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.