Gym

Lordy! My last post was in high summer, and it’s taken me until after the equinox to post again. Oddly, the weather doesn’t seem to be any different. On the plus-side, I’m imagining that any of my friends, family or acquaintances who had developed a habit of reading this blog will now have given up entirely, leaving me free to pontificate, talk nonsense, or libel at will.

So. What has been going on? Firstly, of course, and slavishly adhering to the initial premise of this blog, there should be leg news. And it’s still there, and unencumbered. The plastic boot is in the bin. Metaphorically, of course. It’s NHS property. So significant progress has been made. I still limp, and can’t run yet. I am missing a lot of buses. But I am now thoughtfully reminded by every medical professional I have the pleasure of meeting (professionally, of course) that I should feel lucky that I have a leg. So it is my lucky leg. Though perhaps a tattoo of a rabbit’s paw would be in bad taste. Or even a discreet horseshoe.

William has been out of hospital for some weeks. This appears to mean that his morning and evening routines are Daddy’s responsibility. Proof of this, were it required, is provided by the dawn chorus that typically wakes me up. “Change my nappy Daddy!” I think it’s great that he is home.

The flat is now empty, and 90% of my possessions are in a skip in Croydon. A poetic end. The carpet has gone, but the drying machines are still not doing their job, as there is nowhere to plug them in, and no electrician in Tooting who seems able to attend an appointment when he says he will. Nearly three months on, and I am tempted to try and dry the place out myself with kitchen paper. That advert for ‘Bounty’ makes some fairly extravagant claims.

Despite all of this progress, I’m still not back to where I was with my job. I suppose there’s quite a lot of confidence to be won back from potential employers, even if I was as sprightly around the stage as I ever was. Which, of course, I’m not. So it’s a slow business. And as mortgage rates have thoughtfully chosen this moment to rise, my only two chances of avoiding skid row have been the ongoing legal case, and the possibility of picking up teaching work. And the legal case is proving interminable. The other side seem to think I should have factored in the possibility of meeting a wannabe Stirling Moss in an aged BMW into my road-crossing calculations. So I was a relieved man when the City of London School rang and offered me work until Christmas. I had been weighing up the relative benefits of a job in Starbucks or McDonalds. It will be difficult to look the head of English at Tonbridge in the eye again though. I left him with the distinct impression that the reason I couldn’t take on the job there full-time was because I was busy establishing my international operatic career. And one of his first jobs of the new term would have been to write my reference.

At least the city is a great place to work. Over ten years ago, I did part of my PGCE there, and tiptoed in with a shaky idea of the principles of English teaching, and a determination to account for every minute of a forty minute lesson with a detailed plan. Now I waltz in with my bullshit valve jammed permanently in the open position, and an accidental knowledge of my subject. It’s a different job. And rather more enjoyable, even if it isn’t my job of choice. However, there is an integral contradiction to being an English teacher in the City of London. It is not a job that sits obviously in the same space as the unfettered capitalist. Pinstripe suits don’t have leatherette elbow-patches. So, in order to feel suitably city-boy and to please my physiotherapist at the same time, I have joined a gym. I haven’t been there yet, though. I don’t own a pair of shorts.