Today I had quite possibly the rudest student ever in my class. She was a Russian, with all the charm and wit that you'd associate with Vladimir Putin. And before you accuse me of libel (well, actually you can't, because you don't know who she is), let me tell you what happened.
Now, admittedly, I don't particularly like teaching grammar, and not just because we never did no grammar nor nuffink when I was at school. There are perfectly good grammar apps you can get for your phone, or websites you can look at. The emphasis on the lessons I do is speaking and listening in order to better integrate into British life, and I try to make the lessons as engaging and fun as I can. So today's lesson was themed around love (cue late 80s jazz-funk riff from 'Lessons in love' by that group whose name escapes me...I'll remember it in a bit). As a warm up, all the students had been trying to think of a definition for love, by completing the sentence 'Love is...', and we'd written up ideas on the board. It was just a bit of an ice-breaker, but there were some lovely sentences, such as 'Love is how I smile when I see you' or 'Love is an ocean of trust'. We were going through them and voting, so that we could get a class definition of what love is, and I was mid-sentence when Vlad-the-ESOL-student interrupted. "This is not interesting," she said. "It is not interesting for us."
Not only did she interrupt to tell me I was boring, she also felt she could speak on behalf of the whole class. Later I overheard her talking to my boss, and explaining how she needs to improve her English because she wants to work with children and nobody will employ her at the moment.
I have a sneaking suspicion that her inability to find work isn't entirely down to her English level.
Anyway, off to mop kitchen floor now xxx
ps - Level 42! I knew it would come to me eventually...

Well, we weren't abducted by aliens on the way to the water park, which was lucky, as otherwise that would have been a waste of sixty quid. It wasn't as good as Atlantis in Dubai, but, hey, Staffordshire isn't the UAE, and it was a lot cheaper. The kids had a blast. Today, however, the fun is over, and I'm back to looking after an ill child (Twin 2, yet again) and feeling pretty rubbish myself. I think I must be fighting off the same lurgy, and also still aching from all those 'sumo squats' I was forced to do in a gym class on Saturday (Major Bumsaw, indeed). But the good news is that I have cleaned the downstairs bathroom. Yes, I know! It only took about a minute as well - can't think why I always make such a fuss about it. Also, whilst Twin 2 was being very ill under her quilt in front of the telly, I made chicken soup, banana flapjacks and typed up another chapter of my book (the denoument beckons...), so today hasn't been totally wasted. I could do with going to bed right now now now, though. A couple of things I keep meaning to mention first:
1. Twin 1 has named her freckles. They are all called Bob (Bob the first, Bob the second and so on).
2. Hubby says I look like an angry Russian prostitute (a worrying observation for two reasons: firstly that I look like an angry Russian prozzie, obviously, but secondly that he knows what an angry Russian prostitute looks like...probably best not to dwell on that one).
3. Hubby owes Twin 2 eight years worth of apologies for giving her a hard time for things she can't help (we've just had the results of a test that shows that although there's nothing wrong with her sight, there are some problems with the way her brain interprets what she sees...so for all the times he's said 'for goodness sakes, surely you could see that coming!', nope, she couldn't, because her brain hadn't had a chance to catch up). I said if I was her I'd ask for something sparkly, but she seems happy just to forgive him.
Right, supper's ready, and then only a few hours until bed, can't wait...xxx

Everyone's better (almost) and Hubby is on his way home and we're all off to the water park tomorrow, woo hoo (no, we're not making the kids bunk off school - heaven forfend - they've got an inset day). I am very excited: far too excited to clean the upstairs bathroom, that's for sure. Instead I'm going to watch something on channel 4 about alien abductees (and looking at the hair and clothing styles of the 'abductees' I think I believe them - after all, there must be something to explain how so many people can be sartorially stuck in an early 80s timewarp). And they are all gathering in Nottingham...nooo, hope we don't get zapped on the way to the water park...

I'm sandy-eyed and fuzzy-headed because it's been a bit of a sleepless week, due to toothache (twin 1) and cough (twin 2) and also staying up late doing meditation (yep, I do see the irony in getting tired and stressed because of meditation). As a result of ill kids and emergency doctors/dentist appointments, I haven't been able to do much outdoor exercise. Oh, alright, none. But, I have discovered funky yoga. Thanks to my weekend with bendy friends in Rome, plus online nagging from my ex-yoga teacher on Facebook, I have been feeling that I really should do something stretchy, as I am rather embarrassingly - erm - inelastic. The problem is, I do find traditional yoga a teensy bit boring. So the other night I put my newly-downloaded Ministry of Sound running trax mash up full blast through the headphones and set about a full thirty minutes of sun salutations. Then, I followed it with half an hour of yoga nidra from an app on my phone (with a backtrack of forest, ocean or rain sounds). This made me feel relaxed-yet-alert, which I guess is the point, but not entirely helpful at eleven o'clock at night, especially not when followed by a night of dishing out inhalers, Calpol and inviting sad little girls into the other side of the bed. Oh well, I'm exhausted but with stretchier hamstrings and a sense of wellbeing, so that has to be good I guess. I'm sold on the whole funky yoga thing, though - I've done it already tonight (the ill girls joined in, but soon ditched yoga poses for general prancing around the room), so all I've got  left to do is the meditation, which means I might be in with a fighting chance of getting to sleep before midnight. But first I have to do the kitchen floor. Yes, I do, because if it's still in this state tomorrow, you will tut and say bitchy things about my lack of cleanliness to my next door neighbours, and you know what they're like...

I'm feeling smug: the washing up is done; the washing is done; the bin is out; there's a huge batch of homemade putanesca sauce in the freezer; the upstairs bathroom is clean (ish - I mean I didn't mop the floor or do the mould-squirter, and no I haven't done the downstairs bathroom, will you please stop going on about it?); I've written another chapter for the book; I've done my lesson plan for monday's class; I've downloaded a meditation app for my phone; my legs are shaved and my toenails are painted. And it's only nine thirty! I know, I must have forgotten something. Surely I cannot be this organised on a Thursday night? Perhaps I have turned a corner. Perhaps being forty three has made me remarkably better at time management and household admin? It's all a bit scary...I think I shall have to go upstairs and count my children to make sure they're all here (the absence of one of the three children would surely help explain the fact that I'm ready for bed a full hour earlier than usual)...

I'm really excited about writing my book for the next few weeks; it's getting close to that catharsis moment, when everything comes together/falls apart. Wish I had more time to write it, but hey. Tomorrow is a writing day, but I also have to take the car to the garage, and then Thursday is a writing day but I'm expecting a shopping delivery and a bed delivery and I have an inclusion support meeting for Twin 2 at school. I wish I'd known, back in the days when I used to nurse my hangover in front of This Morning (with Richard & Judy), quite how precious time is. I have just made an early start on my writing day by beginning to type up the next chapter after the kids went to bed - which does mean that the downstairs bathroom has yet again forfeited its weekly clean. But, honestly, we've hardly been here (we were away in London for three days out of the past seven), so it can't have got all that filthy since last week, can it?
I'm feeling happy and positive today, mainly due to the sunshine (woo hoo). I love England when the sun shines. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up. I know that the British weather is like a dreadful boyfriend I once had: charming and sunny one minute, raining all over your parade the next. (It took me a good two years to realise the dreadful boyfriend was never going to give me the Indian summer I deserved. Since then I have always carried a metaphorical umbrella.) I want to trust the sunshine. I want to start planning camping trips and bike rides and maybe even barbequeues (no, maybe not that, especially as I can't even spell it), but the weather is like an emotionally abusive boyfriend: not to be trusted. Ever.
Right. Better get some sleep. I've got to write the dead-sister's-evil-fiance-comes-back scene in the morning...
Nightie night xxx