We ate dinner and tried to name all of my primary school teachers in chronological order. I had one teacher three times, so it wasn't that hard, but we couldn't remember year one for ages. Mrs Furber. Definitely the most forgettable of the lot. Though I remember Matthew M called her mum once. So embarrassing.
The teacher I had three times was Scottish and in reception I started saying wee instead of little.
Like how at university I started saying dinner instead of tea.
And in Auckland I said jandals instead of flip flops.
And now I say heaps instead of loads.
I remember reading an old English book as a teenager in which the narrator meets an American and comments on the fact that he says maybe instead of perhaps. She thinks that's so American.
In year six we were all given leaving certificates that complimented some aspect of our personality or scholastic aptitude. Like so polite and thoughtful or such a voracious reader.
Mine said they would miss my witty repartee. I didn't actually know what that meant and I complained to Mum that I wanted a nice one that said I was a star like Laura K got.
But Mum told me this was better.
You have just one more day to watch Andrew Scott in Sea Wall by Simon Stephens. It will be a very well-spent 34 minutes, I promise.
The cult of Elon is cracking.
The joy of deleting many mediocre photos.
The inescapable pressure of being a woman on Zoom.
Velociraptors are still loose, but that won't stop them reopening Jurassic Park.
The government’s response to Covid-19 and Brexit are intimately connected.
André Leon Talley on being thrown under the bus by Anna Wintour.
Stanley Tucci is cooking his way through the pandemic.
The case for letting the restaurant industry die.
The new nationalism.
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PS Scratch. Puddle. Crunch. Stoat. Snacks.