An Anna for Any Occasion

Having a multifaceted persona is both a drag and a boon. It sums up my relationship to the much eulogised concept of choice; which Anna to be right at this moment? Except, thankfully, the decision is often made for me, detectable by how I am addressed.

So, the quick guide to the many faces of Anna...

Anna Kirk - Only used on formal occasions, and by people who do not know me. Strikes a sense of fear in me as will obviously be required to do something of an official capacity.

Banana - 'At home Anna', a term used when pottering. Light and detatched.

Lamb - Often with the prefix 'poor'. A term unique to pa, and in answer to some minor injury (eg, stubbed toe) or misfortune. Harks back to times past, when scrapes were common.

Small - Generic term of ma's for whichever one of her brood looks mopesome and dejected enough to warrant it. Helps lift the spirits. Small needs protecting and indulging.

Narna - Used by a closeknit group, and resonant of a certain intense period. Narna was mostly in a state of giggles and piss-taking. An endearment, but also used as a lighthearted insult eg. 'You tripped over in front of everyone? What a narna!'.

Kirky - The most common term, and who I am for a large percentage of the week. Kirky is a bit of a harmless div, chucklesome, bitchy and occasionally a stresshead regarding work.

Vodka and Kirk - Anna when out with cohorts. Dancer, drinker, waffler, gossiper.

Vodka - Anna when out at the end of the night, and those around are increasingly under the influence. Not to be mistaken with desperate cries for more intoxication.

AnnaK - Purely used by R, and not entirely sure why. Sounds cool when she says it, and I immediately know who requires me.

You'll find me at the freakshow all week: The Girl with Many Faces

Animal rights? What about computer illiterates, I say.

My mouse is going periodically bonkers.

It is hopping about all over the place completely of its own accord, in a manner far from rodenty, but rather infuriatingly frog like. I will be innocently trying to send an email to a worthy Fairtrade cause (on this occasion, to the androgynously named Silje, a contact at 'worthy cause' headquarters, who must at all times be referred to as 'it' due to not-quite-ascertained gender issues) when all of a sudden I will be linked to a penis enlarging website or highlighting details of how to purchase viagra on the net. The mouse is possessed. And the possessor clearly has erectile issues.

Anyhow, I've had enough of this computing tomfoolery, having spent days staring at screens, brain slowly melting into one big daydream as I try to escape the horrors of YET ANOTHER COMPUTER LESSON. Technically meant for research and, of course, the actual writing of the work. But literally for the purpose of mind- wanderings, planning of nights out, and checking out the J K Rowling website (surprisingly informative- for instance the Weasley's have a cousin named Mafalda). We know their game; it's merely a ruse for Hedley to avoid the sheer ludicracy of teaching us. So by refusing to learn we're cheating the system and playing them at their own game. Suckers.

Mouse going barmy again. Will have to get Fat Hector on the case. Better get out of this technological hellhole.

I'm becoming power-crazed.

Not content with organising a Ceilidh (yes, that's right a Ceilidh. Ridiculous spelling, ridiculous music, ridiculous concept. Yet I'm campaigning ardently for it to be in vogue), complete with raffle, Fair Trade booze, and the mere matter of raising money for victims of torture, I now seem to be chairing English teacher interviews. Da da daaa, Super Anna strikes again, crusading for moral justice and... seemingly the fates of English teachers.

Now surely this is the job of the current teachers at the school. Surely they aren't putting the career of an aspiring educational motivator and diciplinarian into the hands of a mere sixth former. Surely.

But it appears that they can't spare an hour to question a couple of possible inspirational literary leaders, and are instead handing over the responsibility to none other than... moi. No pressure then. Only somebody's future we're dealing with here after all.

I'm just a girl who can't say no. And who would to the frenzied, madness-tinged, hypnotic hollows that are the notably psychotic Head of English's eyes. Not me, I wanted to at least survive for a wee dance at this Ceilidh I've spent so long organising.

She dribbles no more...

They know. The other two know. It's hard to tell if she did herself; she was always the stupid one.
Stretched out, tongue protruding pinkly, paw reaching towards me and the tub of ice cream (with claws safely retracted for once), Archie looked settled and contented. Like he knew that it was all over now, that there was nothing to be done but longingly imagine me spoon feeding him melting vanilla ice cream. Once again granted permission to enter rooms filled with human comfort, and not obliged to wait outside doors, bereft of attention, the ginger ones (like Laurel and Hardy, or French and Saunders) are almost audibly sighing relief at the final rest of the matriarch.

I let Archie sleep on my pillow. He needed it. The unspoken (naturally, as he is a cat) acknowledging of grief and the necessity for contact and my duvet cover. Hector isn't so quick to catch on. He takes after his mother. But he definitely sought out a little more head-scratching and jowel-jiggling than usual, on my return in the evening. As always, it is not so much the loss at what has gone that is the heart breaking element, but what is left behind. A confused chubby son (the chubbiness makes it all the more heart rendering, like he needs his mum to give him nutritional guidance), and the resilient loner of an older brother.

Yet they will have to adapt, and adopt a camaraderie, a marmalade unity.