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Had a conversation with a friend about whether I should blog my miserableness of the last couple of days. I emailed my miserableness around a few friends, but blogging is different.

Who wants to read this?:

I feel I’m living a double life.

Even while feeling quite ill, I was able to function as an artist, but not a teacher. I was able to draw and make notes on certain concepts in my sketch book, but not even think about the stuff I had to do for school. I was able to concentrate on working out quite complicated designs and methods, but couldn’t contemplate doing simple printing with 16 children for half an hour. That’s what I’m doing this afternoon.

I don’t want to think about it. I know it is a good thing, and in principle want this sort of artist/teacher thing to be provided, but some days, like today, I don’t want to be the one providing. I very nearly wrote this in a blog, but thought I would probably regret it. I don’t know if after writing it here I’ll press delete or send at the moment… but it feels better to write it anyway.

I know I’m being particularly miserable about it at the moment, and it will pass I’m sure, and I’ll be all keen again. But at the moment I don’t want it.

perhaps it’s my age?

yeah that’s it.

maybe.

So I shall be slow today I think, take it gently, sit alone.

So I sent it (and now I’ve blogged it).

Then I went to work.

I don’t often talk about my teaching here, and welcome Bo starting his blog about teaching, because I’ve done quite a lot of discussion about my teaching there instead.

I was like a bear with a sore head.

Kept myself away from everyone as much as possible.

Great. Heating broken down. So like a recalcitrant toddler I stomped about. I’m ill! The one saving grace about taking myself into work was at least it would be warm.

No. It wasn’t. We all kept our coats on till lunchtime.

Still stomping and scowling about after lunch, I managed to get half of year one into aprons, and give out their printing blocks they’d made the week before. Did this without any getting broken. Then we squeezed ink onto tiles and rolled it out and spread it all over the tables, the roll of wallpaper, the chairs, the floors, up each other’s arms, up Mrs Thomas’ shirt and down her trousers. Then we printed. A row of smudgy, glorious houses, some fancy, with flowers and trees and tiles on the roof, some gently rounded rectangles, leaning to the left, with hundreds of round windows, Some with too much ink, some with not enough. I love them SO much I could cry. This little street of different houses from different children. Each one telling the story of the child. Some meticulous and careful, two or three perfect samples, others, making dozens of them, scarcely touching the paper before being whisked up and rolled over again to within an inch of their lives.

By 3.30 I was filthy, so were they, I am DEFINITELY going to get parents complaining.

But I was happier than I’ve been for days. Took me till 4.45 to clean up.

Still not very well. But now have sense of perspective. Thanks Year 1.