The legacy of disease ridden colleagues and students crawling with germs has finally been realized in me and I felt rotten during the weekend and I feel a bloody sight worse now that I am in school.
Because of the complete (and I mean complete) lack of supply teachers in our school and in most other private schools there is very real emotional blackmail for you to struggle into work no matter how bad you are feeling. I used to do that in Britain as a matter of course, but I feel mounting resentment in doing the same in a moneyed system that does not seem able to use its cash for the amelioration of the colleagues it exploits!
I am relying on the old adrenaline rush of actually being in front of a class to cope not only with the cough and cold but also with the wearing of contact lenses and the blurred edges they give to perception at the margins!
And Toni has something to answer to as well. As he is now in Terrassa for a family wedding I was the sole object of a mosquito’s attention during his absence. With a calculated nastiness the mosquito bit my down the side of my right hand in a concentrated attack that I have never experienced before. If a mosquito has a choice between foreign and home grown blood then, in my experience it chooses the domestic product. With no Catalan blood to drink she turned to the headier draughts of British Blood (Group A+) and gorged herself on it.
In the morning, with contact lenses firmly attached and the light on, I scoured (metaphorically) the walls to search for the mean mozzie and, as our walls are uniform white, even with my mismatched lenses I was able to descry her. I am using the female pronoun because I have been told that only the females bite. My attempts to kill her with my glasses case were futile as I feel that the finality of my swing was mitigated by the fear that I would leave a large blood stain on the erstwhile pristine walls. The bloody (and I mean that literally) thing escaped and is obviously lurking waiting for the hours of darkness to attack my left hand.
I will intensify my defences against this marauder with sprays, patches, high pitched electrical insect repellents – and I will also close the window. The last probably being the most effective of my actions. I do all this with a certain amount of resentment as these damn insects should now be dead. There is always a price to be paid for the continuing good weather in this country! It chimes in well with my assumed puritan sense of not getting anything for nothing!
In spite of my incapacity for coherent academic thought I have managed to read (if that is the right word) two extraordinary books. These were both written and illustrated by Nick Bantock and were ‘Griffin and Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence’ ISBN 0-8118-0180-2 and ‘Sabine’s Notebook’ ISBN 0-87701-788-3.
These ‘books’ are actually collections of imaginary cards and letters sent from and to a graphic artists by a mysterious correspondent who claims to be able to ‘see’ what Griffin is drawing and painting as he is painting it. The letters are actually in decorated envelopes and have to be extracted to be read.
The conceit of the whole series is that we never really know whether Sabine is actual or a manifestation of the artist. In a post modern sense it plays with the whole concept of the writer and persona; the creator and the created. Rather pretentiously the work has running quotations from Yeats’ ‘Second Coming’ which adds a level of seriousness (or playfulness) depending on your point of view.
In the publishing information the book is encapsulated as 1. Imaginary Letters and 2. Toy and movable book – specimens. I do remember buying a book of ‘real’ letters as an experiment for a class library and it went down very well (and lasted longer than I would have expected) but this takes the practical idea and makes something more visually exciting and with a more satisfying narrative.
Essentially I think that it is little more than a beautifully produced piece of self indulgence – but it is a delight to look at and stimulating to read. God alone knows how much they cost to produce!
The day is dragging and I am thinking wistfully of my bed.
And that last sentence was merely an ending rather than a rather pathetic plea for sympathy. Though if there is any going . . .
Because of the complete (and I mean complete) lack of supply teachers in our school and in most other private schools there is very real emotional blackmail for you to struggle into work no matter how bad you are feeling. I used to do that in Britain as a matter of course, but I feel mounting resentment in doing the same in a moneyed system that does not seem able to use its cash for the amelioration of the colleagues it exploits!
I am relying on the old adrenaline rush of actually being in front of a class to cope not only with the cough and cold but also with the wearing of contact lenses and the blurred edges they give to perception at the margins!
And Toni has something to answer to as well. As he is now in Terrassa for a family wedding I was the sole object of a mosquito’s attention during his absence. With a calculated nastiness the mosquito bit my down the side of my right hand in a concentrated attack that I have never experienced before. If a mosquito has a choice between foreign and home grown blood then, in my experience it chooses the domestic product. With no Catalan blood to drink she turned to the headier draughts of British Blood (Group A+) and gorged herself on it.
In the morning, with contact lenses firmly attached and the light on, I scoured (metaphorically) the walls to search for the mean mozzie and, as our walls are uniform white, even with my mismatched lenses I was able to descry her. I am using the female pronoun because I have been told that only the females bite. My attempts to kill her with my glasses case were futile as I feel that the finality of my swing was mitigated by the fear that I would leave a large blood stain on the erstwhile pristine walls. The bloody (and I mean that literally) thing escaped and is obviously lurking waiting for the hours of darkness to attack my left hand.
I will intensify my defences against this marauder with sprays, patches, high pitched electrical insect repellents – and I will also close the window. The last probably being the most effective of my actions. I do all this with a certain amount of resentment as these damn insects should now be dead. There is always a price to be paid for the continuing good weather in this country! It chimes in well with my assumed puritan sense of not getting anything for nothing!
In spite of my incapacity for coherent academic thought I have managed to read (if that is the right word) two extraordinary books. These were both written and illustrated by Nick Bantock and were ‘Griffin and Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence’ ISBN 0-8118-0180-2 and ‘Sabine’s Notebook’ ISBN 0-87701-788-3.
These ‘books’ are actually collections of imaginary cards and letters sent from and to a graphic artists by a mysterious correspondent who claims to be able to ‘see’ what Griffin is drawing and painting as he is painting it. The letters are actually in decorated envelopes and have to be extracted to be read.
The conceit of the whole series is that we never really know whether Sabine is actual or a manifestation of the artist. In a post modern sense it plays with the whole concept of the writer and persona; the creator and the created. Rather pretentiously the work has running quotations from Yeats’ ‘Second Coming’ which adds a level of seriousness (or playfulness) depending on your point of view.
In the publishing information the book is encapsulated as 1. Imaginary Letters and 2. Toy and movable book – specimens. I do remember buying a book of ‘real’ letters as an experiment for a class library and it went down very well (and lasted longer than I would have expected) but this takes the practical idea and makes something more visually exciting and with a more satisfying narrative.
Essentially I think that it is little more than a beautifully produced piece of self indulgence – but it is a delight to look at and stimulating to read. God alone knows how much they cost to produce!
The day is dragging and I am thinking wistfully of my bed.
And that last sentence was merely an ending rather than a rather pathetic plea for sympathy. Though if there is any going . . .
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