I cannot believe it’s been actually two months since I’ve posted – it feels like one minute I was in Amsterdam , high in a cheese shop and then life grabbed me by the ankles and swung me around and threw me and now it’s freaking July. Well, I return, with much news!
So we got back from the Netherlands and several things started moving along REAL quick. I tell you what, if you’re going to make big life changes try not to make them all in one go, I feel like I’ve been repeatedly run over by an entire motorcycle club.
Firstly, we had to find a wedding venue like, right the heck now, because you literally have to book that stuff a year in advance if you have any kind of budget. We spent weeks roaming the countryside searching for the perfect spot – it was quite the adventure, and we saw some parts of Sussex we might never have seen if we weren’t specifically looking for beauty spots to get wed.
On one trip we met a turtle and on another , some kind of mysterious farmer just gave us the access codes to his barn and we let ourselves in- I promptly fell in love despite the fact it was so clearly too small for our purposes. 10/10 would reccommend for parties where you don’t have to invite everyone you know though. We did finally find the perfect place – more on that later , and for the next year, continuously.
So WHILE that’s happening, we also finally made the courageous decision to leave our beautiful flat. We love this place, and it is famously gorgeous and well located (I can literally see the sea from my doorstep but also be in Waitrose within ten mins, the dream is alive here in Hove) but the neighbour situation is just getting to be way too much. I’m an early bird, heck it’s 8am on a Saturday right now, and I’m sick of getting angry messages from downstairs just because I can’t fucking levitate around my home. I’m 5″3 and I weigh about 120 lb, I can’t be making THAT much racket, but you’d think I was noisier than the actual Blitz.
That of course, is the least of it. Many of you may be familiar with the problem of the upstairs pornstars. Our previous upstairs neighbour was mildly irritating in that she was a snooty door slammer, but Christ, I’d give anything to have her back, slamming doors, over the prospect of hearing the current neighbours slamming each other repeatedly. There is now, no doubt in my mind as to the correlation of penis size and foot size – the screams of ecstacy attest to one, and the boulder-like smashing of their hooves prove the other. And the 5am stomping, ugh -it’s like listening to Smurfs run fromGargamel …except the smurfs are rhinos and Gargamel is a Boeing 747.
I’m a very chilled person in my general approach to life, but fuck my life – I never thought the orgasmic groans of another person could immediately bring me to murderous rage, but I was wrong, and I don’t think that’s a good qualityfor a person to have, so on we go. I feel almost guilty that the new tenants will have to witness “The Fuckening” several times a week, but what can one do?
This of course has meant that we have been smuggling the cat about like a kilo of crack – because of the ridiculous letting “laws” in the UK, she is an illegal refugee in our home, and we have to hide her whenever a letting agent comes to the flat, so on top of scouring the South Coast for a wedding venue and a new flat, we’ve been stuffing Bibi into her cat-bag once a week while people come over to view our place and taking her for a little walk.
Then summer happened at school, and as I’m suddenly overrun with teenagers and my clases have doubled in size, and as if that weren’t enough to be getting on with, I also finally decided that now was the time to start my postgrad stuff, so I casually applied for the Further Education PGCE… Cue another huge flurry of activity and fear. Education is basically such a giant poop-storm right now, with things like tenure and pay swirling down the drain, that my best option is to be as highly skilled as possible in as many different areas of education as possible, so here we go, back to uni at age 30. What could possibly go wrong?!
What I didn’t realise was that one does not simply apply for a PGCE and interview for a place, oh no, there is a labyrinth to get through! I was invited to interview fairly quickly, but then didn’t check the email about what to expect until about 48 hours beforehand . Luckily I realised just in time that it wouldn’t be your garden variety interview, but a full scale, interview, powerpoint presentation, two part exam and group task … but , after a lot of nervy vomiting (before not during, Thank God) and despite being visibly fucking jangled all the way through the selection process (at one point I’m fairly sure they heard me mutter “oh fuck”) and then a gruelling two week, email refreshign wait, I was offered a conditional place.
I have to finally pass my fucking maths GCSE.
So that is my life right now. Beer, Pizza, listening to The Wonder Years and Maths GCSE.
The beer helps me to not set fire to my books, the Pizza sustains me, The Wonder Years stop me from curling into a ball, and I sit, and I study maths, fifteen years late. Boxes need packing, windows need cleaning, lisianthus needs to be ordered for the bouquets, someone has to pay the invoice for the caterer and the booze, I’ve got a pile of unmarked tests threatening to engulf the entire sitting room and I can’t remember what my mates look like…
It’s all going to be fine.