Inter(n) the jaws of death, inter(n) the mouth of Hell...

Firstly, I would like to apologise to all of you for waiting so patiently and with what I can only assume is baited breath. I have been immensely busy these past few days – I've barely had time to watch even one episode of Ab Fab to brush up on my Patsy Stone-isms– and have also been jet setting around....the UK.

What. A. Woman.

I wish I could report great developments in either my pedagogic advancement or my general attitude towards “the young,” however this is (perhaps predictably) not the case. It seems that the closer I get to the tantalising (in the purest origins of the word) finishing line, the less sympathy I have for the largely offensive petits mômes that I “teach.” 5 weeks, I keep telling myself, 5 bloody weeks. It's the kind of time that usually flies by, but when each week is met with a new tirade of “constructive” criticism, gallic shrugs and convenient amnesia when it comes to the fact that I am in fact NOT A TEACHER, it can be tricky to embrace life as would a spring lamb. Which I haven't even had a chance to see yet. Any pictures welcome.

Categorically cute. Categorically not how I feel.

As my enthusiasm dwindles, so too does my bank account. In a rather French façon, I have not been paid for 2 months, which means I am currently working as the most reluctant volunteer since...actually, I can only think of immensely tasteless slave labour jokes, for which this is neither the time nor the place. If indeed there is one. Questionable humour aside – it's getting drastic. I've had to resort to boxed wine. I'm rationing my baguette intake, and I had to actually TURN AWAY Jean Le Fromage the local door-to-door cheese merchant yesterday. It was difficult for both of us, and I expect a headless wheel of brie to appear in my bed any day now. Which wouldn't be entirely unpleasant.

Things just aren't going my WHEY.

However, it's not all impending poverty and disdain for “our future,” (a phrase which becomes more terrifying every time I am forced to confiscate yet another packet of cigarettes from an 11 year old wearing a “I fuck on the first date,” t-shirt,) for the weather has been glorious. The kind of sunshine that makes you want to smile at passers by and, if you are as shamelessly pretentious as I am, cycle around with baguettes in a basket wearing a stripy top and whistling The Marseillaise. I've sufficiently topped up my Vitamin D levels for my imminent return to Scotland – by which I mean I've scorched my shoulders, nose and forehead to a crisp. Mad dogs and Scotsmen, more like.

I know a madder dog, but he was as usual hiding under a table.

I get a small amount of comfort from the fact that everybody around me appears to be preparing for exams. All of my Terminal students are desperately panicking and suddenly realising that working in their uncle's kebab van isn't actually what they want to do for the rest of their life (not a stereotype before anybody gets all Overheard at Oxford on me - this is an actual conversation I have had with about 4 of my pupils...). Whilst it is good that they have (mostly) all decided to actually do some work, it is sadly mainly a case of "too little, too late." These kids are meant to be able to discuss water shortages, the problems of social media and (fairly) fluently give a critical view of current affair topics. I had a pupil yesterday ask me how to spell "evening." I am doing my best, but cramming roughly 12 years of English lessons into a half hour slot is no mean feat...

I'm going grey and everything...

I've got slightly bored of reminding them how important their exams are, and with some of the students I have taken the highly professional option of just giving them old copies of Heat and asking them what they think of "Preencess Kate," in lieu of pointless grammar drills. Stable horse, door. Conversations usually turn to summer plans, and while they (in a kind of touchingly ambitious way) dream of American road trips and trips to Dubai (which they are ALL bizarrely obsessed with) I, with a heavy heart, consider what the hell I am going to do.

AHAHAHAHAHAHA. No.

I am going to try and temper this rant slightly, because several of my readers have had the pleasure of already hearing it from me. I HATE the internship system. It is truly, truly unfair. Firstly - the types of internships offered. I have absolutely ZERO desire to pursue a career in anything that I cannot explain to someone aka "consultancy." Consulting who?! About what?! Finance similarly. I still, after 6 months, get a bit stressed about the conversion rate. I'm lucky in that I have a vague idea about what I would ideally like to do - something involving writing or journalism, however the only internships that even vaguely relate to that are all for Bloomberg or Reuters, and they specify having good, working knowledge of the markets and stocks. I didn;t rule this out straight away. I perused many a site "for dummies," and left none the wiser. There is only so far blagging can get you. So what does that leave? Thousands upon thousands of unpaid, un-regulated internships in central London without even the promise of travel expenses. Oh - I'm sorry. One advertising company offered "free organic snacks," but a girl cannot live on kale chips alone. Nor would I ever want to.

Utopia. Or so the property prices would have you believe.

So - a quick please (because what are blogs for?) In return for the light entertainment I bestow on you all, if anyone has any ideas for an "up and coming, self-starting, punctual, thinking-outside-the-boxer, happy-go-lucky team player, then absolutely do not let me know. If, on the other hand, you know anyone/anywhere looking for a sarcastic (but hardworking and reliable) committed misanthrope with a way with puns and who makes a cracking Starbucks run, then really, really do tell me. Anything. As long as it doesn't involve teaching. I, as opposed to any of my students, have learned my lesson.


I eagerly await your call, an email will do nicely.

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