The Rabbit and the Cucumber.

I wish I'd bought a cucumber the other day; not just because a) the childdlers have suffered a vegetable deficit this last week, or b) my Rabbit is missing. A couple of chilled slices of its watery flesh may have reduced the puffiness of my eyes to something closer to normality. Not that I would have had time to lounge around with cucumber slices adorning my face. I didn't wake up until 45 minutes before I was due to take a year 9 literacy lesson. I may have mastered setting the alarm time, but I must remember to press the sodding button to set the buzzer.

My ocular swelling was still quite obvious when I slid into school, just as the first bell rang. No time for the bacon sandwich and cup of hot tea this morning. A colleague comments on the 'heaviness' of my eyes, and when Tori comes to ask me to reclaim their reading group from the supply teacher, she looks genuinely concerned: 'Are you alright, Miss? You don't look very well.' It still tickles me when they call me Miss. Even weirder is when other teachers greet me in this way, especially when they are my old teachers. There are a few who have been there since my schooldays in the 80s.

I love my job. It helps me focus on something worthwhile instead spinning figures of eight in my own head. It gives my day some variety, purpose and structure. I get a yummy school dinner, a bit of staffroom gossip, access to a whole new social life and great banter with the kids, but best of all is the free education I am getting. Every day I learn something new in the classroom, however, more importantly I'm gaining more insight into people. Seeing the home lives of some of our students helps me understand why kids, and the adults they become, act the way they do.

I have far more patience at work than I do at home and that makes me feel quite guilty. Is that feeling of shame a common one amongst 30-something women who actually enjoy life outside of the home /family sphere? I was always happy in my little bubble but then I met Lee, the Lothario and within weeks, my life had changed.

It was as if he'd blown smoke from his Lucky Strikes into my bubble. At first I was hypnotised by the haziness and headiness of it all, but pretty soon I began to get frustrated by the smoke and mirror games. I wouldn't admit to it at the time, but I was already addicted. I've tried weaning myself off slowly and going cold turkey, neither of which have worked. As with smoking, I need to convince myself first that I should and want to stop.

The thing I REALLY want is not possible for many practical and moral reasons. I'm too scared to suggest it for fear of rejection. My genuine concern for the feelings of others, prevents me from sharing with them my proposed solution for clearing the smoke. I can barely dare to think about it, because it makes me feel guilty, for contemplating such selfishness.

I am being urged to follow my head and take the safe, easy but boring path out of the smoke, without question, and without looking back. My heart, I think, is straining towards a more challenging route. Pots sent me a text last night:

Umbrella Biffy Clyro To you x

Apparently the lyrics express how he feels towards me. The question is, do I want to be sheltering under an umbrella for the rest of my life, or I am prepared to get wet a little?



Oh, and if the relevance of the title puzzled you, let me explain.........it's a little experiment of mine to attract more hits to my webpage. I'm expecting the results to be quite amusing.