back up blog

Part Three (part one is here , and part two here ): I guess Calum might have had a point when I imagined him rolling his eyes at the blasé nature of my job application. Which is irritating. But I promptly totally forgot about it, until the week before I was due to finish my degree. I got an email from an address I didn’t recognise, and had to read it twice before I understood what was happening. Not because I’m stupid, you understand. Nuh-huh. The recruitment guy for the school had so lovingly constructed his email with superfluous, underused words like ‘stellar’ and ‘dashing’, and correctly used a semi-colon, and signed off hoping  ‘most desperately to hear’ that I was still interested, that I needed to stare at its spell-binding beauty for a minute. And then I quickly fired off, “Okay.” I’m kinda well-known for creaming my pants over awesome grammar. My first words to my mother were, “But I don’t want to move to Rome!” because I was tired and cranky and in the library for the thirte

Part Two (part one is here ): The months of teaching in Italy and living in the States changed me. And I don’t just mean my hair colour or my accent. Which, incidentally, changes when it wants. My brother calls me a twat when I call him and my intonation is off, Italians ask me if I am Eastern European, and I once spent an entire evening with a chap who asked me, right before he took off his trousers, “So what part of Australia are you from?” No. I don’t mean those changes. I mean the changes to the insides of my head. I went right from America back to Italy, desperate for more adventure, and by the time I had to return to the UK for my final year of school, I was devastated. I’d essentially been AWOL for eighteen months. I tried making the best of living in *gulp* DERBY, but it just didn’t do it for me. I’m not bigger or better than the place, but it just didn’t fit for me. By Christmas I was on the floor of my parents living room, curled in a ball, saying over and over again, “I just

Part One: Internet, I don’t think I ever told you just how exactly I ended up with this job in Rome. Having just spent a week there figuring out where I want to live (centrally, please) and what exactly my job entails (RESPONSIBILITY), it’s been a bit of a reflective process when I’ve had a minute alone. Like, for example, these nine hours worth of minutes that make up the train ride I’m currently on. There was a three-hour alternative, but it cost three times as much. I need those Euros for apperitivi , so it’s just my thoughts and me right now. Why do they call ‘em chilli if they are actually so hot…? Ha. Just kidding. I like to think of this next part of my journey as a twist of fate and a coming together of higher powers than I. Powers with grand plans and big designs, and perhaps also long white beards. In actual fact it was Facebook. Two years ago, I had a broken heart . And so I said sod it , packed up a bag, and came to Italy for a summer to teach . Well. That isn’t strictly

So there was this one time at English Camp , whereby I had a class of little ones for the week. And I know the last thing y'all want is another story about children- this is so far removed from one of those blogs, and with kiddyblogging you can’t write five-year-old and erectile dysfunction in the same sentence- but stay with me on this. I've got a point about my development as an actual human being worthy of the oxygen it takes me to tell these stories.   (Probably.)  For their final show- whereby they speak in English, in public, for the benefit of mum and dad who have paid hundreds of Euros for their offspring to play all week with the pretense of learning another language-all of the classes came together to put on a makeshift version of The Lion King. Because d'uh, that's way easier than having them dress as their favourite food and tell the audience what their name is. I have under-developed notions of performing for vast adoring crowds which remain unlived.

His name was Gianluca, and he was exactly the type you aren't supposed to like: bolshy, demanding, and uncompromising.  He was the kind to push you to your absolute limits; he'd have you questioning your own self, experimenting with the ways he could disarm you with his blistering blue eyes and cheeky wink, juxtaposed against his quick-wit and debilitating honesty. Just as you thought you couldn't possibly take anymore of his tricks of the mind he’d have a habit of catching you as you are about to metaphorically fall, gently slipping his hand into yours as you walk in the garden. You’d meander in contented silence, the dynamic redefined by this new intimacy, until the games began again and you are more perplexed than you were before this small gesture of togetherness.  He was exhausting, and confusing, and six years old. Six. Six year olds are my thing. I've run workshops on teaching six year olds. I have a job teaching six years olds come the autumn. I've done it