by The above Romanian greeting can mean one of three things: “Happy birthday”, “Happy name day”, and “Happy New Year”. Name days, if your first or middle name happens to have an associated saint, are a medium-sized deal here.
It’s still the old year here, but thanks to the wonders of video calling, I’ve managed to peek into the future. My parents saw in 2023 from the comfort of their own home; I dearly wish I could do the same. When I said I’d been invited to an event, making my apprehension clear, Mum said, “This is exciting!” without a trace of irony. She sometimes reminds me of Kingshaw’s mother in Susan Hill’s I’m the King of the Castle, I book I had to read for school. At ten this morning I thought, now I’m about as far from the start of the party as it’s likely to last, and that’s just horrifying.
Last week my British friends asked me if I’d be interested in working at their school. Just no. I’ve managed in the last six years by extricating myself from the system and putting in place rules and processes that work for me, not for some overlord who only arrived last year and will move on to greener pastures next year. Giving all that up might damn well kill me. If I could have some kind of part-time job where I turn up, teach for two hours twice a week, and then leave, while carrying on my private teaching, then by all means. But I just know I’d get dragged into this place where parents spend ten grand a year on their kids and expect A-pluses and Oxford, and in no time at all it would be game over.
My mental health hasn’t been fantastic of late, although when I look back at some of my old blog posts from years ago, it’s bloody amazing. If someone had told me when I was really struggling that I could move to this mysterious country in Eastern Europe and I’d somehow be on an even keel for six whole years and after that I might hit some choppy waters, I’d have bitten their hand off. Whether the culprit is my new antidepressant, even though it’s very similar to the old one, I have no idea.
I’m half-way through Homo Deus. It’s like we’ve recently entered a post-optimism world. My nephew is born into it. We still have our individual hopes and dreams and plans – I have my books, for instance – but on a collective level, what is there?
