windy writing

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Wind is back with a vengeance this morning. He didn't bring Rain this time. I wish he had; with no Umbrella to play with, he turned his attention fully on me. Wheee!!! I squealed as he swept me down High Street. Then he blew my scarves off. Silly Wind. I'm quite sure that he helped to make my walk a minute or two quicker though, but unfortunately my ears are now achey because he blew so hard. I'm on Bus now. He wobbles. I remember once that I loved my job. I even told my Line Manager that that was true in my appraisal. She laughed. But now? Now, I do not love my job. I'm not terribly convinced that I even like it anymore. Back in the days, when my love for it was real, we were a small group of seven in our own little office. We looked after each other, laughed with each other and enjoyed each other. But things change, and we were amalgamated into another group who worked with students who had slightly different needs to our students. Our Line Manager changed. More and more needy students arrive and the effective group becomes an ineffectual team, although I think this is less to do with the increase in students with an EHCP {Educational Health & Care Plan} and more to do with a Line Manager who has great difficulty with timetabling. We are big, in a big room, a cacophony of jabbering adults who invade my skull. Lessons can be boring. In our previous incarnation we worked with low ability students, often with behavioural issues stemming from poor teaching at an earlier age. Although similar, the current role involves a lot more emotional support and thus, higher ability students. I feel like I twiddle my thumbs too much. I am unsatisfied. I feel watched, as though I am constantly being scrutinised. Anxious that I'm about to be told off for something I did - or didn't - do. It's a toxic environment. I need to leave. But I don't look for new roles in different places because maybe it will change. I hold on to that thought, that things can only get better, despite knowing that they can only get far worse before improvement comes. So, yesterday I started on my novel again. We all have a novel inside us, yes? I had written two pages when I picked it up again. I've now written four, and I already feel the need to change a bit of it. I think I shall be ninety before I finish writing it, too old and infirm to enjoy the riches it will bring me, too crippled to enjoy working with the attractive actors who play my characters in the blockbuster film that will inevitably be made. One can dream, no? In reality, work-related stress will probably kill me before I'm a quarter of the way through. *sigh*