The King's Lynn Race for Life event took place on Tuesday evening. I completed the 5k run in approximately 32 minutes, and have so far raised £85 for Cancer Research UK.
Now, I know that Race for Life is supposed to be a charity 'fun run'; it is aimed at all women, not specifically athletes. It gives you the option to either run or walk. It is designed to give women a sense of elation and achievement when they cross the finish line. It is not a competitive event; there is no prize to be won or reputation to uphold.
However, the uber-competitive streak in me refuses to walk: I am not the best runner, but, quite frankly, if I can't run 5k without stopping, then I must be very out of shape. I feel weak if I give in and walk; I feel like I have failed. Thus, I find it quite demoralilsing and frustrating to get stuck behind women who have claimed that they are going to run the race rather than walk it, yet begin walking after only the first 200 metres! Not only that, they decide to walk in the middle of the track, rather than move to the side so that faster people can get past.
So, I ended up feeling quite cross as I completed the run, which detracts one's focus from the whole point of the event. Besides, at least these women are getting out of the house for the night and doing something proactive for charity. Of course, I don't believe that charity fundraisers should be at all discriminating, but I do think perhaps that there need to be slightly stricter guidelines surrounding these sorts of physical events: for example, perhaps people who know that they are going to end up walking the course should accept this and start after the runners have set off; perhaps there should be a separate track for the walkers.
I know I'm sounding very intolerant and cynical; perhaps I need to lighten up a little.
Friday 24 July 2009
Wednesday 15 July 2009
The Dyson
Chris and I realised that the end of term is approaching when we noticed that the standard of cleanliness/tidiness of the flat was slipping: something that generally happens when we are very tired and ready for a holiday. Rather than skirt around the clutter until the start of the holidays, we embarked upon a thorough clean up operation last night. Thus, Saturday will arrive, and we can gently ease ourselves into the holiday as opposed to wake up to a list of jobs to do.
Our vacuum cleaner had been getting progressively worse over the past few months. It had always been reluctant to clean the carpet due to its very weak suction. However, when vacuuming the carpet suddenly became a 20 minute job resulting in Chris panting and dripping with sweat, we knew it had had its day.
My mother recently bought a Henry, which meant that her Dyson was going spare. I knew that Mum had not had a lot of luck with the Dyson, but it surely had to be better than the vacuum cleaner we did have; it later transpired that Mum had always had the filter in upside down, so no wonder it didn't work so well.
So, I picked the Dyson up from Tobie's who had been using it to vacuum his loft. I was presented with something that was so thoroughly dirty itself that there was no way we could use it to clean other things; turns out--up until Tobie borrowed it--the Dyson had been sitting in my dad's garage, slowly accumulating a coating of dust and motor oil. However, we gave it a good scrub down before testing it out. Unfortunately, we learnt the hard way that vacuuming a cream rug with a Dyson that had been kept in a dirty garage for months on end and was still damp from being wiped down was not the best idea; the rug was instantly splattered with dark spots of who knows what.
Still, we did not become disheartened. After another little clean and letting it dry out, we tried again: it works a treat. 'Operation: Clean The Flat' was carried out with success before the start of the holidays. Our carpet has not looked this good for a long time, and whipping the vacuum cleaner round the flat is no longer a physical workout; I suppose that means we shall have to start exercising more frequently again, then.
My mother recently bought a Henry, which meant that her Dyson was going spare. I knew that Mum had not had a lot of luck with the Dyson, but it surely had to be better than the vacuum cleaner we did have; it later transpired that Mum had always had the filter in upside down, so no wonder it didn't work so well.
So, I picked the Dyson up from Tobie's who had been using it to vacuum his loft. I was presented with something that was so thoroughly dirty itself that there was no way we could use it to clean other things; turns out--up until Tobie borrowed it--the Dyson had been sitting in my dad's garage, slowly accumulating a coating of dust and motor oil. However, we gave it a good scrub down before testing it out. Unfortunately, we learnt the hard way that vacuuming a cream rug with a Dyson that had been kept in a dirty garage for months on end and was still damp from being wiped down was not the best idea; the rug was instantly splattered with dark spots of who knows what.
Still, we did not become disheartened. After another little clean and letting it dry out, we tried again: it works a treat. 'Operation: Clean The Flat' was carried out with success before the start of the holidays. Our carpet has not looked this good for a long time, and whipping the vacuum cleaner round the flat is no longer a physical workout; I suppose that means we shall have to start exercising more frequently again, then.
Sunday 12 July 2009
Trichotillomania
I write this as I watch Embarrassing Teenage Bodies, where the disorder that the title of this post refers to is featured.
Trichotillomania is a condition where the sufferer compulsively pulls out their own hair. I am wondering if I have a mild form of this: I pull out my eyebrows. Obviously, I do shape eyebrows using tweezers, as, indeed, many women do. However, there are occasions where I will remove the hairs using my fingers; sometimes, I do this unconsciously. When I later catch sight of myself in the mirror, I am horrified to see the mess that I have created: namely gappy or abnormally short eyebrows.
The reason I suspect I do have the aforementioned disorder is for the following reasons: a) it mainly happens when I am rather stressed; b) I get a sense of satisfaction when I pull out the hairs: it's almost like relieving the pressure from something, and the action is accompanied by a tiny 'pop' sound; c) I feel guilty when I finally stop and see the destruction my behaviour has caused.
Following a particularly manic session that leaves my eyebrows in a very bad state, I spend several days hoping that the damage is not permanent; that those hairs will grow back. I use eye pencil in the meantime to fill in the gaps. However, when I feel the spikiness of a hair beginning to break through the skin, I immediately want to pull it out: thus, the process begins again.
I am sure that the best way to tackle this problem is to find some will power from somewhere. Like most bad habits, though, this one is hard to break.
It is likely that, one day, I may not have eyebrows.
Trichotillomania is a condition where the sufferer compulsively pulls out their own hair. I am wondering if I have a mild form of this: I pull out my eyebrows. Obviously, I do shape eyebrows using tweezers, as, indeed, many women do. However, there are occasions where I will remove the hairs using my fingers; sometimes, I do this unconsciously. When I later catch sight of myself in the mirror, I am horrified to see the mess that I have created: namely gappy or abnormally short eyebrows.
The reason I suspect I do have the aforementioned disorder is for the following reasons: a) it mainly happens when I am rather stressed; b) I get a sense of satisfaction when I pull out the hairs: it's almost like relieving the pressure from something, and the action is accompanied by a tiny 'pop' sound; c) I feel guilty when I finally stop and see the destruction my behaviour has caused.
Following a particularly manic session that leaves my eyebrows in a very bad state, I spend several days hoping that the damage is not permanent; that those hairs will grow back. I use eye pencil in the meantime to fill in the gaps. However, when I feel the spikiness of a hair beginning to break through the skin, I immediately want to pull it out: thus, the process begins again.
I am sure that the best way to tackle this problem is to find some will power from somewhere. Like most bad habits, though, this one is hard to break.
It is likely that, one day, I may not have eyebrows.
Monday 6 July 2009
9R3
This post will most likely sound disgustingly patronising, but it really is not meant to be.
As I approach the end of my time at George Farmer, I'm starting to feel little pangs of sorrow over the pupils that I'm leaving, particularly my bottom set Year 9s.
Ironically, 9R3 was the group that gave me the most hassle when I first started teaching. I was forever dishing out detentions; writing yellow slips; sending numerous reprobates to Ben (Head of English). As a class, they rarely displayed acceptable behaviour, let alone good. However, I was more exasperated by the fact that they simply could not undertake--to any degree of success--what I considered to be rather simple and straightforward tasks. After some reflection, I realised that the problem was me: I was expecting far too much from them in terms of what they are capable of academically; consistent, limited achievement inevitably produces poor behaviour. Thus, I had to modify my teaching methods: this involved breaking tasks down into smaller steps and providing much greater scaffolding around the tasks.
Several months down the line, and I can truly say that I feel proud of the pupils in 9R3; they have made such great progress in terms of their attitude towards work, their achievements and their behaviour. I have started to raise my expectations again, as I know that they can, indeed, carry out more challenging tasks if the provisions are in place. This morning, I put them into groups of three to prepare for a speaking and listening assessment. Six months ago, group work was not an option. Today, though, they worked sensibly, co-operatively and successfully on a task that I know was pushing them a little beyond their boundaries.
This class has gone from being my four-times-a-week-horror-story to being my favourite. I know that I will probably forget their names as soon as I stop teaching them; I know they will probably bitch about me to their new teacher (they claim to be upset that I am leaving, but teeagers are fickle). I don't for one minute think they've become angels; neither do I attribute any of their achievements solely down to myself, as I still have a lot to learn as a teacher. However, I do think that we've all grown: class and teacher alike.
I am really glad that I had the opportunity to teach 9R3 this year.
As I approach the end of my time at George Farmer, I'm starting to feel little pangs of sorrow over the pupils that I'm leaving, particularly my bottom set Year 9s.
Ironically, 9R3 was the group that gave me the most hassle when I first started teaching. I was forever dishing out detentions; writing yellow slips; sending numerous reprobates to Ben (Head of English). As a class, they rarely displayed acceptable behaviour, let alone good. However, I was more exasperated by the fact that they simply could not undertake--to any degree of success--what I considered to be rather simple and straightforward tasks. After some reflection, I realised that the problem was me: I was expecting far too much from them in terms of what they are capable of academically; consistent, limited achievement inevitably produces poor behaviour. Thus, I had to modify my teaching methods: this involved breaking tasks down into smaller steps and providing much greater scaffolding around the tasks.
Several months down the line, and I can truly say that I feel proud of the pupils in 9R3; they have made such great progress in terms of their attitude towards work, their achievements and their behaviour. I have started to raise my expectations again, as I know that they can, indeed, carry out more challenging tasks if the provisions are in place. This morning, I put them into groups of three to prepare for a speaking and listening assessment. Six months ago, group work was not an option. Today, though, they worked sensibly, co-operatively and successfully on a task that I know was pushing them a little beyond their boundaries.
This class has gone from being my four-times-a-week-horror-story to being my favourite. I know that I will probably forget their names as soon as I stop teaching them; I know they will probably bitch about me to their new teacher (they claim to be upset that I am leaving, but teeagers are fickle). I don't for one minute think they've become angels; neither do I attribute any of their achievements solely down to myself, as I still have a lot to learn as a teacher. However, I do think that we've all grown: class and teacher alike.
I am really glad that I had the opportunity to teach 9R3 this year.
Saturday 4 July 2009
Giant Monster Zit
You would think, at the ripe old age of 24, that I would no longer suffer from 'teenage' spots.
The spot referred to in the title of this post began to form Wednesday evening, underneath my lower lip on the left side of my face. It is now Saturday, and it has not yet disappeared. Make-up does not appear to be successfully concealing it. Poking and prodding it does not seem to be helping either. I am frantically dousing it in witch hazel; I suddenly feel fourteen-years-old again.
I guess my hormones are all out of sync, or I'm overtired, or something. Either way: it's not fair!
The spot referred to in the title of this post began to form Wednesday evening, underneath my lower lip on the left side of my face. It is now Saturday, and it has not yet disappeared. Make-up does not appear to be successfully concealing it. Poking and prodding it does not seem to be helping either. I am frantically dousing it in witch hazel; I suddenly feel fourteen-years-old again.
I guess my hormones are all out of sync, or I'm overtired, or something. Either way: it's not fair!
Thursday 2 July 2009
Laura
I feel compelled to write a little bit in reaction to a recent sad event.
On Sunday evening, I received a voicemail from Anna claiming to have some news. After a couple of days of missing one another’s phone calls, I eventually got hold of her on Tuesday evening. Expecting to hear something regarding Anna’s potentially glittering vocation as a concert pianist–‘I’ve been signed by Sony’, for example–I was left utterly shocked by the news that she actually did deliver: a friend of ours from King’s, Laura, died of cancer last Tuesday. She was just 23-years-old: younger than myself.
It took several minutes for this information to sink in, particularly since I was not even aware that she had been ill. I had nothing productive to say; the repetition of ‘Oh my God’ was all that seemed to emerge from my lips.
When the call ended, I cried.
Two days have passed, and I am still reeling from Anna’s phone call. Laura’s death seems so unreal; naively, I still can’t quite believe that cancer could have snatched away the life of somebody so young and in good health. As we immerse ourselves in the quotidian, it is so easy to imagine death to be a distant abyss that one will not disappear into for many years. Suddenly, I have been hit by the realisation that graves are not exclusively for the old and frail.
Chris held me as I cried into his shoulder on Tuesday evening. Feeling the warmth radiate from him and inhaling his scent, I felt awash with gratitude for everything I have. It’s a cliché, but occurances such as the death of a peer/friend really make you appreciate all that is good in life.
A few words about Laura: she was a kind-hearted, intelligent and fun young woman. After graduating from King’s three years ago, we began to lose touch; tenuous Facebook messages were all that really connected us. I believe that her teaching experience at a school in Greater London had paved the way for a leadership position within the Teach First organisation; clearly, her confidence had increased and her career was developing well.
To conclude this post, I am making an explicit and shameless plea for sponsorship. On July 21st, I am taking part in the Race for Life at Houghton Hall: an event which seeks to raise money for Cancer Research UK. If you would like to make a donation, please visit my page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/lucygrattoni
On Sunday evening, I received a voicemail from Anna claiming to have some news. After a couple of days of missing one another’s phone calls, I eventually got hold of her on Tuesday evening. Expecting to hear something regarding Anna’s potentially glittering vocation as a concert pianist–‘I’ve been signed by Sony’, for example–I was left utterly shocked by the news that she actually did deliver: a friend of ours from King’s, Laura, died of cancer last Tuesday. She was just 23-years-old: younger than myself.
It took several minutes for this information to sink in, particularly since I was not even aware that she had been ill. I had nothing productive to say; the repetition of ‘Oh my God’ was all that seemed to emerge from my lips.
When the call ended, I cried.
Two days have passed, and I am still reeling from Anna’s phone call. Laura’s death seems so unreal; naively, I still can’t quite believe that cancer could have snatched away the life of somebody so young and in good health. As we immerse ourselves in the quotidian, it is so easy to imagine death to be a distant abyss that one will not disappear into for many years. Suddenly, I have been hit by the realisation that graves are not exclusively for the old and frail.
Chris held me as I cried into his shoulder on Tuesday evening. Feeling the warmth radiate from him and inhaling his scent, I felt awash with gratitude for everything I have. It’s a cliché, but occurances such as the death of a peer/friend really make you appreciate all that is good in life.
A few words about Laura: she was a kind-hearted, intelligent and fun young woman. After graduating from King’s three years ago, we began to lose touch; tenuous Facebook messages were all that really connected us. I believe that her teaching experience at a school in Greater London had paved the way for a leadership position within the Teach First organisation; clearly, her confidence had increased and her career was developing well.
To conclude this post, I am making an explicit and shameless plea for sponsorship. On July 21st, I am taking part in the Race for Life at Houghton Hall: an event which seeks to raise money for Cancer Research UK. If you would like to make a donation, please visit my page: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/lucygrattoni
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