|Scotland is driving me absolutely bloody mad.
||[Jul. 19th, 2003|05:04 pm]
Professor Minerva McGonagall
|||||Bagpipes. Over. And over. And over again.||]|
It appears that things haven't changed much. 11-17 year olds I can manage. Toddlers and crying babies are beyond me.
Forty years ago, I left to become a Professor, my dream, and, as a double motive, to get away from all of the crying children of my sisters and brothers, and the prying eyes of my mother. I come back now, and all of their crying children have grown up and have crying children of their own.
I can not stand it.
It's awful! And every single one of them - especially my mother, whom I've discovered hasn't changed - is constantly nagging me.
"Oh, Minerva, it's so sad that you haven't settled down yet."
"You were the eldest, you should have been married first!"
"Really, I do think you would have made a great mother!"
And so forth.
If I ever become one of those old women who sit around and knit while gossiping about everyone around me and talking about "the good ol' days", please, some one, kill me. Throw me off of the Astronomy Tower. Anything.
As it is, everyday I sit around I become more and more anxious about how Albus and Severus are holding up at Hogwarts, and I worry more and more about all of the work there is to be done when I get back.
On top of my family, it's all driving me mad. And the 13-year-old has just started bagpipe lessons. She can't play. She can't play at all.
My God, I sound like Severus!
That's it, I'm leaving. I'm going to Russia. I've always wanted to go to Russia. Anything to escape this place.
If you want to contact me, send your Owl to Moscow.