RSPCW

No word from the Moroccan. Obviously. Yes, I know, I should have seen that one coming. I really can't believe that he came on so strong but then just abruptly stopped calling. I would never do that. I phoned him over a week ago and since then... nothing. Well, I'm not chasing him. Next!

I spoke to J about it and we chatted about how stupid men are. I mean, why bother with all the chat about how much he liked me if he didn't mean it? Now, I've previously refrained from saying what I'm about to say so bluntly because I'm aware that there's nothing more boring than women whining about how rubbish men are. BUT THEY ARE, AREN'T THEY?

In the last couple of weeks, I've had a short fling with a guy who went from almost declaring love to me to just not calling, tried to console F as her boyfriend behaves like the biggest prick in the universe, and spent a good couple of hours counselling J about her break-up with a guy who, to be honest, led her a merry dance for over three months.

Whilst watching the recent rioting on TV, I started thinking about how angry I am. Yes I'm angry about social inequality. And by that I mean the way that my friends and I have been treated unjustly....by men. In fact, I'd like to form my own vigilante squad, an all female SWAT team of sorts. We could be called 'The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Women'. We'd wear pink masks and carry huge baseball bats and garden shears. And we'd drive around in a hot pink transit van dispensing justice to all those stupid men who aren't treating their wives and girlfriends properly. This treatment would involve a non-stop forty eight hour session of 'Sex and the City', an interrogation involving thumbscrews where they would be forced to confess to all their wrongdoing, and a series of interviews with every single one of their ex-girlfriends so they could see the error of their ways. Ha. Only once they'd made a full confession and signed a contract saying they promised to behave better in future, would we release them back into society. We'd dump them, confused and with the 'Sex and the City' theme tune ringing in their ears, branded across the arse with our logo and wearing a pick tutu on the doorstep of … their local! This public shaming would act as a deterrent to all their friends. Breaking the aforementioned behaviour contract once it was signed would result in instant death. Public hanging in fact. By the balls.

Seriously though, where are all the good ones?

There is that not-so-hilarious joke that goes:

Q:What do men and parking spaces have in common?

A: The good ones are all taken and the rest are disabled.

(Or gay)

(or confused/scared of commitment/ lacking in balls)

So many of my friends are afraid that they're going to wake up one day and realise that it's too late for them to have children. That their time has been wasted by a procession of stupid men. I'm pleased to say that so far I've not felt that panic. I'm sure that day will come though when I start thinking that I need to freeze my eggs or find any random man on the street to impregnate me or something. But for now, I'm just watching in disbelief at the stupid things that men get up to.

Is it my fault that I keep having such crappy experiences with men? And that just I'm choosing the wrong ones? Hmm....Come to think of it I have picked some idiots recently. Looking back over the men I've had dealings with this year there is:

The Turkish Jewellery Shop Owner,

Hot FB Guy,

Used to be Toxic Ex,

The Nineteen Year Old,

Hot FB Guy (again)

The Hot Islander,

Hot FB Guy (yet again)

The Moroccan Surfer.

It's not the best list in the world, is it? To be honest, it reads more like the 'Who's Who' of  'Unsuitable Men to Go Out With'. The overseas edition.

Well, as I'm moving to Bucharest next week and hoping to make a fresh start, maybe my New (Academic) Year's Resolution should be 'Hold out for Mr Right without getting distracted'. And buy a really big baseball bat.

The Forbidden Experience

I've only gone and done a Shirley Valentine. Except that the man in question does not have a large moustache and he doesn't say 'I want to make fuck with you'. Not quite, anyway.

To be honest, the beginning of our much anticipated Moroccan holiday could not have gone much worse. After spending a small fortune on new summer clothes and every lotion and potion in Boots to get us 'beach ready', F and I arrived at the resort. Unfortunately, on first impressions, it reminded me of places I dimly remember seeing in news reports about Eastern Europe in the early 80s – all grey concrete and pot holed roads. Could this really be the popular beach resort described by our travel agent, we asked ourselves. It was. 

As I wrote in my last post, we were imagining sophisticated cocktails by the pool, blue skies and long afternoons spent reading glossy magazines on the beach. What we actually got was grey skies, and a beach that looked a bit like Blackpool (but not as clean) that could only be reached by walking through a large car park full of overflowing rubbish skips. To make matters worse, we soon discovered that the hotel had an over-active entertainments programme which meant that the pumping music by the pool didn't stop for even a minute between ten in the morning and ten at night. No lie-ins for us then! But hey, who needs a lie-in when there's always some kind of fun activity being pushed on you by the hyperactive 'animation' team? We never did find out what the intrigingly named 'spoon game' entailed.

By the second day, we each had a serious and buttock-clenchingly awful case of diarrhoea (which we christened 'The Forbidden Experience') courtesy, we think, of the salad bar. Even Immodium couldn't fix it. Sitting on the toilet sweating and shaking whilst being forced to endure Blue's 'Breathe Easy' from the poolside PA system for the fiftieth time was not the experience I had in mind when I paid the travel agent five hundred hard earned notes for an idyllic holiday. To make it even worse, the hotel staff were generally unhelpful and unpleasant and the bank refused to change our money, saying it was 'too dirty'. It did not look good.

Things picked up on the second day when we met some boys who owned a surf camp near the resort. They took us clubbing a few times, bought us loads of drinks and let us hang out with them back at their place. One of them (who I'll just call S) seemed to quite like me and said that he would like to see me again. This will be somewhat difficult as he lives in the UK and I will be moving to Bucharest in a couple of weeks time. I am very cynical, as I can't believe that anyone as gorgeous as him would fancy little old me but also because Holiday Siani is very different to Normal Everyday Real Siani. I really don't believe that he would still like me if we did manage to meet again.

Holiday Siani is brown and relaxed and likes dancing to hard house music whilst swigging vodka. She likes to stay out until 5 am and has an array of brightly coloured dresses, and nicely matching jewellery. Holiday Siani is full of confidence and doesn't give a shit ('scuse the pun) about what people think of her. Holiday Siani is a carefree, fun person. In contrast, Real Siani has grey hair and is moody. She is in bed by nine and hates hard house music and clubbing. She's pasty white, has cellulite and lacks self-confidence.

On holiday, I was happy to party until five every morning and existed on very little sleep, vodka and spaghetti sandwiches (bread and pasta being the only safe things we could eat from the 'Buffet of Death' as F named it). But Real Siani is very different. Real Siani is more restricted, more stressed, more demanding. Real Siani has issues.

I had an emotional goodbye with S at the airport and we talked regularly on the phone in the first few days after I got back.  Initially he seemed very keen. But now I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach because it's been a good forty eight hours and there's been no contact. Even though I'm a cynical hard-bitten woman of almost thirty two who knows that it was just a fling and not going anywhere, I'd still like to hear his voice. I know it's crazy to feel such an attachment to someone I only knew for a week. I know that I should forget about him and move on. Where could it possibly go?

At home in North Wales, sitting in my tracksuit bottoms watching 'The Antiques Roadshow' with my Mum, I wonder, was that really me? Who sat chatting on the beach until five in the morning and who wasn't tired at all despite having only about four hours sleep every night? Was it really me who danced like a mad thing for three hours straight, stopping only when it was time to go home? Was it me who wore a floral play suit and heels out in public? (Btw it was, the evidence is on Facebook...)

And was it me who said good-bye to him so carelessly at the airport, confident that I would see him again? It seems like a different person. It seems like a different world.

 

Mind you, Real Siani's not all bad. For a start, she doesn't have chronic diarrhoea.

Siani's Guide to the Perfect Getaway...

Still no news from Hot FB Guy, but I don't care because F and I are going on holiday to Morocco tomorrow. We both have this vision of us floating around the souk wearing 'Sex and the City 2' inspired outfits, swimming in a turquoise pool and sipping cocktails at a trendy club. I suspect the reality will be very different. My holidays with F are always brilliant but consist of at least one totally unexpected episode, for example, the food poisoning incident in Cuba, the crazy night with two Italian men we met in a club in Abruzzo, and large mosquito bites that turn bad.

That's the thing about holidays – the expectation is almost as good as the real thing. Just pick up any glossy women's magazine and the front cover at this time of year will consist of tips on How To Get Ready For Your Summer Holiday. Some of the suggestions inside are more expensive than the holiday itself, ridiculous and downright dangerous (some of the more extreme diets to get you 'bikini ready' for example).

Going on holiday has become a ritual in itself, involving many hours of angst (bikini shopping) pain (bikini waxing) and expense (all of it). This year, I have resisted the urge to spend hundreds of pounds on holiday gear -I have a perfectly good summer wardrobe already! Who am I kidding? I already know I'm going to spend about half of last month's salary on cute sparkly things in 'Accessorize' at the airport but never mind....

Holiday mania grips us, making us descend into a sort of frenzy, forcing us to go out and buy a myriad of mini toiletries, every glossy magazine in the newsagent and three new lip glosses (to go with the new outfits we've just bought). And then there's the anxiety caused by the fact that one will have to show one's pasty white British body off in the company of people who are tanned,slim and chic. People who don't buy Primark.

One year, desperation at the thought of wearing a bikini on holiday drove me to embark on the Slimfast Plan. I lasted two hours before I caved in – I was just too hungry and the shake that I was supposed to have eaten for lunch just hadn't cut the mustard. I went from being determined to lose two stone in a week to gulping down a sausage baguette in literally three seconds. Diets don't work for me. Especially when I know that I've got two days to get rid of that pot belly I've been cultivating all year.

I'm sure that the anxiety I'm feeling is caused wholly by the aforementioned glossies that I read. The articles on how to look nice on holiday are usually bordering on the ridiculous. For example, every summer there is a huge article about what make up to wear on the beach. Coral lipstick and gold eye shadow usually feature heavily. Now this is just downright ridiculous – who wears heavy make up in 35 degree heat? No one I know, that's for sure. There's always a double page spread of a very thin model, oiled up, wearing on of those cut away swim suits and lots of gold jewellery. To me that spells problems. Who wants a sun tan that looks like they fell asleep under a pair of Granny's net curtains? Not me.

Instead of this fantasy, I wish someone would publish a no-nonsense guide to real life holidays. Something entitled 'How to lose half a stone by next week on the biscuit diet 'or 'How to look glamorous on your staycation in Torquay when its fucking freezing and your legs have turned purple.' If I was to publish a ten point holiday guide for every girl in the UK which gave honest advice it would go like this; not that I think I'm an authority or anything...

1) Invest in beachwear that fits you properly. 32Es, a string bikini you've borrowed from your sister and water jets in the pool is a disaster waiting to happen. Believe me.

2) Wear sun cream – religiously. Apart from the threat of skin cancer which is nasty enough, sun burn screams 'I'm British and I got too excited and momentarily lost my brain this afternoon when I tried to fry myself by the pool using only olive oil as an spf.' Really sad. Foundation doesn't cover sun burn by the way. It just makes you look like a badly made-up drag queen.

3)Avoid fabrics like viscose, polyester and the like. Scratchy, common and give you baaad sweat marks. You might also end up looking like you fallen into the reject basket at Primark. Not a good look. However, come to think of it, these fabrics are probably easier to wipe the sick off when you've had one too many cocktails.

4) When packing consider if you're really really going to wear everything in your case. That ball gown may not be right for Ayia Napa.

5)If something looks or smells dodgy, trust your instincts and don't eat it. Having a non solid poo situation can ruin a romantic moment when you meet that hot local guy. I had a situation last year in Turkey that involved being in a dinghy with the hot man from the hotel jewellery shop and really bad diarrhoea. He was looking into my eyes, I was wondering if I could manage to not poo on his leg. Not fun.

6) And speaking of local men, have fun. But don't be stupid. You know what I mean. Bear in mind that they may do this kind of thing with British tourists all the time. (I've done it btw, many times!) Going off on a tangent a little bit here, it scares and shocks me that many of my friends admit to having unprotected sex with men they've met on holiday. You might as well put your hand up and make a request for chlamydia, a warty fanny or worse.

7) Only go on holiday with someone that you get on with really well. At some point during the holiday you're both probably going to be tired, hungover and grouchy. Tempers will become frayed and you'll both need to deal with it. I once spent a weekend with some casual acquaintances on the Isle of Wight who were, I realised after a day in their company, addicted to playing on their I-Phones. Annoying. To be honest though, it was the Isle of Wight in February. It wasn't like there was that much else to do. After three days there I would have been happy to play on an an I-Phone all day and I'm a technophobe...

8) Take a nap at around 4 pm every day. You will need to be fresh for all that crazy partying that you're going to do. Don't forget to have as much fun as possible - on holiday it is permissible to do things you wouldn't at home. Can you see yourself dancing on the table, holding an extra large Martini and lemonade back in All Bar One? Thought not.

9) Be a classy traveller – learn about the culture and a few phrases and if it's a Muslim country cover up a bit when you go out. Be polite and courteous to everyone you meet. Also, ending up in jail because you fancied some al fresco frolics on the beach with a man from Birmingham is a stupid situation that can easily be avoided.

10) Lastly, try to go somewhere where there are no other British people. Or at least not the kind who wear hankies on the heads and expect a full fried breakfast every morning. I've found that being able to speak Welsh comes in very handy in situations when you want to differentiate yourself from other Brits on holiday. It's also a good deterrent against being harassed by the kind of person who starts a sentence with 'Hey pretty ladies...' So if you know any obscure languages, use them!

Anyway, after imparting those (questionable) words of wisdom, I need to go. F and I are going for a Brazilian and then bikini shopping. I suspect I'm going to need to have some drinks to get over the trauma of seeing myself nearly naked in a full length shop mirror, cellulite and all. Wish me luck ladies.....

Drawing the Line

Sorry I've been away for so long. Packing up one's life into a series of cardboard boxes is very time consuming. So is cancelling direct debits and saying good bye to all those people who have been part of your life for the last few years. Not to say emotionally draining, tedious and unbelievably exhausting.

On Friday, the last day of school, I attempted to draw a neat line under the past three years. I cleaned out the drama studio and said my goodbyes. After having lunch with workmates at the local pub, I walked back to school to get my car, only to be found sobbing hysterically by Roger the caretaker in the car park. I was crying because I had just had an emotional goodbye with my friends, but also because I knew that I'd never see Hot FB Guy again. I had just made the decision to leave the pub without saying goodbye to him, feeling that there was no good way to do it. I was afraid that if I wasn't careful, I would shatter the cool calm exterior that I've been so carefully cultivating for the past few months, start to blub hysterically and tell him the truth, which is that actually, I'm in love with him and have been since last October.

Turns out that it isn't that easy to draw a line. Turns out that cutting someone that important out of your life just doesn't work. I should have realised that when I deleted him from FB, only to spend a huge amount of time obsessing over him. A couple of hours later, whilst I was trying to work out how to get the entire contents of my house into my car boot, he texted saying that he hoped I was going out that night so he could say goodbye to me.

Of course I was.

Well, to cut a long story short, I didn't stay at J's as planned that night. We left the club together and sat in the taxi back to his, me in a fever of anticipation and almost not believing that finally, finally, something was going to happen. Back at his, we did stuff and said stuff that should have been done and said months ago. Not wanting to over share, I'll just say that I returned back to J's at ten the next morning with a huge smile on my face and last night's make up on. All I can say is we fitted. Perfectly. Waking up in the morning and realising that I was naked in bed with Hot FB Guy was a pretty awesome experience. Even better when he put his arms around me and held me really tightly like he didn't want to let me go.

Now I know what you cynical people are thinking. That because I'm leaving, he saw me as a sure thing. I'm not deluding myself and I'm sure that's part of it. But in a way, because I'm leaving, I've safe guarded myself against getting really hurt. It can't go anywhere for purely geographical reasons. And we're obviously not going to have a long distance relationship. To be honest, it was a brilliant way to end things. It would have been an even better way to start something, but hey, shit happens. I'm leaving in less than a month and I had one of the best nights of my life on Friday. I'm pretty sure that I'll remember it for … ever.

The only thing is, that he's ruined my plan to sever all ties with him. Before Friday, my feelings were manageable. I was going to leave without saying good bye and walk away without a backward glance (almost). But when you've spent the night with someone, they've seen you naked from pretty much every angle and stared into your eyes and stroked your hair and kissed you everywhere, well, that's a different story. And it was like that, by the way.

As he drove me back to J's, we talked about endings. When I commented on it being the end of an era, he told me not to put labels on things. He also asked me when I was actually going going. I know that I can't hope that I will see him again. Our goodbye (casual and brief) made me think that he didn't feel that it was properly over. But I can't let myself hope. I have to be tough, even though never seeing him again makes me want to cry and bash my head against the wall. I'm going to be really philosophical about this – I'm leaving and I'm sure that they will plenty of hot men in Bucharest. Men who aren't afraid to face their feelings and men who don't have an addiction to Facebook.

So, here's the line

It really is the end of an era.

Persona Non Grata

I have a friend who is perfect. Really, really, perfect. She has a beautiful baby and a gorgeous husband. Her house is artfully arranged in shabby chic style and she is deliriously happy. We used to work together, and when the baby was born, I sent her a couple of cute babygros and a card. Recently, I have spent a few afternoons round at hers, drinking cups of tea and gossiping. I thought we were close. Maybe not kindred spirits but certainly good friends.

Yesterday, this friend sent me a text reminding me about next Sunday, which was interesting because as far as I knew, next Sun I'm probably doing my usual mundane Sunday routine of Tescos and cleaning the bathroom. I asked J who told me that it is the baby's naming ceremony on Sunday and hadn't I already been invited? She had had her invite weeks ago. It was probably just a mistake, she said, and she texted my perfect friend to ask. The answer came back – a definite no. The text was a group one which she had sent me by accident. Apparently they wanted to keep the event 'small'. Maybe I'm such a large person that the ceremony would be jeopardized by my presence? Actually I'm not that bothered about not being invited, but more that my friend would send me that text and then just point blank say that I absolutely, definitely wasn't invited. It's so different to the way I operate – if I did that I would have to back track and say that of course the social pariah who I had mistakenly invited as well was meant to be coming! And I had just forgotten to send them an invite! Silly Me!

This has shown me that this person isn't perfect after all. In fact, it has shown me that she's socially unaware and doesn't care about the feelings of others. It's quite refreshing to realise this. And to be honest, a baby naming ceremony isn't really my idea of a fun thing to do on a Sunday. Spending the day lying on the sofa reading the BBC Good Food Magazine with a nice cup of tea is in fact preferable. Or colour coding my underwear drawer. Or de-scaling the kettle.

However part of me is, I admit, a little bit put-out. The feeling I have is similar to the one you get when you realise that someone you quite like has de-friended you on Facebook. Or like the one I used to get when no one wanted to play Famous Five with me in primary school (I was always George, obviously.) Logically though, I know I should act my age and not take it personally. I keep saying to myself that it doesn't matter and it's not a reflection on me. It's just because they didn't have space to invite hundreds of people.

But hang on a minute, perhaps they actively don't want me to be there? Me in particular? I can just imagine the line being crossed through my name on the list - if it was ever on there in the first place. What a nasty thought. Maybe the presence of a single 31 year old girl with shrivelled ovaries and a raucous laugh would ruin the happy (but serene) vibe of the occasion. And perhaps my friend is afraid that I might crack onto all the single men there. Maybe she thinks I'd be like the drunk great aunt at the wedding who has one too many gin and tonics and falls into the flower bed at the reception? Maybe I'm actually a really horrible, socially inept person? No, that can't be it...All my friend say I'm a Good Laugh! Maybe that's the problem? Maybe I'm too much fun? Maybe I have to face the fact I'm just not the kind of person who makes a good guest at a baby naming ceremony. Oh dear.

This situation and the fact that I don't even want to go to the ceremony has made me face a couple of things: 1. That this friend isn't that good a friend at all and 2. How different our lives have become. It has also made me consider the kind of person I am and how I operate socially. Sadly, I know that I'm not going to be in contact with this person any more. She has essentially made it impossible for us to be friends or even acquaintances because the next time she sees me she's going to have to mention it. I have a feeling she will try to avoid that kind of situation.

In re-evaluating myself and how I would have behaved had it been the other way around, I have also considered whether I'm feeling bitter because I'm jealous of my perfect friend with the perfect baby, the gorgeous house and her perfect existence. I can honestly say that I'm not. Her life is mapped out forever whereas I feel as if I'm about to start a new adventure, one of my own making. And what could be more perfect than that?

Excuse Me, Please Can You Help Me Search For My Lost Pen Pal?

A friend of mine vividly remembers this phrase from his GCSE French. How many of you remember the days of Tricolore when you thought that every conversation in France started with strangely Greek sounding country music and always involved a gruff sounding man called Jean-Pierre who lived in La Rochelle?

Well, I'm revisiting those happy memories, because as I mentioned in my last post, I'm trying to learn Romanian. I have figured that the key to being happy in Bucharest will be knowing the language and therefore being able to get to grips with the local men.... sorry I mean culture....

I suppose the process is marginally less painful than those days in Secondary School. At least the the boys in my form are no longer flicking dried snot at the back of my head or passing notes behind my back that say 'Siani smells!' And I don't have to mindlessly repeat 'I want a ham sandwich' over and over as the card is held up in the air by a teacher who is seriously lacking in enthusiasm. Our teacher, whose name I can't even remember, made it plainly obvious that he would much rather be sitting in the staff room eating a baguette au camembert or whatever than teaching us. It also seemed that the French Department only had five cards- a ham sandwich, a cheese sandwich, vegetables, chips and steak. For some reason, family holidays in France never helped me in my language acquisition skills either, maybe because we spent most of our time looking round cathedrals (sorry, Mum) or in the pool, not conversing with the locals.

But being an adult with no GCSE or A-Level exam looming, I can learn a little bit at a time, usually in the car on the way to work. The only thing about that is that mouthing Romanian phrases to yourself makes you look a bit mad. Last week, on the way to work, as I was repeating the phrases in 'Unit 3 - Useful Vocabulary', I had to stop at some traffic lights. Engrossed in my studies, I happened to turn my head and saw a group of my Year 10s standing by the side of the road staring at me. I gave them a little wave and sped off, secure in the knowledge that their suspicion that “Miss is actually bonkers” were now confirmed. Actually, I think they realised this after I got on the floor and pretended to be a banana when they were in Year 8.

Anyway, moving swiftly on, I am determined that I am going to use this move as a chance to learn a new skill ie a language. Something to engage my brain in a new and different way. I'm very proud that I now know how to answer should I ever be asked how many sons and how many daughters I have. I can also find my way to the bus station and ask a shopkeeper for a kilo of green olives and a litre of milk. And the verb structures are starting to make sense in my head, although so far I'm still only on the present tense.

But it's not quite as simple as that. Learning Romanian is about me embracing a new life and starting to mentally detach myself from everything here. Strangely enough, yesterday a colleague at work remarked on how different I look. I have recently dyed my hair a shade later and got new glasses, but I'm also walking and carrying myself differently. I feel lighter, happier, as if I can't wait for what's going to happen next, like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

If my life was a book, this would be a new chapter. It would be entitled 'Siani Gets a Life'. If it was a chapter in a Tricolore textbook it would be entitled 'Siani Leaves La Rochelle – The Future Tense'.

Bucharest...Really?

I'm back. It's been a while. Sorry. Life took over for a short time and owing to work and other boring stuff I wasn't able to write. In fact, because of my huge workload I wasn't able to do anything except sit on my ever-increasing arse on the sofa, exhausted. My students had their exams and preparing them for those seemed to take priority over everything else. In fact, it took priority over my health and happiness.

Over the last couple of months, I have felt like I was drowning in a sea of paperwork and spending far too much time at school. Life has been, to be honest, pretty damn miserable. I spent the majority of the Royal Wedding weekend at home alone, marking, when everyone else in Britain, it seemed, was out buying Wills and Kate tea towels, lusting after Prince Harry, or getting absolutely smashed. (Or all three, but not necessarily in that order!) Something, I decided, had to change. If one can't celebrate a National Holiday like everyone else, I reasoned, then life must be pretty crap indeed. On arriving back at work on the Tuesday, I felt angry that I had given up so much of my holiday in order to work when, it seemed, people who hold more senior positions than I had spent it relaxing and spending time with their families.

In the first post I ever wrote on this blog, I vowed I would take this year to make myself happy, yet at this time, I felt angry about my work-life balance. I felt stuck, like I was running on a treadmill, going nowhere but getting more and more tired with absolutely nothing to look forward to. When friends I hadn't seen for ages would ask me what I had been up to lately, I didn't have anything to say – nothing that wasn't related to work or my students anyway. I had no stories any more. My life had become boring.

Then, out of the blue, a friend emailed, saying that they needed a Drama teacher at the school he teaches at in Bucharest and would I like the job? I thought about it for a while. And then I said Yes. Moving to Romania definitely wasn't something that was in my life plan, but how stupid would I be to turn down this kind of opportunity? Especially when I had applied for other jobs abroad and heard nothing.

So I'm off. My contract starts in August. However, I now feel trapped in some sort of limbo – as if I'm neither coming nor going. My students, after their first reaction of shock, seem to have become resigned to the idea and are now slightly subdued in class, not sure how to treat me now they know I'm going. My friends are divided into two groups, the 'Good For You' group and the 'I'm So Jealous' group. Some people, however, seem suspicious of the decision I've made, asking if it's a good idea or if Romania is somewhere I really want to live. Well, maybe it's not the first place I would have picked but from what I can gather it's a buzzing, vibrant European city. It'll sure be a change from rural ...shire anyway. Plus, with the low cost of living over there, I've calculated that I will be able to save over half my salary every month. From what I know of the school, the work-life balance is much more realistic and I will be able to do exciting things in the evenings, rather than just watching 'Supersize vs Superskinny' and then retiring to bed early with my faithful companion, Grazia magazine.

Of course, I'm really scared. Actually, pooing my pants would be a (slightly cruder) and more accurate description of my mental state at this point. I have roots in this area now – I've made friends and own a house. And I'm going to miss my students so much – especially the older ones. I have visions of myself, sitting in some grey flat in the dodgy part of town, totally alone, skyping my Mum and Dad and crying pathetically whilst downing a bottle of the local wine. (Just like a normal Friday night in then!) At certain moments, I'll have a flash of doubt, start panicking, and think What are you doing Siani? You must be bonkers... leaving everything that you know and going to live on your own in Eastern Europe!

Actually though, I'm not telling the whole truth. There is another reason why it was hard to make the decision.  A couple of months ago, I met a Man That I Really Liked and he, it seemed, liked me back. We had a few dates and everything was going swimmingly. But when I told him that I had been offered the job and was thinking about accepting it, he asked me not to call him again. I was pretty gutted. Sod's Law and all that.

It seems crazy that after waiting to meet a man for so long, I'm deliberately choosing not to continue the relationship, especially at the grand old age of thirty one when apparently, according to society, I should be thinking about having children before my ovaries start shrivelling up and I metamorphose into a crazy old spinster. I can feel that happening already - the crazy bit I mean, not the shrivelling ovaries,that would be a bit weird. I already have eccentric, set-in-my ways type habits and I've contemplated getting a black cat...

If I think about it rationally though, I know that if I chose not to go because of a guy it would probably all go wrong anyway and I would regret it forever. That's just the way life is. I'm pretty sure he wasn't The One (of many) as well – for example there were a few instances when I would say something and he would look blank because he didn't know what a word meant.

Anyway, I'm sure that I'll meet a sexy Romanian over there, someone perhaps who has a wider and more varied vocabulary. Not that I have high standards or anything, you understand. I have a plan as well - I fancy bagging myself a diplomat or ambassador (Ferrero Rocher anyone?) who's tall, dark and mysterious and speaks five languages. Then I can travel the world with him. I've already Googled a few of the embassies in Bucharest but unfortunately they don't put staff pics up. Shame.

When I think about the life that I want, I see travel, adventure, exotic places. As I said in a previous post, I don't see myself lying on the sofa here reading Star magazine, too exhausted to move because I've just worked a twelve hour day. Or spending every Sunday morning in the supermarket and every Sunday afternoon cleaning and doing school work.

Anyway, I think I'd better go and catch up on my studies. I'm on Unit 3 of 'Teach Yourself Romanian' and I need to get to grips with those pesky verbs. By this time next week, I'm hoping to be fluent.....