You may be aware that I am a lady of many hats. Indeed of late, I have tried buckets of different hats on, just to see what it might be like. I have become fed quite fed up with the uni students hat, and have decided to cast it to the wayside for a time. Since then I have dabbled with the idea of a gardeners sun hat, but found it didn’t fit quite right. In sheer panic I reached out for any menial, wage-paying hat that would rescue me from destitution but to no avail; it was not the right hat for me.


Finally, this week, I have found my new hat. In the space of a week I have gone from a bundle of couch-bound tears to someone with a goal and a purpose; a busy-bee engaged in the business of becoming an English Teacher.

Here’s to unlocking the secrets of the English language and to finally having a hat that fits.

50c gem

In the early hours of a vaguely wintery Sunday morning whilst trawling the treasures of our local swap meet, I saw in the corner of my eye a book that called out to me. It sat atop a box of waterlogged, wearied and well-read looking books with the most wonderful cover I have ever seen. i.e. A sketch of a tree. Inside I soon discovered the pages spoke a language I knew not, were brown and felt like they had been left adrift at sea for decades. I had to have it, this 50 cent gem. At home I discovered tucked away within the dying damp-scented pages of this barely held together book, what looks to be a ration card of sorts, written out to the name of Kristine Jacobson. What is interesting is that it’s in English, for the month of May who-knows when. The book itself, Straumeni by Edvarts Virza, which google informs me is in Latvian, has another ladies name written in barely-legible cursive on the inside cover. Somewhere on the net I found an essay of sorts written about the text which says the book tells the story of an “Old Farm in Zemgale through the Changing Seasons". The author says Everything takes place as though seen by the eyes of the reader, who, like a traveller, is led through fields and over meandering streams in and around the Straumeni homestead and is invited to rest under the shade of the huge, leafy old trees and listen to the story of the old homestead, of the land and the country, and of the passing of generations now gone.

And, since I didn’t ask the two girls where they came upon the boxes of Latvian books, I’m left to wonder about the book and its reader. What did they see and where did they go before they washed up in fragments at my local swap meet?

Quote found here http://www.utexas.edu/cola/centers/lrc/eieol/litol-9-X.html

Welcome to the worlds stupidest argument, please, take a seat.


The culprit - a sock.

Well perhaps that is a little unfair on sock as it was the victim, after all, of an unprovoked attack by a certain canine. Which canine exactly is the crux of the matter. Or perhaps, stupidity is the real crux of the matter. After all, neither the canine nor the sock started the argument. In fact, it may have been a passing remark, a jest about the sock that set the wheels in motion or it was the fact that Protagonist A cannot bear the thought of hearing another opinion in Her house. Her house, you understand. Really, the nerve. But I’m getting ahead of myself here, lets recap.

The plot - Protagonist A’s conjecture is that Dog 1, belonging to Protagonist B is to blame for the destruction of one Sock, value $30 (why, I might ask, spend that much on socks?) Meanwhile, Protagonist B is of the opinion, based on actually being present, that it was Dog 1, owned by Protagonist A, that tore the garment to shreds. Much yelling ensues.

So! Where does the real blame lie? Who was the real destroyer of the Sock and how, it must be asked, does Sock feel about this dismal turn of events? Yes I am sure you are all dying to know. But let us pause a minute while the household erupts in a mudslinging fest and the non-combatants slip silently away – is this not the stupidest argument you ever did witness?

Certainly there are underlying issues, tensions, scandals and grievous wrongs just simmering between these four walls but who’d of thought, a mere sock? The proverbial fucking butterfly that sends the whole god-damned bus tumbling off the cliff side. All I could think as an innocent bystander in someone else’s moment of sheer stupidity was, my my, this is awkward, how to overcome the temptation to point out to all concerned that this argument was a new low for humankind? But that’s a bit like Switzerland waltzing up to Germany and England circa 1914 and going “Oi, you’re both numbskulls.” You know what Switzerland would have got? Socked. (Ha.Ha.)

People, it occurred to me as the bomb shells fell all around us, are remarkably circular in their arguing. Always certain that the other person just hasn’t quite understood and if they just say it again, a little louder, with a little more venom, they shall be prevailed upon to realise that they are incorrect.
Pity that this logic never has seemed to work.

Pity perhaps, that the Sock had not just got stuck in the washing machine or picked that day to up and disappear as all Socks must eventually do. Ah, the twists and turns of fate.