Early Sunday morning. I'm lazing about in Seoul, giving the skinny teen a few more hours of sleep before shoving her from bed to go off clothes shopping at Shinsegae. She has a fistful of coupons burning a hole in her pocket, and a birthday party next week. Must confess, I don't entirely feel energised for a shopping excursion, but needs must.

I often wish that the coffee fairy made deliveries.

The first full week of school has ended. As a new addition to the ESOL team, I share an office with five other people, one that is down a long, empty corner on the very top floor of the school building. I teach three small classes of Grade 7 students every day, with an emphasis on basic skills, verbal development, classwork/homework catch-up and pre-teaching. They are lovely and funny, and with the exception of the five new students in their midst, I know them very well. I also will be pushing into at least 14 other lessons each week, giving in-class support. If anyone had told me five years ago I would be doing it, I'd have dismissed them out of hand. However, I've got a great bunch of colleagues, my classes and I are having a great time, and the lack of grading means that I am able to complete my dissertation.

Except that I'm completely shattered.

It is all tolerable, as the oncologist promised, but Lord alive, by the time I reached Friday night I was on my knees. Other than the trek into the city yesterday morning, I have barely moved. It will all be fine, I'm sure. Just need to get back into the swing of it all; the first week is always tiring. Yikes, though. Really. Aches and pains and general malaise, and a tendency to loll about on the sofa staring blankly at Castle or The Newsroom, wondering why everyone on the screen is so noisy. Not unexpected, not enough to keep me home, and am certainly not deserving of any undue concern. This is not an invitation to hug, stroke, or wrinkle eyebrows sympathetically at me. Walk me a cup of coffee up the four flights of stairs to my office, maybe, but don't stroke me.

In related news, I have four days left until the next chemo session, and seven days until skinny teen's eighteenth birthday. She is also back at school, and returned yesterday from her senior retreat. The senior play is Romeo and Juliet this year, and she's been cast as Friar Lawrence. She was afraid of getting Juliet, not because she didn't think she could handle it, but because she senses that the lad playing Romeo would be unnerved by the thought of the kissing scenes. They get along fine, she assures me, but he has told her that he would find it uncomfortable to kiss her onstage. I suggested that if he's going to be an actor (and he will. He really will) then he might need to get over this little hurdle at some point, but Ann's typical response was to wish herself a smaller role so that he would not feel awkward. She's happy enough with FL, though she would have preferred Mercutio.

Birthday planning is rendered slow because we're both busy and live apart. There will be a dinner here on Saturday night, then the teens will wander off into Itaewon to misbehave. She wants sausage and mash, and we're going to make Eton mess. Her British is showing.

I am wondering, as every parent does, where the last eighteen years have gone. Moreso, I am wondering how weird it would be if I moved into her college dorm when she goes next year.