Wednesday was brilliant. In the morning, I was teaching a class. I’ve mentioned that I’ve recently returned to a school I taught in for ages and ages, years ago. As I was getting materials together for my lesson, I searched through boxes of laminated cards and found the set of cards I needed. As I took out the set of cards, my throat tightened.
The cards were labelled in familiar handwriting – mine!
The school hadn’t forgotten me! If ever I die without leaving behind a great legacy, at least I know that in a box marked “New English File Upper-Intermediate”, there’s a set of cards for practising verbs of the senses that I copied, laminated, cut up and labelled. That’s my testament.
If ever you think you’ll die alone, just have a root around in an old box. Forgotten three-year-old handwriting is pretty damn special.
Anyway, the morning continued well, with possibly the best meeting I’ve ever had with my doctoral supervisor. The core of my research project got the go-ahead. I was jubilant. I think I might actually get this PhD after all!
I went to boxing. It was hard and I felt virtuous. Then, under the influence of my good-day vibes, I walked home. An hour-long walk after an hour’s boxing. I was pumped. Rarr!
I got home and sat in the kitchen, talking to the boys. They were getting psyched up for a night out (by drinking cider and vodka). I was jealous. I wanted to go out with them. To not bother going to work the next morning. To try and convince bouncers that I was over 18. To nip to the loo to top up my drink with the vodka in my pocket. Godammit! I wanted to be eighteen. So much it hurt.
At 11:00ish, they went out and I went to bed. It took me until 1:30 to get to sleep because the day had overexcited me. Have I mentioned that I’m six years old? I am.
At 4:30, I woke again. There were noises in the corridor. Evidently, the boys were back from clubbing. As far as I can guess from the noises, they had decided to play ten-pin bowling outside my door, except with plastic bottles.
I got up the next morning to a corridor full of puddles. There empty bottles of water and laundry detergent strewn about. I didn’t see the kitchen, but Facebook soon informed me that there had been some form of egg fight the night before in the kitchen, using the eggs of a boy who was trying to live on €4 for three weeks or something ridiculous like that.
Anyway, having gone to bed thinking myself the luckiest boy in all of Ireland, I felt a lot less jolly the next day.
I’ve had a busy day or two. I did spend six very enjoyable hours drinking cider last night, but other than that I’ve mainly been “getting stuff done”. One of the jobs I got done yesterday was to apply for a job as Assistant Warden in Trinity Hall for next year.
This afternoon, while I was in a flap about boarding cards and payslips, I got an email from the warden. I opened it excitedly, presuming he was offering me the gig and that was my accommodation sorted for next year.
But no, it was a summons. To attend a disciplinary meeting next Monday evening to “discuss my potential involvement in incidents in Hall on various dates”.
My heart fell. First I assumed it was the eggs and the repeated warnings about smelly rubbish. I posted about it on Facebook, presuming the other boys got the same email.
For 2 horrible hours, none of the other boys mentioned anything online. Oh no! What had I done? I remember being in a hurry getting dressed in the morning once and not closing the blinds. Had I scandalised a neighbour? I left my bedroom this morning without making my bed, leaving yesterday’s socks and underpants on the floor. It was hardly that.
Thankfully then, one of the other boys posted. I wasn’t the only one. We all got the email.
I wasn’t relieved for very long. We got a second email from the warden, changing the date of the disciplinary meeting to right in the middle of my first day of my next CELTA course.
If I miss the meeting, will I get evicted? Of I miss the first day of my course, will I miss out on three months’ work?
Join me later this weekend for hen-related madness and more stress.