy of these people never ceases to amaze me. Why the hell are they still hanging on!?!? The train is at a complete standstill!! People bump into them and give them dirty looks that could tame a wild beast, but even that doesn't seem to get through to these people.

Today I decided to pipe up and confront one of these imbeciles. I did this by telling one of them on my way out that there wasn't any need to keep hanging on and blocking everyone's way out whilst the train was stationary, politely pointing out that there would appear to be no danger of them falling over. That was met with complete silence and a blank look bereft of any signs of a cognitive process taking place. Looking into that man's eyes was like staring into an empty abyss devoid of any intelligence (no offence meant towards abysses, which I actually quite like).

Rant over.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - Review

* material mentioned in this review DOES NOT contain SPOILERS

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a drama based in 1970's Britain, which was of course in the midst of the Cold War. The story revolves around the most important members of MI6 called 'the circus'.

An accusation is made by the chief (John Hurt), also called 'control', that there is a mole within the circus leaking information to the Russians. This leads to his dismissal after a mission goes wrong, as well as that of his right hand man, Smiley (Gary Oldman). However, a high level member of government believes the conspiracy theory has legs and secretly hires the recently retired Smiley to track down the mole and this is the point at which movie moves past it introductory stage.

This initial stage is littered with a lot of jargon and words colloquial to that time which were difficult to follow at times. This problem is a feature throughout the film but especially at the beginning.  The body of the film expectedly follows our unwilling hero Smiley in pursuit of the apparent mole that lies within the circus. His mission is complicated by flashbacks the audience gets to witness of a time where things looked decidedly more rosy with the MI5 family, which is why some people within it think it inconceivable for there to be a mole within this loyal, close knit group of people all seemingly vociferously faithful to their country.

To find out whether a mole actually exists, you'll have to watch the film for yourselves, but I will say I was a bit disappointed at the speed with which the matter was concluded at the end of the film after such a detailed and tedious build up. A lack of suspense and the slight over complication of the investigation we are taken through throughout the film in search of the mole doesn't stimulate the viewer sufficiently.

(* * *) 3/5 - Gary Oldman gives an assured performance as always, but in too many instances carries the film's shortcomings upon his shoulders. A worthwhile viewing, especially for Cold War buffs.

Dear Old Blighty

After the weekend's festivities it was back to the grinder on Monday. Had a stroke of good luck in finding an amp and some speakers whilst clearing up which saves me from having to buy them, just need a record player now to complete my latest wish..

Spent most of my day with my head immersed in fractions, algebra and the like, but in the evening I managed to catch the tail end of a programme on the fate that befell the beautiful City Hall building which later become the National Library in Sarajevo, Bosnia called 'Vijećnica'.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vije%C4%87nica

Sadly, most of the books inside were lost due to fire apparently caused by heavy shelling during the war, or perhaps other more sinister reasons. The accounts of the people who went to save books whilst risking their own lives were deeply moving. Perhaps an understanding for this seemingly irrational behaviour can be explained by a poignant message from one of the people interviewed - he said that events and memories vital in safeguarding a nation's cultural and historical heritage unfortunately fade with time and in people's minds, but in books they are able to live on forever..

Vijecnica, in all its glory

Farewell to Dublin..

Our first port of call on Sunday was to go and see the Book of Kells. With the sun finally out and it being a Sunday, and with what seemed like 90% of the city nursing a hangover, it was for once pleasant whilst walking around.

Upon entering the exhibition I wasn't initially very impressed, but as we went a bit further in it started to get much more interesting. Watching videos of people using the old methods of bookbinding was particularly impressive, the detail and skill that the writing required demanded respect. The actual Book of Kells itself was not so impressive to see, since all you could view was one centre fold.

The last piece of the tour was really grand (had to throw in a word the Irish like to use!!). Before entering the Trinity College Library, the smell of old wood and paper hits your nose preparing you for your first sight of the library. Its sheer size is what struck me first, only later noticing the meticulous precision with which all the books were organised. I even managed to take a sneaky picture whilst the guard was looking the other way..

There was only time left to do one more thing and that was something which I've always wanted to try, something I promised a good friend of mine I'd try whilst in Dublin since she shares my curiosity about Irish coffee. Serge took me to the perfect setting, a French style cafe with an amazing interior. Being an espresso drinker, I was a bit apprehensive when my coffee arrived looking very long. My fears were allayed after the first sip though by a rich coffee taste which contained a hint of whiskey leaving me feeling all warm inside, the perfect way to say goodbye to Dublin..