Sometimes blogs with no subjects are the best ones

Well, I'm back at school. Three weeks of sleeping 'til noon had ill-prepared me for the rude shock of chirping crickets (oh, I have an iPhone, that's the sound the alarm makes, oh, I have an iPhone, I'm all WASPish and blonde and thin and I have no fingerprints left, I swiped them all flat on my touch screen, did I not tell you?) at 6am.

With the absence of boyfriend, I have license to make all the noise I want in the AM, and so I do. It is with a "harrumph" that I lever myself floor-wards, and a groan that I traverse the icy floors towards both lightswitch and heater dial. Once both have been dealt to, I lay today's underwear flat on the radiator (nothing like a warm bottom to make you warm towards teaching Japanese students the correct pronunciation of "Keanu Reeves"). I prepare my daily vat of black coffee, and as that drips through my inherited coffee machine into my large yellow inherited mug, I go to the bathroom (aside: once I have bathroomed, I usually find myself lacking in the energy to return my pajama bottoms to their former position: I consider it a waste of energy to indulge in the bending and the pulling and the arranging that this requires, given that once the short trip back to the bedroom has been completed, I must then remove them once more. So I usually shuffle the ten or so metres to my wardrobe with my pants around my ankles. Does anyone else do this? Have I plumbed new depths of laziness? Should somebody write a Wikipedia article about me?). By this stage, I usually have about 15 minutes left before I have to leave, and 12 of these 15 minutes is devoted to makeup application/fringe straightening/clothes donning. As I complete this compelling tasks, I usually have something playing on my lap-top, usually quality foreign cinema along the lines of Gilmore Girls/Sex and the City/Grey's Anatomy. I find that a 6am wakeup is less depressing when somebody is having a baby/dying/throwing up/being dumped/being haunted by their dead ex-fiancee as a result of malignant brain cancer/being run over by a bus on the way to signing up for the army/talking really fast/having sex with a man who demands analingus/ having sex with their married ex-boyfriend/having sex with their gay colleague's husband (match the scenario to the drama, dare ya) quietly in the background.

The last 3 minutes are spent doing all the things necessary to do when going outside involves entering a landscape that looks like this:



These are:

- Tucking my fringe gently and lovingly into a knitted hat with a pompom on top (the pompom is optional, but I think it lends me a certain dignity);

- Arranging my ear-muffs over said hat;

- Donning a cardigan;

- Donning another cardigan;

- Putting on my coat (buttoned to the very top, unless snow down your cleavage and back floats your boat and tickles your fancy and rings your bell);

- Wrapping on my scarf (I have one of the those endless loop scarves, which wants to go around my neck only twice, but can be persuaded to go three times, if I accept strangulation as a natural part of my commute (which I have learnt to, and don't some people find this stuff erotic anyway?));

- Putting on two pairs of socks (by this time it can be somewhat difficult to do the bending-in-half that this necessitates, and sometimes I wonder whether if I am going to go to all the trouble of writing out a list of my clothing conundrums, mayhap I could revise and put the socks on first, perhaps in combination with removing the aforementioned pajama bottoms, and save myself this daily grief, but I am an old dog and I already know all the tricks I'm ever going to know and those include How To Write A B- Law Opinion; How To Hide Expensive Candy in Your Cheap Pick n Mix; How To Look Innocent When the New World Checkout Girl Discovers Your Chocolate Covered Strawberries; How to Order Triple Shot Vodka's At Nomihoudai's and How to Persuade Students That Bright Red is Your Natural Hair Colour, and thus I will continue to spend precisely 45 seconds of every morning hopping on one foot whilst attempting to put a second sock on the other).

- Putting on boots;

- Remembering an umbrella.

As I walk to the elevator, I double check my face in my iPhone, which usually involves me taking a picture like this:



... and after THAT has happened I'll remember that I've forgotten steps One and Two and that fukkit it doesn't really matter because no matter what lengths I go to in preparation, I'm inevitably going to end up looking like this:



Even taking into account the remarkable resemblance that I bear to Frosty the Snowman, I'm still doing better than Aravin's new car:



Ha! I could tell you that it was a BMW and you'd be none the wiser. (FYI it is in fact a Suzuki, that's Yuki the Suzuki to you, and is of the breed of all stereotypical awful Asian cars, that is, shaped like a shoebox and with about the same engine power).

School continues on as usual. I teach classes. I stand in front of classes. I say things they don't understand. I mime going down Splash Mountain:



They look alarmed.

I eat lunch. I laugh at the packet:



I get bored. I remove my ring, which hasn't been removed for nigh on 10 years:



I try not to vomit up my mushroom soup.

I commute home. I walk behind this girl, and blatantly papparazi her:



(She's not coming across as well in pictures as in person, but FYI she was wearing stiletto leather boots, diamante studded booty shorts, leopard print and Louis Vuitton. And totally working it).

I walk past my bike, and remember that I should have put it away two months ago:



But feel better when I see that at least it's got company:



Merry Tuesday, lovely people. I hope you're at least as sexy as the girl in the hot-pants, as excited as me on Splash Mountain, and as qualified for good soup as my mushrooms. Failing that, I at least hope that you're not as screwed as Aravin's car.