A Spring Holiday

A lot's happened since I last wrote. For someone in my pretty delicate professional condition it is a big deal that I have been prevented from updating this blog because of having had TOO MUCH TO DO. Yes, I have even been able to indulge in the lexicon of busy people by making throw-away comments like "So sorry I haven't got back to you - I've been rushed off my feet." Ahhhh, feels good. Yes, things are changing; the clocks have gone forward and so, it seems, have I. I'm even employed. Of a fashion. I am now a paid-by-the-hour mobile tutor. I am currently tutoring my former English teacher's son French A-level. (Oh how life goes round in circles, she mutters reflectively.) I prepare work, I carry a file, I impart knowledge, I get money for it. I spend half of that money on petrol. Nevertheless, I am content. I have also applied for a PGCE place and even been invited for interview. This is cork-popping success by 2009's book. Out of the dark maelstrom of the past two months and into March.

I spent today writing a speech in Spanish on the importance of learning languages. For the interview. Picking up the battered and bruised Collins Spanish Dictionary, untouched since Black Summer 2005, I felt a bit like a traitor. As I opened its finger-smudged pages, it sneered at me. "Where the hell have you been these past four years?? Journalism? Wasn't good enough for you was I?" Believe me, re-opening that dictionary wasn't easy. Emotional almost. A few lines into my rusty Spanish prose and I was getting into the swing of it. I was horrified to think that it could have been much longer before I wrote those funny words with their oddly placed accents. I jest. I don't go in for all that linguistic xenophobia. But, seriously, thinking about how I'd just saved myself from a potentially foreign language-starved life, I felt immense relief. I spoke a few of the funny words aloud. It was great. By the way, if this linguistic fetish is making anyone feel uncomfortable please refer back to the last post and the reference to lack of sporting cred/street cred at school. Then things shouldn't be so confusing or disturbing. Smash Hits magazine? You could have given me any copy of Authentik - 'educational Spanish publication meant for secondary school pupils, not known for its wide readership' - and I'd have been chuffed.

Of late, I also seem to have gained rent-a-speaker status. So, I was asked to do a talk at my old school in January remember? (oh the presumptuousness of the word 'remember') Well, that seems to have unleashed the lecture beast and I have now been called upon to help with careers evenings, speak about journalism (all four on-and-off years of it) and also to counsel students considering taking languages beyond GCSE - as if it's such a precarious decision to take them that they need someone who they believe has succeeded in that line of education (although not, as yet, of work) to encourage, slash coerce, them into taking the leap. The government likes languages apparently - although determining the number of politicians who actually speak a second language would be an interesting poll to carry out. They like the idea of language learning so much that they have (and hands down to them) put quite a bit of effort into getting them into primary school classrooms. They like the idea so much that, after having done this, they have then announced that it is not compulsory for kids to take a language at GCSE. I had quite a heated debate about this with the Simon Cowell of PGCEs at the teaching conference so I got most of it out of my system then. But still, it deserves a mention here.

So I'm becoming quite an ambassador for the languages. And, to boot, I have also acquired something which I believes gives me the edge. Something which is the icing on the cake, the final waxen seal of success on this much clearer professional path - glasses. I have been prescribed reading glasses. Prescribed makes it sound like a bad thing when, actually, I couldn't be happier. From mere naked-faced youth to spectacle-wearing adulthood. I never thought I would be so pleased about the onset of failing vision but, for me, it marks the beginning of the serious, the mature..the job. These glasses will be my weapon against teenagers who talk in my lessons. Or just those who don't like me. I won't be having any of that either. One can't peer without glasses and I don't think one can reasonably wag a finger without having a pair of glasses perched on the nose. So for me it finishes off the whole pedagogical preparations quite tidily.

My work is not quite done of course. There are the interviews, which involve the ability to recite the (maybe on reflection far too complicated) Spanish I have just written for myself to perform, then there's the time to be spent in more schools, soaking up the ideas I will be able to employ in my new career...and then there's the training and actually doing the job....But, I'm getting far too far ahead of myself. A holiday is what's needed first. Refresh things, get a squint of a tan, speak some Spanish with the Brits or the Germans (?) ...which is why I am jetting off to Lanzarote, that big volcano by Africa, next week. I'll try my best to avoid the burger bars, I'll try less hard to avoid the bar bars and I'll be sunbathing whether it's 12 degrees or 22. And I'll root out some native speakers if I can. Although don't blame me if I come back speaking Dutch. It's apparently a very popular place with them. But most importantly, I'm looking forward to drawing a very satisfying line under the exhausting, draining first part of this year, filled with CV-sending, simpering cold-calling and yet another bout of work experience.

And where better to draw a line than in the sand, on a beach? I won't send a postcard but here's a picture of a beach. Ok, it's a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio in the 2000 film The Beach. But you get the idea.

Out of my Comfort Zone

I've never really been part of a team. At school, P.E. was about as far from my favourite subject as it could possibly have been. My idea of fun during lessons was a really heated debate about the intentions of the author Graham Swift when he wrote 'Waterland'. So, it made social sense that I was never going to be a member of such a popularity-affirming group as 'the netball team'. I was a member of the lacrosse team for a few weeks but the thrill of being able to don a P.E. kit and say that I was 'sporty' soon gave way to resentment at having to cut short my lunch-times in order to feel uncomfortably out of breath for an entire forty minutes. Ever since, I have at no point come close to being a member of a team in the sporting sense. I was a member of an orchestra for a few years (the preferred 'sport' of the geek collective) but I wouldn't call it a team - more a group of eccentrics thrown together and let loose occasionally to busk on the streets of Austria and try very hard to get drunk in the evenings. All as part of an organised tour you understand.

So how is it that, a mere ten years on from the heady and hedonistic days of the Friday night regional orchestra, I found myself sniffing at being gathered into the arms of a team? This is surely something I should have welcomed. You'd think. However, it seems that I've not only lost any grain of desire to gain access to such group activities but I seem to have developed an almost physical aversion to them.

The Teaching Taster Course was a late-night discovery. Several email-checkings, another Guardian job search and a quick browse of the Topshop website into my evening of web-surfing and I was struggling for time-wasting fodder, something to graze on while I tried to feel even slightly tired for bed (it was pushing 2am but I've never been able to get to sleep early). The Teaching and Development Agency, I thought. I'll read some more case studies of other journalists who had defected. OK, it's my imagination that there are more of us but I find it comforting to tell myself these fibs. Once on the site, I noticed an ad for a Teaching Taster Course 'for those who are still undecided about teaching - and it's free!' Well, I could be doing with a freebie and something to fill three days. And, if I'm honest, I fit the criteria exactly. It sounded like a counselling service for career-changers. I signed up. It was now 2.30am so I'm not even sure I filled in my address properly. But a few days later I received an application form. Application form? I thought I could just sign up! How bloody pretentious, I answered back to my arrogant self. I filled it in (it was fairly comprehensive - GCSE and A level results, professional experience, all of that) and sent it off. A couple of weeks later I was informed that I had a place.

I turned up on Monday of this week surprised and comforted to see that I was one of 16 people who were similarly undecided as to the path their life was going to take next. In fact, it was very reassuring. The ages ranged from 20 to mid-50s, included university professors, engineers, a couple of bankers (no surprise there) and a joiner. We were a real mixed bag: people whose jobs had ended, relationships had ended. And there we all were. Sitting in the conference room of a local Catholic girls' secondary school, looking to teaching as some sort of salvation. If this is all future generations of children can expect out of their education - life's unfortunates, the worriers, the undecided ones, the divorcees and the made-redundants - then I feel sorry for them.

"Morning team!"

The course leader dramatically revealed herself to us from behind a door.

Team? This is new.

"Lovely to see you all. Now, before we start let me just go through the essentials. Oh, actually, no, before we start that, please help yourself to biccies and nibblets! Oh yes, we're very generous here! [I eyed up a lovely plate of flapjacks, luxury jammy dodgers and huge cornflake-covered biscuits. I love a novelty biscuit.] Right! [she had raced to the front and was now pointing at a power point presentation on something known as a Smart Board.] First off..."

And off she went. It was a real attack on the senses. For someone who has spent the last few weeks mostly alone and communicating with the outside world via email, this was all a bit too much. Then there was the flashing. The power point slides flashed up, changed, paused, flashed again.

"And, of course, you will be needing to know where the Comfort Zones are."

The what? Are we in a spaceship? What could she be referring to? Massage rooms? Hairdressers? That could be very nice. Ohhh... As my brain tuned into the new conference speak that surrounded me, it clicked. Toilets. Great. That's what they're calling them now. Since when did toilets become a dirty word? I'm going to have to watch my language if things have got this bad since I was at school. I found myself longing for the sardonic quips of my former journo colleagues. I thought wistfully back to a time when effs and blinds were exchanged affectionately. It was just all too easy on the ear. Almost excruciatingly easy. Then: "Now, I've left the door open in case anyone is interested in getting some fresh air...but I can close it if you're too chilly? Now, over the next few days if anyone has a question, please feel free to take a post-it - you'll find them on your desks [points to the yellow sticky pad on each table] - and scribble down your question and then just stick them on the wall and I'll try to answer them as best I can." Stick them on the wall? I just didn't understand. I felt like an alien unable to comprehend the social niceties of my host planet. I wasn't cold. I hadn't even noticed that the door was open. And I wondered what sort of a question would be that complex that it couldn't just be asked and answered in the middle of a very small conference room and instead needed to be written down, stuck up and ruminated over before being answered. I was confused. When was the lecture going to start? Pen poised over the sad, uncomfortably blank pages of my 'Reporters Notebook', I sighed. A man on my table shouted something out at the wrong moment and everyone laughed. I was missing out. I strained to involve myself but the effort drained me and I slumped back into my chair and let the laughter wash over me. I began to doodle a dress in my notebook. Maybe I'll start doodling and my doodles will become designs and those designs will reveal a talent for fashion and then I'll become a bit like Stella McCartney and I've always liked clothes and..wow that would be great...

"Chhh-arlotte is it?" Huh? What? I'd drifted so far away from this room that I hadn't become aware of someone craning their neck right into me to get a good look at my chest. What had prompted this invasion? Then I realised that my chest was in fact where my name badge had been stuck. I find name-badge-pinning to be a rather taboo subject. Where to pin? Chest or waistband? Chest or waistband? Either one could attract the wrong kind of attention. Face is out, knees are too low, so belly is the only other viable option. But who ever heard of a name badge being pinned onto a belly? "Yes, Charlotte. Hi. What's...your name?" And off we went. Some small-talk, what were you doing before this?, would you like another tea? oh no, thanks very much, what's our next session about? The Curriculum? Lovely. I managed admirably and, afterwards, felt like a cold-hearted witch on account of my steely first impressions towards the whole experience.

The second day passed much better. I actually got into the swing of the lingo, the acronyms, the information about GTP, PGCE, Extended Schools and the G&T programme (which I learnt was not a diploma in drinking but in fact stood for Gifted & Talented). I observed some lessons and even found myself in demand among keen linguists who wished to practise their speaking presentations on me. Had they been bribed into appearing so keen, I wondered? The high point for me was explaining the incredibly fascinating (for me) structure of the word 'franchement' in French and how it's just like the English 'frankly', really. From the smug expression on my face upon having imparted this jewel of knowledge to a group of Year 9 girls, you'd think I'd just told them the secret to eternal youth. I have to admit, it was gratifying.

By Day Three of 'Crash Course in Teaching', we were pretty well versed and ready for the big guns to come to speak to us - the teacher training tutors. These were the guys who decided whether or not we could cut it in the world of pedagogy. Enter Simon Cowell look-a-like. This could be fun. A voice boomed its greeting. It was so deep and booming in fact that it was almost out of my hearing range. The polar opposite of a squeal - a dull, booming, air-shuddering sound. This man was the teacher training hot shot. We'd been on a journey, he said. Had we enjoyed it? [Doesn't wait for an answer] What had we learnt about what makes a good teacher? [Oh god, we're not back to this are we? Someone answers. I squirm] That's right, he says. That's an excellent point to take on board, he likes that, that works for him [Oh no. This is not pleasing to the ear. Someone asks a question] OK, he says, what he'll do is go back down into that question and come back out again [Sounds dangerous. Where are we going again?? My head feels light and foggy] He's saying something about touching base, throws in an 'ergo' and a 'per se' and he's finished.

Phew. What exactly was that? I had no idea. But I knew it didn't have anything to do with teaching. Staring at this orange-faced, bellowing man, I realised that it wasn't me who didn't fit in around there, on a Wednesday afternoon in a small lecture room in the middle of a secondary school - it was in fact him. If I didn't have a clue what he was saying in his bellowing spiel, then I could guarantee that a classroom full of hormonal 15-year-old girls wouldn't. I was no expert - by a long way, I hadn't wanted to be a teacher from birth, and I might not even do it forever, but I certainly felt that I might be capable of communicating with a class of students. I felt that I had something useful to offer and that, if during five minutes I had successfully conveyed a scrap of knowledge - albeit only one word - to a group of students, then I couldn't be a complete misfit in this profession after all.

Crime and Desire

"All you need is a number."

Not a bastardised version of that lovely Beatles song. But something my father said.

It's actually the best passport photo I've ever had. I believe. It was one of those photo booths where you can choose which pictures you deem worthy of payment. This time I went directly to the local library after getting ready in the morning. No time for the day to wear down all my hard work. Hair was looking fine. Make-up was subtle enough to look natural but applied liberally enough so as to cover problem areas and accentuate good ones. I didn't wear a scarf this time either. Last time I wore a brown, furry scarf that made me look as if I'd ducked into the photo booth to escape a Siberian winter. That photo also taught me that a blusher brush can literally sweep life into translucent skin. So, yes, I was proud of myself this time. I had remembered the previous issues and had corrected them. Except that now my dad interpreted my calm, composed expression as nothing short of criminal. I have to say that it wouldn't be ideal if the photo did give off the impression that I was on the wrong side of the law, seeing as I needed it to go alongside a teaching application.

The teaching profession, like a new pair of trainers, has been moulding itself around me and becoming increasingly comfortable to walk around in. I liked it as an idea and now, after observing it and dabbling in it, I have realised that I quite like doing it as well. Spending every day working with and imparting knowledge of subjects that I love sounds like a wonderful way to spend my time. Previous literary aspirations still apply. Naturally. But I'm no French bohemian artiste; I cannot spend my days draped across a chaise longue, smoking lettuce leaves and hoping to feel inspired. That is definitely not one of my options. However, predictably, things aren't simple and, although a life of artistic decadence is not something I'm able to indulge in, the feeling that I could be falling into something comfortably secure does raise the hairs on the back of my neck. OK, so I'm scared of security, commitment and all the trimmings. Call the psychologist. However, whilst this kind of endless internal battle probably leads most people to the asylum, I just like to put it in the box labelled 'neuroses' and move on.

In an attempt to unravel that sweeping brush-off of a complicated emotion, I suppose I could offer up this explanation. I like a surprise, a spontaneous act. I always have. To this day, I absolutely cannot stand being told what presents I'm getting for Christmas. Drives me mad. My brother has enjoyed years of taunting me over this. When we were little, he would find the present bag weeks before and would surreptitiously slip the odd gift discovery into deliberately un-Christmassy conversations. I'd then stick my fingers in my ears prompting him to edge towards me and raise his voice. Then, seeing my eyes open, he'd take advantage of this other exposed sense and mouth the words to me, so I'd be sitting there, fingers in ears, eyes snapped shut, closed off, shut off, in an incredible effort to remain ignorant. It's strange really because I am a very nosy person. Curiosity is what lead me into journalism. But, somehow, the magic of Christmas far outweighed the desire to know.

And my brother is not alone. There are many people who seem desperate, not only to casually look ahead, but to attempt to accurately predict what will happen in the future, how they (or you) will feel and then develop some antidote to that outcome before it has even happened. Here are some examples of instances of that in my own life:

English teacher at school: "You don't want to apply to Oxford. It's extremely hard to get in and you don't want to be disappointed."

A boy: "You're too nice. You don't want to go out with me. It's not worth your while." [I DO!! It was the NOT NICE that appealed thank you very much.]

Another boy: "You don't want to go out with me - I'm not as nice as I look." [GOOD!! See above.]

And now, I find myself confronted with a similar issue. Now, when tentatively suggesting my intention to become a teacher (and in the process getting used to hearing myself say it), I am met with uneasy half-smiles and questioning looks. Do I know I will have to write essays for my PGCE? Yes. Do I know that I will be working with CHILDREN? Yes, I had factored that in. Do I know that it is REALLY REALLY hard work? Well, yes. At this point I recall what the inquisitor does for a living and remember it too involves a lot of hard work. What is it that is so frightening about teaching then? It seems to me that maybe the answer lies in the future - that awful invisible vessel of opportunity. And it seems to me that a large number of people believe that teaching saps the very liquid of life from it. Teaching means opting out, stepping off the rollercoaster ride of youth. Maybe. Or maybe that's my neurosis again.

I read an article at the weekend about women's desire which attempted to pinpoint what it actually was. "What turned women on?" it asked. And after a number of dubious sounding experiments involving unusual implements placed, well, unusually, it concluded that, really, what made women tick was simply being desired: "at once the thing craved and the spark of craving" it declared. I think there is a very simple truth in this and I don't think it applies only to women. Maybe all people really need in a job is to feel wanted, desired. And maybe committing to a career path is a bit like committing to a relationship in that you fear that that initial wave of infatuation will dissipate before long. Maybe this is inevitable. Maybe this is why the nebulous in-between space is where I feel most comfortable. It's the possibility of being desired from every possible angle. And how very narcissistic that sounds. But what a rosy way of looking at what is essentially a fear of commitment.

This is where surprise and spontaneity can really come into their own. They could be the antidote to, or at the very least could allay temporarily, this commitment-phobia. Take, for example, my visit to a Neros stand in Liverpool Lime Street station. Still smarting from the 'criminal' comment earlier that morning and feeling just a smidgen on the undesirable side of life, I approached the stand to pick up a coffee to take with me on my journey down to the teaching interview. The man was on the phone. And I was in a rush. About to break into a snarl as I was really pushed for time, he hung up and said: "Hi, what would you like?" "Small latte, please." "OK [starts to make coffee]....Are you Irish?" Huh? I'm confused and not in the zone of the small talk. But I sense that an affirmative will bode well so I reply. "Hmm, a bit." Which is true, although scientifically incorrect to phrase it like that, I suppose. "Thought so. You have beautiful eyes. Irish eyes." Don't smile. Remain cool. You're cool. Criminal face criminal face. But I couldn't. A smile broke across that cold, criminal face and then I couldn't stop. "There you go [hands me the coffee]. And there's three stamps on your card - for being Irish." Well, now I felt like a criminal, passing myself off as a completely different nationality. But I didn't care. Three stamps? Wowee. I flashed him a final glance from those beautiful, criminal eyes and I strutted off, beaming the huge grin of one who felt wonderfully desired, if only for 30 seconds. One dose of that had me leaping onto the train and I hurtled off to my interview, carefree and committed.