When in school, eat Ryvita

Whilst students across the country have been winding down and getting ready for the summer, I have used the past couple of weeks to renew my working activity. Rather than slowing down, I have been cranking up for the year ahead by spending time in a primary and a secondary school in preparation for the PGCE. Basically, work experience - something I am an expert at.

I have a theory about the fine balance required for a successful work experience placement; it's nestled snuggly between arse-licking and complete disinterest. I decided to voice this theory to the Modern Foreign Languages teacher I was introduced to on my arrival and who was to show me around and guide me through the week. By omitting the word 'arse' and yet keeping the theory intact, I thought it would serve as a sort of amusing ice-breaker. I conveyed it not without an awareness of the conversational risk I was taking. But she took it well. In fact, she was refreshingly cynical compared with the teachers at the school I had visited the week before and was very honest about the kind of experience I was to have - it would be challenging. But she seemed to take it in her stride so I relaxed and attempted to adopt her laid-back attitude to teaching angst-riddled, street-wise teenagers by strutting along the corridor and into my week of new experiences.

Now, it was a hot week. A sandal week. A put-your-sandwiches-in-the-fridge-within-five-minutes-of-arriving-at-work week. This done, I walked purposefully to my first lesson. I had a timetable, which made me feel useful, important and required. And, of course, I was once again wearing my work clothes. It felt very good indeed. Until, that is, I stepped into the classroom. If it was a summery, balmy heat in the corridor, inside the classroom the air fizzed with sweat. It was horrendous. I had forgotten how much body heat thirty hyperactive teenagers could create. I tried to hide my appalled reaction (something friends have told me I'm not so good at) and I took a seat at the front, in the corner. By force of habit, I pulled my notepad and pen from my bag and just concentrated on breathing whatever stale air was available to me. I expected that, once everyone had settled down, the air would cool and we'd all be much happier. But it seemed that I was the only one aware of the heat. When the teacher pronounced her morning greeting, there was no quiet, no calming down - instead, there was more movement. Scuffling, shifting, talking, moving. The teacher, becoming exasperated, began to shout. And then that was it. Taking each student at a time, she dealt with their issues, crises, complaints, disobedience but, despite her efforts, all she could manage was to get them to find a seat and sit in it. The talking continued but the lesson started nonetheless. "Jamie can you concentrate?" "Shhh." "Don't call out, put your hand up." "That's your last warning." "Get out..." I felt dizzy. It was almost impossible to communicate any information in between the crowd control. Needless to say, the rowdiness was an unwelcome accompaniment to the heat and I began to feel faint. I have never fainted but I was sure that if it was going to happen it would happen in there. Then, one boy answered a question. He got it right. A flicker of interest at the front. I listened and was relieved. My head cleared a bit. Then five minutes later he was shouting again. Someone else needed the toilet so the lesson stopped, a note was written and he escaped, to the teacher's evident concern. I stared, bemused, at a sign on the classroom door that read: "Enthusiasm and hard work are indispensible ingredients of achievement." - Clarence Birdseye. I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes in and I wanted to leave. I wanted to get out and sit on my own in the playground. Anything but be in this ugly situation. Another half an hour and the lesson had ended. Although a useful chunk of the Spanish language had been covered, very little appeared to have been absorbed and the class fell out of the room, relieved. I began to wonder if the expression 'pulling teeth' had been first used by a dentist who had moved into teaching. I decided that pulling your own teeth out would probably be easier than teaching Spanish to over-heated teenagers.

Admittedly, my reaction to my first lesson had been fairly extreme but it was a good initiation and I left feeling much more intolerant of bad behaviour and much less inclined to smile at students than I had done before. In other words, I began to blend in much better with the other teachers.

The next couple of days passed in much the same way, with occasional flickers of interest from the front of the class but with teachers mostly wrestling to keep everyone sitting and quiet. I was soon enrolled as assistant class disciplinarian, being asked either to "show so-and-so out of the room" or "take his water bottle/pen/book from him". I learnt that "I haven't got it Miss!" translates as "I haven't done it" or "I've lost it", a ruse that most teenagers carry around with them from the age of 13 but something that I was never really aware of. The students seemed to feel that all attempts to keep them quiet were infringements of their human rights, with one even declaring: "It's like the army here." Hmm, not quite. I prepared a lesson on North African women and the veil (something kind of linked to my Masters project) and it didn't happen because there were no students to teach. One lesson which was being taken by a supply teacher came to a complete standstill about fifteen minutes in when a couple of mating pigeons moved the activity from the desks to the window. However, I was introduced to one wonderful service provided by the school and, I believe, others in the country - the 'On Call' team. This is a crack team of disciplinarians who are called upon to deal with students out of the teacher's control. The first time I witnessed their arrival was in the middle of a particularly dire lesson in which it took forty minutes to get the class to just sit down. They arrived and silence ensued. The effect was hypnotic. They were brilliant. I think they should wear leather jackets and turn up on motorbikes. That would be very cool. Despite the reluctance of some students to get involved, there were others who, whether it be to their playground detriment, seemed more enthusiastic. And some of the teachers were absolutely brilliant. Inspiring, in fact. I learnt that calm always wins over crazed and that showing a small amount of interest in the particulars of someone's weekend really does help you when you come around to teaching French numbers up to a hundred.

As teachers became aware that I wanted to get more involved and that I found sitting down for an hour watching other people do and learn a bit boring, they started volunteering me to speak at the students in either French or Spanish in an attempt to incite some interest in them. "You're young. It's good for them to see a young person speaking languages." "Now, Miss is a journalist," was the preferred introduction. Although factually incorrect, it became an excellent way of getting 30 kids to shut up. "How much do you earn?" was the first question fired in my direction. I decided to side-step the disappointing answer to this question by picking them up on the tense of their question: "Oh, I WAS a journalist - not any more." "Oh." And they didn't ask anything more. Interest lost, a few students began playing with their keys, crunching their water bottles in their hands and getting to work fashioning something a bit like origami out of their worksheet. They set to work filling in a worksheet. I patrolled the classroom in an attempt to look useful and to do my best NOT to look like a work experience girl. If they picked up on that, any thread of respect they had gained for me or my former profession would fray spectacularly. And I couldn't afford that so early in the week. I was just about feeling powerful enough to think that the rest of the week may not be so bad after all when the obvious but disappointing happened: "Miss, what's the point of learning Spanish if everyone speaks English?" She rounded off her question as an arrogant celebrity would write the final sweeping letter of their name in an autograph book; with a sickening certitude as to her own superiority. I thought about staring her out but she stood her ground well. She even leant back in her chair to get a fuller view of my circus clown act of a response. I dug around for something brilliant. "If you say that then what you're saying is that the last few years of my life have been a waste of time." Not the objective, successful response I had been searching for. And it wasn't what she had been expecting either. It shut her up for a second but I think that was just the confusion. These kids had been to Spain - one had even been to Cuba - and yet learning Spanish still seemed utterly ridiculous to many of them. Nearly defeated, I took up my position at the front of the class to begin my Spanish monologue. Spanish origami worksheets being turned over in their hands, the class chattered disinterestedly through this lesson transition. So I decided to start anyway. I began talking about my family. I rambled on for as long as it took to get the room quiet. Then I went on for a couple more sentences. And I stopped. "Oh my god, you sound like the woman on the tape!" The woman on the tape? Ahhh, I know, the woman on the educational listening tape. Wow. I felt a bit better. I replied, not without a little bit of smugness and milking their sudden interest: "I AM the woman on the tape.." They looked bemused so I decided bad jokes were not the order of the day and carried on. I carried on speaking, and then began posing questions myself. Five minutes later some of the kids were dislocating their shoulders in an attempt for me to notice their raised hand and give them "a go" at speaking. They told me about their families, themselves, their friends. All in Spanish. Only pausing in moments of social awareness to check that no-one was laughing at them. When they realised that they really weren't, they continued. Forty minutes later we stopped our Spanish conversation class and it was time for worksheets again. But not before one rather confident young lady spoke out: "You're really good you. Are you gonna come back and teach 'ere? I reckon you should. I've leeernt loads just now doin' that. That was dead good." I didn't know what to say. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel just a bit proud. But it was great. I'm not saying it made everything else easy, but it helped me through the rest of the week.

I arrived at Friday feeling surprisingly more comfortable in my new surroundings than I had done at the beginning of the week. A couple of the students called a "Hi Miss." as I walked into school and, whereas at the beginning of the week this would have scared the shit out of me, by the end I saw that it was a very good thing. The week was hard and there were times when I wondered what the hell I was doing. Sitting there with my notepad and pen, I had moments of nostalgia and was desperate to recount my experiences as opposed to, well, experience them. It's weird how journalism seems to train you to hang on the periphery. And, if I'm honest, it's where I feel most comfortable. But then, getting involved was pretty good too and, as long as I can vomit it all out through this blog then I'll feel OK. Teaching is...hard. Getting thirty kids to sit still, shut up and listen, and then actually absorb, is like trying to squeeze a story out of a non-story or an original comment out of a press officer. But once you do, it's fairly satisfying. Lunch-times will be different too. Rather than endless chocolate and coffee, I fear I am going to be surrounded by many many more salads-in-boxes. I have never seen so many women eating cottage cheese and Ryvita as I have in the last two weeks. God help the woman who turns up with a pie from the canteen. There was one such maverick last week and she just about got through the critical references to her lunch choice. She was skinny as well, so that didn't help her case. "Ohh, that looks naughty!" declared one woman, as she crunched her way through a cottage-cheese smothered cracker. The jealousy cut the air in two. It wasn't pretty. But, I feel pretty strongly about the 'speaking languages' bit and have met some brilliantly cynical teachers which makes the cracker-crunching for half an hour a day bearable. I have to say that it does surprise me that the TDA have launched a fairly huge campaign to recruit more teachers as if the money and the security would be enough to get you through. I don't think they are. The "when in doubt, teach" philosophy just doesn't work. There is no way you can get through five days a week doing that and remain distant from the school, kids and your subject, spurred on only by the promise of a pay scale. It makes me wonder what's going to happen to the swathes of businessmen who have plumped for a job as a maths teacher, or the other City slickers who have decided to put their Geography degree to better use. I don't even know what's going to happen to me. I may decide it's not for me. In the end. That would be hard after all this but it's still a possibility. Maybe the notepad and pen will indeed win over the blackboard and chalk. But if pretending to be 'the woman on the tape' can get a few kids to order their ice-creams in Spanish on the Costa Blanca this summer, then my contribution has not been wasted.

Mr Magorium's Wedding Emporium

There is a sign outside a church down the road from where I live that reads: "WHATEVER YOU PUT ON, WEAR LOVE." Just like that. In capitals. Now I've never been shy of a bit of gentle sartorial experimentation; I indulged the shell-suit trend aged 8, the tracksuit trend aged 10 (a local phenomenon) and now own a pair of leggings. But love? Now, that is one thing that has never quite fit properly. Throughout this blog I have brushed past the odd mating catastrophe as if it were nothing but an irritating fly in my gin and tonic but the truth is, well..that I haven't been completely truthful. The truth is that, if love can be worn, as my Christian neighbours say it can, then it is as becoming on me as a pink mini-skirt on a rugby player; chafingly uncomfortable, amusingly carried off, and with the wearer secretly desiring more time to walk round in the ill-fitting garment despite everyone else telling them to PLEASE REMOVE THAT THING NOW. In my case, and taking a relieved step away from the simile, this manifests itself through friends' gentle coaxing: "Put the phone down NOW", "Step away from Facebook poke", or just "You're being a dick. Stop it." So, it is hardly surprising that with these seemingly helpful preventative measures, my acquaintances have unwittingly allowed a love-aversion to grow and fester. Callous! I hear you cry. OK, I may have flourished this with some fictional elements, namely, my friends' involvement, but the fact still stands, I am love averse. Now, before you brand me a witch, let me take you back to my favourite metaphor - the rugby player and the mini-skirt. It's not that he doesn't like it - au contraire - he loves it. But it just doesn't look right, however pretty it (or he) is. To be quite frank, his involvement with the skirt causes so much distress to those around him that they cannot bear for him to don the garment again. Is this in any way any clearer? Thought not. Now, I could live with this, just about. I mean, if I want to get myself all trussed up in an emotional mess then that's my prerogative is it not Britney Spears? "Yes!" she beams reassuringly, the word tinged with the dying embers of 90s Girl Power. People can spit and shout and wail that I'm making a mistake but who cares? Live and let live! Laissez-faire! And all that.

However, something has changed. The hypocrisy of our late twenties is beginning to show it's ugly face. I have started to receive signs that point to a sea change in opinion, a move away from 'carefree' as an adjective to describe our crazy youth and towards, well, 'settled'. These beacons of change feature fairly high up those portentous words "...request the pleasure of the company of..." Reading my name followed swiftly by "...to celebrate the marriage of..." I barely have time to gulp before I'm forced to stoop to pick up a slip of paper that has fallen, at once accidentally and deliberately, from the white glittering card. Picking it up I immediately discern the silver lettering which can only mean one thing: The John Lewis Gift List. And that's it. The full hit. The complete and bloody blow to the head. The obvious questions flash through my mind: Do I know these people? How long have they been together? Was I expecting it? What will I wear? And will there be an item within my budget on the Gift List that isn't a toilet roll holder? Once these questions have been posed and the first (and most important) ones have been answered in the affirmative then I'm left pondering the other stuff, raking it over in my mind...Are these the people who have been discouraging me from forming meaningful relationships with men they disapprove of, only then to run away and secure a life-long bit of company for themselves..? I mean honestly, I could if I wanted to, I mean I'm just going to go and find myself someone now, I mean there's no reason why I can't make it my project to secure someone before the wedding day and take them along and who knows maybe it'll be us this time next year...I mean... Oh, wait a minute, how am I ever going to pull in my current condition? The word "unemployed", when uttered, has never to my knowledge turned anyone on...Ah, but hang on a minute, this invitation is addressed to me. I mean, just me - no plus one. NO PLUS ONE! This is an abomination. (And that word is only ever used in cartoons.) No plus one. No plus one. The words ring in my head. I say them over and over as if it's wrong that I don't have an invitation for an imaginary plus one. I'm fighting an imaginary cause. It's getting more like a cartoon all the time.

Needless to say I got over the initial distress and, if I'm honest, I'm pretty excited about this wedding. I like the people (which is always a start) and it's an autumn wedding and I like the autumn. I could do with a bit of light end-of-summer dress shopping as well. That never hurt anyone. Especially me. Once I had secured a date for parting with some of my dwindling cash, the thought of going alone didn't seem as painful. And anyway, what was I whinging about? I had at least two other friends who would be going alone. I aired my concerns with one of them and I was almost bowled over by her insightful response: "Listen, we're good quality guests, you know?" "No," I replied. "I don't know what you mean." "Look, we're good quality guests because people know what they're getting with us. They don't have to worry about expecting some crazy lunatic plus one. They get us. In a nice dress. That's good value for money per head." With the simplicity and clarity of this statement, the clouds lifted.

I don't know what it was that made me feel better, the fact that I was amused or a genuine belief that I was excellent value for money, but it didn't much matter. My bizarre hissy fit deserved an equally bizarre response. And that was perfect. It IS weird to moan about other people getting married, plus ones, relationship histories and those over-priced, unnecessary presents. It's like the grown-up version of saying that someone's stolen your ruler or pulled your hair. I know that. I just ask one thing: that when I reach my thirtieth birthday, each of my friends selects a gift for me from my John Lewis Birthday Gift List. Well, I've got to furnish my one bedroom flat somehow.

Ducks and Satellites

So, go on, who found the 'I've got a Ferrari in me yet' corny? OK, I'll be the first to say that I did. Although at the time of writing I meant it and still agree with it on re-reading, I still blush when I see it sitting there. On the internet. Being read by people. But that's the beauty of this. A little bit of honesty spewed out in a corner of my bedroom onto the World Wide Web. Maybe I should have thought a bit harder about my relationship with blogging before setting out on this little project. Oh well. Too late now.

It's about six months since I started writing this. I recently flicked back to the very first posting in which I triumphantly announced my departure from newspapers. Beginning on a note of panic, cleverly/clumsily disguised as self-deprecation, I had no idea what was going to unfold in the coming months but what I was definitely setting myself up for was a torrent of honesty. You can't really start to write something as self-indulgent as this without being honest. It's short-changing people. If you're going to talk about yourself, don't lie - it just spoils things. So, the Ferrari comment, that was me. Sometimes really honest just isn't cool. Hence the invention of punchy headlines and compromising press photos. Putting your thoughts to music also seems to add a cool shine to them. A recent musical obsession of mine is a very nice Australian lady called Kate Miller-Heidke. She writes about how ducks don't need satellites and about falling in love with the journalist who regularly interviews her. Yes, ducks and satellites, you did read right. I suppose it is all a bit odd but I enjoy her alternative reality. I can relate to it.

Having time does do strange things to your thought processes. You can allow your mind to wander. In fact, after a while, it wanders of its own accord. After about the first month of behaving rather hysterically about my unemployed situation (that was around the time of the one million emails a day to media organisations), I ran out of things to do. There were times in the week when I just had to sit back and let people answer my calls and respond to my emails before pouncing on them again. It was in these moments that I began to develop an interest in things outside of job-seeking. I remembered that there was an International Slavery Museum in Liverpool that I'd always meant to go to and that I had a few books I'd wanted to read for a while. I began walking to places too. In fact, just walking for the hell of it. A friend recently commented on the walking: "Saw you stomping down the road the other day! Was waiting at the traffic lights and there you were! You're a funny one." As if walking had gone out of fashion and I'd been caught in the act of extreme uncoolness. Leaving out the people who have cruelly commented on my 'dossing' (Ouch. Sore point), others have been perplexed as to how I have filled my days. They forget that, in their world, a weekend is framed by five days of work, rendering the weekend a 'holiday'. In my world, there is no such framing technique which means that there is only time - no weekend of holiday. You have to create a week. I have so far managed this fairly successfully. Monday to Friday I'll make my phonecalls, send my emails, fill in my application forms, do all my panicking. I'll only wander around the shops on weekends, as well. That is a weekend activity. Of course, money is rarely parted with. But that's not the point. It's about keeping up with the rest of the world. "I see they have new blazers in Topshop" is the kind of knowledge that feeds light-hearted chat on the phone. What is on BBC1 at 3 is the afternoon does not. Which I why I, thankfully, never gave in to the daytime TV temptation. It only loses you friends for, not only do they resent you for being able to watch it, but they can't discuss plot-lines or topics of the day with you anyway. So it's pointless. Enter museums and galleries. They have been a pretty healthy substitute for me of late. Although, admittedly, the free museums and galleries of Merseyside, while fairly great in number, do not six months of unemployment fill. But every little helps, as they say.

But however much you try, there's always the guilt. You can sit at a desk 9-5, stare at Facebook for the duration, leave at the end of the day, and legitimately bemoan your tired eyes, sore feet and buzzing head. "God, what a day! I'm so glad to be home!" you'll cry. I've done it. And yet no amount of emailing, panicking and head buzzing justifies your existence if you're unemployed. You can complain about not having a job but about nothing else. The sole purpose of your life is to secure that job. However, the longer the unemployment goes on, the less patient others become. 'Oh come on' they muse sceptically 'surely it's not that difficult.' But the transition from busy newsroom to very quiet corner of bedroom is a tough one. I can hear the sceptics guffawing. But that's the honest bit.

Some things remain the same; I'm still writing, for instance. About myself and not other people, but still writing. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if I had a greater readership now than I had six months ago. Secondly, the balance in my bank account is, give or take a couple of pounds, in exactly the same condition as it was back in December mainly as a result of me shedding my London rent. I'm not rich. In fact, I am poor. But I have read a bit more and seen a bit more than I saw in all of my working time. I've discovered a musician who sings about ducks, I've lingered over some art, I've walked. And I've written this blog. It has been my alternative reality. A reality that has not been easy to stomach in many ways but which, in other ways, has furnished me with some opportunities that may otherwise have passed me by. I only hope that, when September comes and I launch myself onto another educational institution, I will remember what it is to enjoy time in the ways that I have done over the past few months.

"I'm amazing. Honest."

I've just come back from a wedding; a lovely Cornish wedding complete with cliff-tops and sunshine and the opportunity to go bare-legged for the first time this year. It was pretty 'ansom, as they say down there.

In the weeks running up to the wedding and since I last wrote a month ago, I have been mostly exploring ways in which I can earn money before the academic year begins. It has been a most monumental waste of time. Naturally I turned to temping, only to find that securing a temp job has become as impossible as I find it to secure a third date. The most alarming discovery for me in all of this has been the realisation that, if I had not chosen to follow the teaching route and, as a result, become embroiled in months of school observations and interview preparation, I would have experienced this dearth of work much more keenly and would probably not be sitting here writing this now. I would have built a raft and would be floating on it somewhere mid-Atlantic way, hoping that nature, as my last resort, would point me in the right direction. And if nature couldn't help me, I would have just carried on floating. This would have been infinitely more enjoyable than being forced to beg to become an 'Office Angel'. And fail. After exhausting all possibilities, I have been forced to accept that I may not be able to nourish my bank account with enough cash to enable me to indulge in my already-planned-summer-plans guilt-free. I'll just have to travel with a heavy conscience. Better than no travelling at all though, I suppose.

It was with this renewed sense of optimism and laissez-faire attitude that I landed in Cornwall last week. Windows down, gay dance anthems blaring, my friend and I drove carefree into the county of Cornwall and felt that our summer had begun. It was the perfect day for a wedding. It was, I would argue, the perfect wedding. Not that I'm at all qualified to judge, having only ever been to two of them in my life. Still, you get the picture. Standing outside the marquee waiting for the newly-married couple to step out of their beautiful old car and onto the lawn where my friend (the brother of the bride) and I were slurping back our second fizzy pink drink, I looked out to sea (yes, we were atop a cliff) and I felt serene. And a bit drunk. Lovely.

The question caught me completely by surprise. I suppose I should have expected it. After all, I've thought about nothing else for the past six months. The friends of the bride were mingling around and about us and turned to introduce themselves. Formal presentations were made; names, reason for being at the wedding ("friend of bride", "boyfriend of friend of bride") and we all nodded at each other's nearly empty champagne flutes creating that jocund atmosphere that mutual inebriation appreciation often does.

"And what do you do?"

The question seemed as strange to me as asking a policeman in the street what he does for a living. I had not prepared myself sufficiently. I knew there wasn't a simple answer to this so I dug around in my mind for the reason. I tracked back: unemployed-teacher-training-recession-radio job-Christmas-winter-cold-resignation-journalist. "I used to be a journalist," I announced with relief. My interlocutor's eyes lit up. "Oh wow, I'd love to do that. Cooooool. That sounds great. What sorts of things do you write about??" Questioning eyes glaring in anticipation and admiration.

Hang on a minute, something was amiss. Something wasn't sitting right with this conversation.....

Shiiiiiit! Stop this conversation! Call the police - there's a profession-stealer on the loose!!! Are you typing 999 yet? Are you??!

"Oh, no, I mean I WAS a journalist," I blurted. "I'm not doing that any more. What I mean is, I went for a bit of a career change [ironic smile] and I'm going to start training to be a teacher in September." Phew. Gulp of champagne. This was odd. It was all a bit outer-body-experience for a very warm sunny day and I was beginning to feel light-headed. Maybe that was the champagne. Canopes. Bottle in my face again. "More champagne, Miss?" "Erm, yeah, great, thanks...Where was I? Oh yes, so I'm going to start my PGCE in September...." She looks blank. The twinkle in her eye has gone. She's looking out to sea, at her empty champagne glass, at the floor. "I'm going to be teaching French and Spanish." "Ah, great, yeah. That sounds good. Great. Wish I spoke a language, that's great. My parents are teachers." I have never been the person to deflate a conversation and yet here I was on a perfect, sunny day, oiled with champagne and the potential for plenty of conversational gems, seemingly boring the arse off another wedding guest. I felt deflated, as if someone had pricked my big, shiny balloon head with a pin and burst it in the middle of this lovely occasion, leaving my shrivelled rubbery carcass lying forlornly on the very green lawn. While I was conjuring up these weird and slightly grotesque images of my body as a shrivelled balloon, my new company had already reverted back to commenting on the weather and the lack of champagne in her glass. So, she'd rather float in the middle of the Atlantic on a raft of boring conversation than run head-first into an even duller conversation about the career her parents chose - and probably complain to her about every day. I had conned her. I hadn't delivered the conversational banter that I had led her to believe I was capable of.

I had never not delivered. The world of journalism always delivered. In conversational terms. There was always some crazy story to pull nonchalantly from the archives. "You did that??" "You met WHO??" Strange feeling not having that. I had been re-branded. My new profession now painted a new picture of my life. From journalist Charlotte to teacher Charlotte. I felt a bit ill. Was I sure it wasn't the champagne? Not entirely.

Back home in the north, I was making the weekly journey to my tutee's house for an hour of French essay revision on the topic of the Auvergne region (which, incidentally, did you know has a population density of less than half the national average probably due to "l'exode rural"?) when I found myself sitting behind a Skoda in the queue for a set of traffic lights. A sticker on the inside of the back screen read: "It's a Skoda. Honest." What a funny way to market a car, I thought. I knew that Skodas used to have a fairly comical reputation but have never been enough of a car buff to know why. Now, however, I found myself wanting to slap this car about the bonnet, tell it to pull its socks up, stop being pathetic and start believing in itself. I came home and had myself a googling session. I typed the advert's slogan into the google bar and before my eyes was revealed a sorry catalogue of self-deprecating advertising campaigns. The one I had spotted had first appeared in 2000 but sorrier still was the one that came out a year later: "It's a Skoda. Which for some is still a problem." For this self-pitying campaign Skoda apparently paid £2m. Research carried out by Skoda's ad agency, Fallon, had found that, although a year on from the first campaign many people believed that Skodas were better quality that Citroens or Fiats, most would still not actually buy one. Well, I thought, surely that's their problem and not the reason for the company to spend another £2m trying to convince their prejudiced wallets to part with cash? But apparently that was how much it cost at the time to try to stamp out car discrimination. And they went ahead and did it.

It was all a bit sad. I felt sad. For Skoda. And I felt a bit pissed off at myself. I had allowed myself to adopt a Skoda mentality. The whole business with this self-pitying car had made me realise how pointless an exercise it would be to try to convince people that I wasn't a piece of journalistic scrap metal. I knew I wasn't so so what if they thought otherwise? I had to grab the reins and crack on with whatever teaching/writing/exciting plans I had and let my actions and time prove that there may yet be a Ferrari lurking within me..

Bill, Ted and me

Did I go to Lanzarote and never come back? No. I am back. Did I get bored of addressing invisible people through self-indulgent chronicling of my life? No, actually. Neither of these. My absence can instead be explained by the fact that, since my return from the oxymoronic land of tapas and fry-ups, I have been plunged into the dark waters of interview preparation. One week I'm burning my shoulders on the unimaginably windy island of Lanzarote where I almost managed to pick up a speeding ticket after only a week in a hire car [but didn't], where I was surrounded by people with such severe cases of sun-burn that my eyes were burnt from just looking at them and where the view from everywhere is a palm-tree speckled volcano, and the next I'm back in the drizzly north-west of England to face the looming inevitability of a PGCE interview. After scouring all manner of educational websites to update myself on the latest changes to the Key Stage 3 curriculum, I found myself sitting in an interview room mystified as to how to respond to the question: "So, Charlotte, if we met one of your friends on the street and asked them to describe you, what do you think they would say?" A number of adjectives shot across my mind: neurotic? self-doubting? verbose, although admittedly sometimes amusingly so? careless? (cf. Lanzarote speeding ticket near-miss) stunted relationship growth? ran into a tree once? self-deprecating..? "I think they would say that I liked to talk...to tell a story. And that I travelled a lot. Always in a different place [light chuckle to lighten mood]. Oh and that, wherever I am, I always keep in touch with everyone!" I finished triumphantly. "Ahh," said the interviewer. "That's nice." Nice. Great, I thought. But I got it. The place. Yes, nice seemed to work, and six days later I had my acceptance letter.


The car in which the felony was nearly committed


The lunar landscape of Lanzarote

I am pretty chuffed. Yes, I am about to train to become a teacher. Quite a turn-around from jet-setting, pint-downing [-sipping] journalist. So, in the spirit of moving on, I have been sifting through piles of stuff I like to call my collection of 'Journalism Miscellany' . Casting my tired old notepads to a box, I suppose I felt a bit sad. But I'm not getting rid of them. Because you never know, do you? People always say that. And with good reason. What you know and feel is not an immutable thing and so we should always be open to stuff changing, including ourselves, I told myself philosophically as I arranged the 'stuff' in a red plastic easy-to-store box. I suppose that the problem in the recent past has been that I haven't really wanted to shake off the journo thing. For the comfort of it. Bizarrely. Yes, the world in which people are woken up to be quizzed about a story they wrote that day had become the comfortable world for me. But here I am with my PGCE acceptance letter sitting next to my laptop and I'm 'thrilled to bits', as my nan would say. I think I can now pinpoint the event that led to me finally accepting this whole moving on thing; I've been tutoring a boy who is soon to take his A level French and I was told he'd be 'difficult'. Unfair really to tarnish someone's reputation before you've even met the arrogant so-and-so they appear to be referring to. But then I heard from a reliable source that, after a few lessons, I 'had him'. I've been tutoring him for a few weeks and I have apparently succeeded in taming this lion-boy. He is not, incidentally, anything of the sort. But it was rewarding to be told this. Cool, I thought, with a satisfied smile. Oh, let's just be honest, I like the power trip. Nothing wrong with that. Be quiet.

In the name of moving on I'm attempting a clear-out, a trawl through all the old tat from the past ten years or so - the same tat that's been forming quite substantial paper islands in my room for some time now. And what a trawl through the past it has been. In much the same way as Bill 'n' Ted journeyed through space and time, I have been on a most frightening stumble through the graveyard of old exercise books, old UCAS acceptance letters and other examples of useless hoarded material that I felt it necessary to pile up all around me like some sort of sick Hall of Year 12 Fame. Why did I keep it all? Because you never know, of course. However, among the flotsam and jetsam of my academic past, I have discovered a treasure, a beacon of comedic relief among the dreary relics of General Studies lessons - this shining light is my Careers Guidance Action Plan from the Lower Sixth. I knew my habit for hoarding would pay dividends.


[If anyone has any idea what a 'Career Whisperer' is, or knows if Andrea Kay is in fact a criminal and, if she isn't, where I can get her number, that information would be very much appreciated. Ta.]

What I most like about these so-called plans is how they are not plans at all, but merely an account of what you have said in a 20-minute lunchtime meeting. Kathy was her name - the woman who was to draft this prophesying document. As soon as I saw it, I knew I wanted to write about it. But how? How to communicate it utter worthlessness? How to tease out the comedic thread without losing the beautiful and hilarious weave of the whole thing? Why, I'll just copy it out, I thought. So I did. And here it is, complete and unabridged - a real, primary historical source. A slice of my career past. The first rung on the painful ladder of career progression, some might say. Well, I do. Perhaps even more painfully, it also offers an insight into me - Charlotte Bailey, aged 18. If we had a video of me at that time it probably wouldn't convey much more than the following script does. Apart from the obvious snag of being unable to see the tight, flared tartan trousers I was probably wearing at the time. [They were my statement fashion accessory in the Sixth Form. I even grinned smugly when my head of year referred to them as my 'golfing trousers'. I thought that made me sound cool.] So this is me, aged 18, in all my geekified glory. I feel strangely naked right now.

To set the scene: We are in a stuffy cupboard decked out with the best the 1960s could offer in staff room furniture. Welcome to the 'Careers Library'. The walls of this cupboard/library are covered in dusty files apparently containing information about universities, courses, and possible career paths...although this was just hearsay because no-one had ever referred to them in my time at the school. I'm sitting opposite Kathy. I can't remember a great deal about her. Suffice to say she was wearing ill-fitting trousers and a shirt that didn't button up properly at the front. More embarrassing for me. She was seemingly unaware.
This is Kathy's account of the interview. Word for word. Brackets are my helpful annotations:

"You are in the Lower Sixth, taking A levels in French, Spanish, English Literature, General Studies. At GCSE you have 8 A*s and 2 A [She's scribbled out the word 'levels' here. One line in and we're already confusing things]. In recent school mock exams you got AAA, B in General Studies. Also taking German GCSE. [The more effort and stress the better was my logic.]

Future plans: You want to go to university to study French and Spanish. You had thought of English Literature but have changed your mind. [This is true, I did do this.] You are looking at Oxford, also places like Nottingham, Bristol, Sheffield, Newcastle and Royal Holloway. You visited Leeds and weren't too keen. [Wasn't I? I ended up putting it down as my second choice. Weird.]

Issues discussed:

- What kind of course content do you want? You feel you'd like a fairly literature based course but maybe with flexibility. [Was I that much of a knob to say I wanted "flexibility" in my course? Maybe.]

- You feel you would like to study the two languages equally.

- You know that it can be possible to take up another language at university. Leeds appeals [I thought I wasn't keen on Leeds?] as it is very flexible and has a good reputation for languages.

- How is the year abroad spent? [This appears to be just a stand-alone question.]

- You have been to visit some but want to visit more if possible [We still talking about universities?]

- Apart from those mentioned, you could also consider, e.g. University College London, Kings College London, Birmingham. [Any particular reasons for this or are we just plucking names from the bindings of the files that surround us??]

- It makes sense to apply to places asking high grades maybe with one as a safety net. You are likely to be offered places at most universities you are planning to apply to. [Firstly, what qualified her to inflate my already anal achievement-anxiety? Secondly, on second thoughts, she probably picked up on the aura of the anal over-achievement which emanated quite strongly from me at this time and made her assumptions based on that. So I'll let that one pass.]

- You feel you may be interested in journalism - you know that this can be entered via a post-graduate journalism course. It is very important to get involved in relevant activities at university. [I'd like to add at this point that in between writing essays, I was mostly drinking or planning fancy dress outfits whilst simultaneously shedding my anal dickish skin.]

- Languages can also lead to a wide range of careers [care to point any of those out to me?] Employers see language graduates as having a lot of relevant skills [She's signed this form - do you think I could use it to sue her for false advertising?]

You seem to be researching things thoroughly [Doubt it. I was too busy revising.] and aware of what to take into consideration [Aged 18, I now know that I was not and could not be aware of what to take into consideration. How irresponsible of this lady to put my future in my hands at such a young age and at such a delicate time in my life.] Carry on with this [What?], try and visit some more places [Like a holiday?]. School will guide you through the Oxford application. [Well, always nice to end on a lie]."

Then I signed it. And she signed it - Kathy Jenkins. Date: 3/7/00.

This 'Careers Guidance Action Plan' then helpfully, and now almost laughably, adds at the end as a footnote: "You may find it useful to add your Careers Guidance Action Plan to your Record of Achievement for use in the future. Yeah, OK Kathy, cheers for the tip.

PS - You'll note the generous use of images in this latest blog post. I know, I surprised myself. All this exposure to others' very creative teaching resources must be rubbing off. There's a power-point presentation on the French perfect tense just screaming to get out. You just wait.

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.