Hello term 4.

Wow. The year's evaporated and there are only ten weeks standing between me and a summer of being broke and filling up my backyard wading pool.

Time to start walking the pug (in her posh new puppia harness, courtesy of a generous friend) and maybe even to changer her collar from a glow-in-the-dark spiky to a flattering floral on black (same friend) which will complement my summer wardrobe... I'm so not that kind of person.

Time to stash a litre of sunblock next to the neutrogena MIRACLE hand-cream which is slowly restoring my cuticles.

Time, perhaps, to start plotting what will occupy my brain when I don't have quite so many classes bouncing around it. (The boy seems to be plugging MTG shamelessly; if I get asked to look at his DECK one more time I'm going to do something else to his... something else. Yes. Fill in the blank. I dare you.)

Yum yum

For today's delectation allow me to present the chicken and leak pie. Yup. Only three dollars. I've just about accepted that my battle with the misused and abused apostrophe is lost, but since when did spelling become the new leprosy?

Now with added soot!

I have a mild haloumi addiction which may lead to a parting of the ways. My husband is considering the purchase of his own jaffle maker. His n' hers: can you imagine? Imagine: me, pottering about in my kitchen, happily assembling a tasty jaffle (they're a complete meal, shut up) with a side of super-tasty haloumi.

Well, I already have a smoking hot grill surface at the ready; why use a frypan for a measly two slices of the cheese equivalent of crack cocaine? EXACTLY. Besides, residual haloumi grease? BLISS on the exterior of your gourmet toastie.

So I prepare, amble away, and am completely dumbfounded when husband extracts paper towel from cupboard and starts to scrub away at our well-used little jaffler. You all heard my screech of dismay, admit it. I mean, there goes all the FLAVOR (he called it carcinogenic soot, but I beg to differ).

Fast forward to tonight: he offers to make me the sandwich (in the shiny new thingamajig he scrubbed clean), possibly so I can't grubby it up with my greasy cheese. I graciously accept. Little does he know that I will covertly (actually, not at all covertly) chop a few chunks of cheese and grill them in the (well, it's still hot. Shame to waste that heat) jaffle iron.

Sizzle, sizzle.
"What are you cooking now?"
"Nothing..." (shifty eyes)
"But I can hear it sizzling!"
"It's a special type of nothing that sizzles?" (Yeah, I'm SO good at thinking on my feet.)

He shakes his head sorrowfully over the new encrustations of grease.
"Do you really want me to leave it like this?"
Nod vigorously.
"Really? Don't clean it?"
Shake vigorously.

Kindly, he puts it away. Memo to self: only grill haloumi on the left side.

And another thing...

And a follow-up: the email I received in response to my polite refusal makes it quite clear I am being invited as an "Old Girl" because so few of us continue to play once we finish school, and gee, what a great opportunity this is to catch up and support our school.

Hm. I nearly quit violin altogether after being victimized in orchestra, I am NOT an "Old Girl" and I've lived locally with not too low a musical profile for, like, ever, so the whole "we will encourage and support you" thing isn't flying. God, I hope they don't say "Oh, her! Yes, former student of the school, you know."

I'm totally holding a grudge. Sue me.

Random....

Those of you who know me will no doubt remember my horror sojourn at a particular private girls' school.

My life may finally be catching up with me, as (seemingly countless) of my students are trying for and receiving scholarships to said school. This has provoked a horrible (and irrational) fear that I may have to teach there. No such correspondence has been entered into... until today, when I arrived home to the following: (summarised for convenience)

Speech Night is coming up. We plan to play X. We want you to join us (translation: We have overreached the skill level of our students and are recruiting to make them look better than they really are) for MINIMUM two rehearsals and the concert. 


Rehearsal times, contact details, yada yada yada. 

Um.

Let's be clear. Not only do I NOT identify as a "past student", I left the school under openly hostile terms. There may have been threats to "set the education department onto [us]" and there was acrimony brewing for some time prior to my eventual exit.  And frankly, if I'm one of the "few other musicians" you're inviting, this would be a JOB and you could OFFER to PAY me. NOT a community orchestra, effective casual employment to "augment certain sections of the orchestra" (read: instrumental tutor to violins).

Surprise, surprise, I've very nicely refused the opportunity to perform, since you know, I don't get enough of those with my own studio, and even resisted the furious outburst of "You goons ruined my adolescence and now you want me to give up hours of PAID work to sit in your substandard orchestra and make it sound better than it really is so hundreds of fleeced parents think they're getting value for money?" in my polite email reply.

Lucky I have this blog.

Dear Student,

You are late. Again. I would not be so fussed by this except that you're never late for any discernible reason. It just happened. I would also not be terribly fussed by this, except that you then linger into the next student's lesson, taking your time removing your presence (let me be clear, you're welcome to stay as long as you like, but no-one should notice you) and generally hanging about. I'm beginning to understand why you were late.

What I would like to tell you: It's rude. Please stop. Schedule a later lesson time, plan to leave your home five minutes earlier, pack your stuff in the morning before you leave the house. Pack it on Sunday night, since I know you're not a morning person and you don't practice before school. If I was your parent I would ask you to pay for every minute of lesson time you DON'T receive because you found something more important to do on the way. Ooh, you're here. That'll be $10.

I think the universe is sabotaging me.

No, really. It's cold, wet, I spend a disproportionate amount of time sleeping (the pug has taken to gazing at me suspiciously on the rare occasions that I am in the house and awake, as if I might suddenly fall upon her in a dead slumber).

Clearly there's something very wrong when your PET believes your normal state is one of repose. It's been a dead week, shot down by general malaise and the tendency of my life to roll along juggernaut-like regardless of my participation. Take this morning: Chai will make EVERYTHING better, thinks brilliant little me. Ah, no, it really won't when its BLAZING hot and in an effort to drown the bitter, foul taste of a vile herbal tonic I burn my mouth - thoroughly. Gah.

About the only thing I CAN do is tell you all to read Steve Toltz's A fraction of the whole, which was just as good on my second read, and Justin Cronin's The Passage, which I THOUGHT was going to be a godawful Stephanie-Meyer-esque vampire saga but thankfully took a post-apocalyptic turn for the better. Despite his unwieldy name (JustIN CronIN? What WERE his parents thinking?) the prose is good. One humorous spelling error: twice the word "wretch" for "retch" (as in, about to throw up). Incongruous where it occurred and still has me wondering about the general English skills of most editors (oh, I've found some SUBLIME errors lately). So.

Go and buy yourself two very different books and cuddle up.