Piss patches and a sense of infirmity.
When I arrived at work today the world was grey, just grey, just grey…But I was up for it.
The weather people were predicting another month of winter. Poxatoni Phil would have been a brighter hope. I had a slightly improved mood, but didn’t have anything solid on which to build it.
The receptionist at school has changed towards me. Before it was half-smiles, a grunting acceptance of me as a supply, and something that Scrooge may have even called cheery. It’s my fault as I have stopped handing in the paperwork at the end of the day. I am supposed to indicate if students have fallen below or exceeded behavioural expectations. For the most part many of my students were neither there nor here. They were just okay. Nothing special and nothing dreadful.
The first day back saw me being dreadful. I did not want to be there. I did not want to be in England. I did not want to be doing what I am doing. I did not want to be dragging lives out of swamps and humanifying them. My giddy bloody aunt, I was not quite a robot, a burnt-out corpse of a man, or a walk-on member of the undead. But I felt like somebody had sliced off the top of my head and deposited their faeces inside of it.
The kids could read me. I was a book, an open tome full of illustrations, and my binding was not what it used to be. I like to think that they act like dogs working in a pack and scent anything short of full-steam ahead, take-no-prisoners confidence. I was a paddle steamer in the age of the turbo-charged jet-ski and my wake was both before and behind me.
I had the most terrible of days and then I went home to share it with my family.