There was a frankly embarrassing and mawkish post about a relationship break up. Really, it's best deleted except for this bit, the ranty bit.
NB. So, I have been to circuits and some of those endorphins are kicking around. I've had a very therapeutic time smashing a medicine ball against a crash mat, grrrrrr. Whilst enjoying my therapy I got to thinking, and thought, damn it I'm angry and what if there was a 'Trade Descriptions Act for Men' with a governing body you can complain to re. 'mis-sold goods'?
I was going to do an expletive laiden rant, but despite how pants I've felt all day, there is still a sense of trying to hang onto at least a bit of dignity.
A letter could go something like this (it's not ideal as it has an air of 'victim' about it):
Dear Sir,
I wish to register a grievance against Mr. _____________ for the following reasons:
Firstly, I have been mis-sold one of your products, namely Mr. _______________ . For he gave the impression of a genuine, well rounded, grown up, good humoured man with an honourable interest in myself, the complainant. However, it became apparent that the goods were faulty when he stated one thing but did the complete opposite.
The relationship itself was also 'mis-sold' for we had planned attending events together in the not too distant future, weekends away and spoke about our mutually poor previous relationship history and agreed about not wanting to repeat the same mistake. The word 'committed' was used in the postiive, rather than the mental sense, talking of being committed to each other. However, within the very short time of 48 hrs Mr. ______________ completed a U-turn that would even disorientate a politician.
Therefore, it is clear that my complaint should be upheld and the faulty goods returned forthwith combined with a reasonable level of compensation such as a Mulberry or Chloe handbag.
Yours Sincerely,
Miss____________________
Monday, 17 October 2011
Saturday, 15 October 2011
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul
The Blog title is, as some well read readers will know, stolen from Douglas Adams although, I'll lay no claims to his literary talent. It is an apt choice as it befits the physical and mental state of my teacher self one week before half term where your body is bone tired from juggling an epic amount of metaphorical balls, dropping a few here and there and struggling to remember where the dropped ones fell before thinking, 'Sod it, I'm too tired to care anymore.'
The half term has gone by in a blur of open evenings, parent tutor evenings, report writing, 'learning walks' and assessment points (data recording) and in between all that, some teaching.
The title is also apt as this morning we watched Wales get knocked out of the Rugby World cup by the slimmest of margins thanks to what can only be described as epicly bad decision making by an Irish ref (traitor!) who sent off our Captain 20 minutes into the match. We could and should have won!
After a bout of boring but necessary cleaning I was also floating around in a blur of emotions and although I grew up with rugby in the house, I had never before felt so bereft. It wasn't really all about the rugby, watching the rugby had reminded me of the one person I should have loved to watch this with, or converse on the phone about, which is dad.
The real 'Long Dark Teatime of the Soul' really refers to this period every year, the lead up to the anniversary of dad dying in his stoic but also tragic way. Six years ago, in the half term until he died on 5th November 'normality' was suspended and teacher me became nurse me, as myself, mum and sister took charge of his palliative care at home, with the aid of a fabulous Macmillan nurse, and did all that we could do for him, despite our efforts, never felt quite enough.
Before he came home to die, six years ago, dad was in a hospice in North Wales recuperating from an operation to drain fluid from his abdomen. The fluid was there due to his organs failing and no longer able to do the job they were designed for, for dad was terminal, very terminal and we had known this since May 2005. Oddly, despite knowing this, we never lost a grip of or could let go of hope, it is the only thing that gets you up in the morning.
Six years ago, around about this time, I'd arranged to go out with friends for my birthday and I carried on as usual, what else was I to do? My sister did not want to go as she had already been to see dad at the Hospice (we are both teachers, our half terms were different) and I could tell by the reedy wobble in her voice that what she had seen was too hard to talk about. But still, I went ahead, burying the awfulness of what was going on and pretented all was fine, at least for that night.
To return to the rugby, the Welsh magnificence of the battle would have given dad so much tension, stress, joy and heart break. It reminded me of the things I can no longer to talk to him about, the squiggly signature and bad jokes on my birthday card and the deep rumble of his voice on the phone and more achingly, his big all enveloping bear hugs.
I have not felt this aching pain at this strength for a while, although it is always there in the background. So, thank you Welsh Rugby team for making me remember and to feel, it hurts but it must be. Today I was reminded of the small, vulnerable child I could not afford to be back then, but was most certainly there then, buried, and pops again during the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul.
The half term has gone by in a blur of open evenings, parent tutor evenings, report writing, 'learning walks' and assessment points (data recording) and in between all that, some teaching.
The title is also apt as this morning we watched Wales get knocked out of the Rugby World cup by the slimmest of margins thanks to what can only be described as epicly bad decision making by an Irish ref (traitor!) who sent off our Captain 20 minutes into the match. We could and should have won!
After a bout of boring but necessary cleaning I was also floating around in a blur of emotions and although I grew up with rugby in the house, I had never before felt so bereft. It wasn't really all about the rugby, watching the rugby had reminded me of the one person I should have loved to watch this with, or converse on the phone about, which is dad.
The real 'Long Dark Teatime of the Soul' really refers to this period every year, the lead up to the anniversary of dad dying in his stoic but also tragic way. Six years ago, in the half term until he died on 5th November 'normality' was suspended and teacher me became nurse me, as myself, mum and sister took charge of his palliative care at home, with the aid of a fabulous Macmillan nurse, and did all that we could do for him, despite our efforts, never felt quite enough.
Before he came home to die, six years ago, dad was in a hospice in North Wales recuperating from an operation to drain fluid from his abdomen. The fluid was there due to his organs failing and no longer able to do the job they were designed for, for dad was terminal, very terminal and we had known this since May 2005. Oddly, despite knowing this, we never lost a grip of or could let go of hope, it is the only thing that gets you up in the morning.
Six years ago, around about this time, I'd arranged to go out with friends for my birthday and I carried on as usual, what else was I to do? My sister did not want to go as she had already been to see dad at the Hospice (we are both teachers, our half terms were different) and I could tell by the reedy wobble in her voice that what she had seen was too hard to talk about. But still, I went ahead, burying the awfulness of what was going on and pretented all was fine, at least for that night.
To return to the rugby, the Welsh magnificence of the battle would have given dad so much tension, stress, joy and heart break. It reminded me of the things I can no longer to talk to him about, the squiggly signature and bad jokes on my birthday card and the deep rumble of his voice on the phone and more achingly, his big all enveloping bear hugs.
I have not felt this aching pain at this strength for a while, although it is always there in the background. So, thank you Welsh Rugby team for making me remember and to feel, it hurts but it must be. Today I was reminded of the small, vulnerable child I could not afford to be back then, but was most certainly there then, buried, and pops again during the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul.
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