back up blog

The letter came the day after my 25 th birthday, right before I flew out to Italy. I laughed about it when it came, showing Calum and giggling. “It surprises me just how many requests I have for a look at my cervix,” I told him. “Slag,” he replied. And that’s how I learned about my first smear test. On my return to the (Y)UK this week, right after a session with my hair stylist (“Wow,” she said to me as she pulled dreaded, matted hair from my head. “You’re really ready for this aren’t you?”) I set off to the doctor’s surgery. For the days leading up to it, Mama was telling everyone where I was headed. “Her first smear!” she’d say, and whichever auntie/family friend/stranger waiting for the bus was being addressed would look at me, inhale a breath between their teeth, and then shake their head solemnly. Reassuring, no? I’ve had coils fitted, sexual health tests pursued, Hollywood waxes galore - not to mention that one guy who was so big it was like having sex with a coke can- and it w

I noticed their chemistry right from the start. 18- and 19-year-olds don’t need explicitly teaching English per se, so essentially means that my job is ‘spontaneous language acquisition’ i.e. I get paid to hang out and play drinking games adapted for the classroom. We get through a hell of a lot of vodka, and they learn how to inflect questions so as to successfully fit in with passive-aggressive Brits when they go on holiday. In that kind of non-typical classroom environment, love will always blossom . Laughter is horny. They always seemed to end up sat next to one another, no matter what the activity. No big deal, no HEY YOU! COME ‘ERE! Just a quiet magnetism. During drama games she would look to him from the audience as he took the floor, and a smile from her sent his performance into comedic overdrive, as if the only pleasure he could ever expect to derive from the rest of all eternity was to hear her laugh.  He’d return to his seat looking at her, and she at him, and nobody else e

I surveyed the circle of teenagers suspiciously, looking each 17-year-old in the eye as they stood waiting for me to launch into the daily warm-up ritual of Baby Got Back.  You might remember that I don't put much weight on traditional teaching methods ; I don't know how much good the third conditional is if you can't even use the words booty and brothers with any semblance of authority. Also, I find it hilarious. "I have a feeling," I told them. "My intuition is telling me something." Everybody looked guiltily to the floor, and then sideways at each other. I might not speak Italian, but you bet your ass I'm fluent in spin-the-bottle teenager. "The energy is different this morning," I continued. "There are secrets." Nobody said anything, as well they mightn't at a residential camp in a convent , about what I might mean. But two days ago when I tried to throw away the plastic bottle in the corner of my classroom there was unadu

I knew I'd get into trouble for it sooner or later. I noticed how many of the Italian commuters religiously stamped a ticket as they alighted the bus, and just how many times I stood in line waiting to buy my Vogue Menthols at the Tabacchi as some guy scurried in his man-bag for change to get his white slip of card. There was even a note on the notice board to the staff flat: BUY A BUS TICKET. YOU ARE STUPID NOT TO. Thing is, my dad is Mr. Williams , and by virtue of that I have a sloping chin and an innate problem with authority. I also had more knowledge at 16 about Who Moved My Cheese, The 16 Personalities Types You Need To Know, and The Seven Habits of Highly Successful People than is strictly necessary for somebody not yet able to distinguish between healthy glow and you’ve-been-tangoed but that is by-the-by.   Actually, no it isn’t. Did I ever tell you about the time as a teenager when I saved up all of my wages from waitressing so that I could take Mama Janie to London and