After ten and a half long weeks of molding (or moulding? - could I be coating their brains with greenish scum?) young minds, confiscating spray deoderant, failing to track down a thief and helping to write 120 essays, I was exhausted. Just smashed. Like close to tears for no reason all the time kind of tired. If someone had have pulled the "Teachers get too many holidays" line on me in one of those last weeks, I would have sconed them, Glasgow Kiss style. Then I would have sat on their chest and tried to drown them in my irrational flood of tears, Alice in Wonderland style.
But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.
Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!
However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?
Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?
But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.
Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!
However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?
Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?
Big hugs to the best teacher I know. Your boys are so lucky to have you. xxxxxxxxx
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