Rosetinted

Alongside the easing of lockdown, my time has been punctuated by small efforts (I am currently trying to practice Daily Yoga and cut out alcohol) and life-affirming trips into nature, all this between the hours I wander from room to room in the throes of I 'Should be doing something'. I have been doing something, I have been busy disentangling myself away from the cold-comfort of Facebook and Twitter, at least I have made the step of removing the apps from my phone. Of course I still have access, both are accessible on my laptop and from time to time I pop in to look at what other people are doing. We all know by now that these places are not without a health warning and as much as people make me laugh, a percentage make me long for the climatic disaster that now seems inevitable (is the end of human race really such a horror?) When I am not being driven to nihilistic musings, I am led into deep thought about other things (realising that perhaps these humans are not all bad). C

I like Charles Bukowski. When I read his books as an early 20 something, with the mind of an early teen, I admired many of his characteristics. I liked his clipped sentences and simple vocabulary. I liked that he worked and lived in mundanity and made his observations compelling. I liked that he wasn't afraid of his disdain of everything and everyone (I on the other hand was being eaten alive by my own).  I liked his ambition and his daily dedication to two things I liked: drinking and writing. Most of all I liked that he was the archetypal writer: difficult, ugly, and alcoholic. His talent transcending background or opportunity or trends. I read a fair few of his books - Ham on Rye, Factotum, Post Office and perhaps Women. It was comforting and a source of hope that his success came so late on in his life, after being laid so low by the day in and day outness of boring jobs.  I also really liked the fact I was reading Bukowski whilst other young women were immersed in Austin and S

It is now officially the summer holidays, the time of year many of us look forward to, some of us (teachers, politicians and a few blessed others) have a decent amount of time where we don't work and god knows I look forward to it. Only, this year it is a little different - I had some time where I did not work at school, followed by a half-term of being a child-carer more than a teacher. So I wonder, why did I feel that I needed the holidays so much? Why at the end of that paltry half term was I so bone tired and utterly exhausted and why does that feeling continue?  Perhaps, I have gotten accustomed to doing little for a state payout, 'addicted' to it, as some politician somewhere has suggested. Yes, it is dreadful that the less middle class amongst us, who have been working regularly since 13 should want a rest from it all- how very dare us. Our job is to work incredibly hard until our old age, enjoy a few years of pootling around Morrison's cafe and trundling boxed t