This week, I committed an act of gross stupidity; for months, in fact, I have been grossly stupid and this walloped me in the face on Thursday 10th November 2011. A day I ought never to forget. For, on this day, my 8 gigbyte USB drive disentegrated before my very eyes and along with it, access to my teaching life.
This USB drive is (or was, may she rest in peace) a rather precious thing, for contained within it is almost all that I have done as a teacher over the past 9 years. Teaching resources for Yr 7, 8 and 9 across a broad range of ability levels; GCSE resources for old and new GCSEs and all that I have produced for my A level subjects and whole lot else besides. For something so precious to my working life, why, oh why oh why had I not backed it up for the past few months?? I write 'few months' in an effort to make it less grossly stupid but in fact it is far more likely that it had been a year since I had backed up 'my precious'. That is clearly act of gross stupidity #1, it cannot be argued otherwise.
I had been using 'my precious' in my A Level Media Studies lesson that afternoon (a lovely bunch of kids with a robust and healthy sense of humour, with a love of Jaffa Cake bars it turns out) which is taught in the specially designated 6th Form block of my school. It is decent trudge from my English department to there; and it is usually a happy journey. At the end of the lesson I'd packed away everything tidily but my addled brain concluded that it would be fine to leave the USB drive plugged into the laptop as I trudged from one venue to the next. The addled brain was very, very wrong so this is obviously act of gross stupidity #2.
Having lugged me and my plantar facciatus feet which gives me a rather fetching 'Igor' like gait, my laptop (with the USB drive plugged in) and my carrier bag of resources back to the English office I sat down and noticed something very much awry with 'my precious'. The casing was loose and the USB port was also working itself lose from the data stick itself. The addled brain then made another poor decision. The addled brain took out the USB drive before I'd checked if the laptop was still reading it which would have allowed me to copy the data. But no, the addled brain decided to take out the poorly USB drive and inspect it's state. It's state worsened considerably as the USB port detached itself from the data stick entirely, rendering the data, 9 years of my teaching life, totally inaccesible. So, this is clearly act of gross stupidity #3.
I stared at the disabled USB drive in horror. My brain did not want to compute what it could see whilst admonishing me for those previous acts of gross stupidity. Fool.
What was I to do?? I had to eat humble pie and walk into the IT tech support office, that is what I had to do. I walked in breathless and a bit queasy doing my best to suppress the total panic lurking underneath the surface, held my broken 'precious' up to one of the men and said, 'I know this is not your job but look at how stupid I've been? Can you help me? Can you get the data onto something and then I'll bin it I promise. I'll buy you whatever kind of beer you want. It has ALL my teaching resources on there. I am SO stupid.'
The man looked upon me sympathetically, gave me a flustered but helpful response along the lines of 'Leave it with me.' and I walked away and left 'my precious' in his (capable, oh GOD please let them be capable) hands.
We had a parent's evening that night so I was going nowhere and the addled brain knew it. The addled brain went from making bad decisions to taking on a bit of mental self-flagelation, berating me for my own stupidity, and why wouldn't it? I felt nausous with worry. What exactly would I do if the data could not be retrieved? WHAT would I do? Something kept a lid on an impending panic attack knowing that parent's evening was looming.
The evening came and went but the nausea most certainly didn't and it didn't leave me until I arrived at school the next morning.
I came into school the next day after having not slept terribly well. The addled brain was still enjoyed the self-flagelation and did not relent all night. I busied myself with my normal morning routine, filling the kettle to make my morning cuppa, sorting resources for the A-Level lesson that morning and in wondered the IT man who listened to my deperate plea the day before. He produced the broken and battered device accompanied by a shiny DVD rom of all my data rescued from the poorly 'precious'. I squealed with delight and very nearly hugged his ankles and may have told him he was, 'My hero' which I think made him blush a little.
That morning I showed the A level kids my broken 'precious' and their look of horror showed they understood the previous day's dilemma.
'Never mind Hamlet today people' I said to them, 'NEVER be as stupid as me.'
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Monday, 17 October 2011
The good ship Nelson (Titanic) hits an ice-berg
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____________________
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____________________
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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