Saturday, 14 December 2013

New Year street theatre, post - mortem

Well, back an entry or two  (http://whingingteacher.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/my-hero-my-sultan.html )  there was me going on about how enjoyable the impromptu street party, racing, dancing, dressing up for National Day was. A huge release of peaceful, boisterous, happy energy. I tried to engage the studes with it in ensuing lessons asking whether the boys, who all must live off campus, were there (girls not allowed out without a family penis to accompany) in their fright masks, wigs and er...dresses. A silent fumbling and mumbling, heads down exclamatory no came through at three decibels. I feigned a burst of  surprise, showed some inappropriate shots of New Year of National Day in different countries to try engender conversation and for once nothing came of it. I left it...the collective hive mind was not going to talk. The hive mind is wont to do that.

However, a few days back it emerges that one of my colleagues who really is in the know with local journos and local Really Big People through consultancy work and being fat with the British Council, explained over a friendly pint that Plod did get involved late night / early morning to close down any semblance of fun and genial disorder and drag off anyone in a wig, mask or girls' clothing.
It disappointed me but then did  sound sadly familiar. For plod and power the world over does not like being overawed and appearing pointless and useless...what kind of small-willied example would that be to a hitherto dutiful and respectful population - cuddly bits of the early Arab Spring notwithstanding. Word is that next year spontaneous joy will not be happening...which may of course be a way of bottling up trouble which a look over the region might not be a good idea especially when you are getting on a bit and had the best part of 50 mostly benevolent and beneficial years in power. Ah well, not my place to speculate but it is good to know folk with an ear to the ground which fully explains the 'shame' felt or at least dutifully modelled to the curious, nosy outsider.

Thursday, 5 December 2013

Psychological psoriasis



 The two year itch...

Oh dear, the first signs happened quite a while back, familiar as they happen most places I go...the unconscious move from taking things seriously and professionally to having to try to take them so. Of course I participate, like my work and students and colleagues, an friendly, open and social but...but...but...

...but indeed...

... as we know, or indeed should, everything before but is foul and rancid  bullshit so no point in elaboration...my good pal here called me a commitment phobe, which struck me initially as strange to use from someone past 35,  it is  a  word laced with the benighted judgement of certain cheesy single wimmin's mags and accompanying crap films - to crap movies rather, there is a difference. However, there may be some truth there or simply the wish for some more refreshing excitement for this is a very sleepy conservative place. Natural beauty and friendly people can only go so far especially when you need a license to drink...



That creeping scratchy itch has been morphing slowly into some sort of psychological psoriasis turning  my usual insouciant bonhomie, affability and geniality to mildly irascible, grouchy and worryingly, on occasion, broody and bad tempered as I ponder horribly that some feelings I get towards the nice but conservative and culturally constrained kids are similar to the ones that made me leave education in England although for far different reasons. Said itch has not started inflaming, suppurating or seeping yet but the signs are worryingly there and I am not too sure what I can do about it. Answers on a post-card or tweet please...


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