Meeting with Leon this morning to hand in my notice. He looked genuinely disappointed, and not just in a ‘now I’ll have to find someone else and it’s been less than three months’ way.’
‘I totally understand,’ he said. ‘You’re way too good for this job and, to be honest, if we hadn’t really needed you, I would have probably told you that from the start. I wish you all the best for the book shop, that sounds right up your street.’
All much more civilised than when I left the museum.
He did add that, in light of how long I’d been there, he hoped I wouldn’t be offended if they didn’t do a collection for a gift, which seemed fair enough.
I uploaded a story to the website this afternoon about a Santa’s Grotto in Dorchester that has been closed down for laundering stolen goods. Apparently, the authorities were called when management at the shopping centre in Dorchester received multiple complaints about a Father Christmas in a cabin outside the centre handing out suspicious gifts from a bin liner.
Drunken stories shared with teenage daughter from my past – 1. Drunken stories I wish I’d kept to myself – also 1.
Flo asked me this evening what it felt like to be drunk. I was holding a glass of wine at the time, which felt a bit awkward, although I was also quite pleased as by her age I definitely knew already.
I watched a Mumsnet Live about teenage drinking a while ago and, apparently, teenagers nowadays aren’t drinking cider in parks and throwing up in each other’s bathrooms like they used to. It’s a good thing, I guess, but also I feel a bit sad for them that they’ll never know the thrill of successfully sneaking three bottles of Diamond White out of the house without them clinking in your bag and giving you away.
I tried to be honest, as advised by Mumsnet experts, and say that it can be fun and make you feel more relaxed and confident if you only drink a little bit, but can make you do and say stupid things if you’re not careful. I told her about the time I had to leave an important work dinner to be sick in the street because of a hangover from the night before (classy), and how drinking too much can cripple you with self-loathing and shame the next day. (Don’t remember that bit on Mumsnet, but I was kind of running with it by that stage.)
She looked at me with a mixture of what looked like pity and disgust. I put my glass down.
Discussions at Chapter One parent group today about having a Christmas party. I’d been thinking about it for a few weeks already, and had come up with the following:
For: I really do love Christmas, excuse to eat Elizabeth Shaw mints for breakfast, etc.
Against: Playgroup Christmas parties notoriously hellish to arrange: there is always one child afraid of Father Christmas who has to be taken outside for some ‘fresh air’; squabbles between children over gifts.
‘Hang on,’ said Sierra, after I’d laid out my pros and cons, ‘who said it has to be about the kids? I mean, let’s be serious, we don’t come to Chapter One to provide them with intellectual stimulation, do we? We come so that we can shove them in a corner and drink tea with other adults.’
‘That’s true,’ said Lou. ‘I didn’t come to Busy Beavers that first time to entertain the boys, I came because I wanted a grown-up to talk to me. And you did! And here we are. We should be celebrating.’
So we decided that we will have a Christmas party, but that we won’t have a Father Christmas or gifts for the children or party bags or anything complicated like that. Each parent will bring a plate/bowl/bag of food – supermarket cakes positively encouraged – and Sierra, Lou and I are going to chip in and buy a few bottles of prosecco.
We’re also going to do grown-up presents. Everyone is going to bring something small, we’ll stick them in a sack, and then it will be a lucky dip. The children will have just as much fun as they would at any party because of the popping of corks, general excitement etc., but no one will have to dress up as Santa or break up any fights over who got the best pack of Pokémon cards.
Hooray for Christmas!
Tried to do some @simple_dorset_life stalking when I went to bed as I was sure she would be prepping some delicious Christmas treats using courgettes and coconut flour but the account has gone!! I am in shock. Who am I meant to compare myself to now?
Read some of Tuesdays With Morrie instead. I’d forgotten how much I love reading.
We have to do Jess’s primary school application by mid-January, so today Ian and I went to look at a couple of options. I say that like there are loads – there are only really two. One is only about a ten-minute walk away from us, so would be our first choice. The second we’d need to drive to, but I wanted to go and visit two just so that we had a comparison and felt like we’d done our research.
School number two – the further away one – was fine, although we were shown around by the one of the women from the school office rather than the headteacher and, according to my Mumsnet research, this is a Bad Sign. She was perfectly lovely and answered all of our questions, but she seemed a bit hesitant to let us go into all of the classrooms, which made us wonder about the teaching methods.
School number one – thank God – was amazing. The headteacher showed us around herself and was one of those women who manages to be friendly yet professional at the same time, so you immediately want to entrust her with important tasks like researching life insurance for you. She was very forthcoming about the school’s bullying policy, before we had even asked the question, and I liked that they still do hot dinners as the whole building smelt of gravy and reminded me of being eight years old and getting lunch dished up in plastic trays with separate compartments for your faggots, potatoes and peas.
Jess said she liked the smell, too, and she liked that the pegs had pictures next to them.
‘Would I be able to choose my own picture?’ she asked the headteacher.
‘You might be able to,’ she said. ‘You would have to check with your teacher.’
‘If we can then I want mine to be RuPaul,’ she said. Really must stop her watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I messaged a match on Tinder today, called Marcus.
‘Hey, Marcus,’ I wrote, ‘thanks for swiping! What’s a fun fact about you that not many people know? My starter for ten is that I once passed out mid-air … Frankie.’
(True fact.)
I had a swift reply.
‘Passed out mid-air?’ wrote Marcus. ‘Well, that is gonna need a bit more back story. Here is something iv not told any1 yet. Iv been writing a play in my head at work for the last couple of weeks. Just to lazy to put it on paper’.
Word for word.
I replied, suggesting that if he wanted to write a play he might need to improve his spelling.
Another speedy response:
‘Yeah I can’t spell never been able to,’ he wrote, ‘so I don’t even try any more. The play is a bit melo dramaish/silly slapstick so it wouldn’t really mater about gramer n shit’.
Oh yes, of course, you’re totally right, Marcus. If you’re writing comedy then the rules of English don’t apply. It’s not sexy, is it? If he can’t even be bothered to write ‘anyone’, I don’t imagine Marcus is the sort of man to bring you a cup of tea in bed without asking.
I really think Tinder should introduce an option to unmatch on the basis of poor spelling and grammar. It might encourage people to up their game a little bit.
Marcus was the final proof I needed though that Tinder is not going to be the way for me to meet the man of my dreams. It’s been ‘interesting’ giving it a go, but I think I’m more of a face-to-face kind of person. Talking to someone in real life is so much easier than messaging them, plus you don’t get distracted by spelling mistakes. So, I’ve booked a speed-dating night! It’s not until mid-January, but I thought that would give me a bit of time to work myself up to it. This year has been about dipping my toe, next year … who knows?