(First?) hacky sack in Phobjikha

As I walked up to the stile on the lower boundary of the school, and the morning sun (third day in a row, people!) reflected off the green rooves (spell check says that is wrong. It's not roofs, is it? Is spell check drunk? Help me out here, I'm supposed to be teaching this language) of the school buildings, I realised I will be leaving. I got the tearies and had to give myself a stiff upper lip, suck it up, think happy thorts, puppies! talking to. It wouldn't do for the teachers or students to find out I'm am not a tough lady.

Then in grade 4 the students gave me farewell cards they had made and I lost my shit. Cried right there in class, had to take my glasses off and everything. They think I am tall and smart and beautiful and they like my hair.

On our walk on Saturday, Madam Choni's daughters were playing with the primula blossoms like they were hacky sacks. I have some pink yarn, left over from socks, that I planned to make into a scarf for my little mate Nina, but it is now the first of several hacky sacks. (Sorry Neens, I'll find you some more pink yarn that you'll covet just as much). The second one is for Dawa sir's son. The rest will depend on if I can source more beans for the filling.

Please someone find me a way to slow down time and stop the days from racing off. (Tears again? No, it's, ummm, dust. Or pollen, which ever sounds more convincing).