Go Away

Go away.

I'm feeling gloomy.

I don't want to speak to anyone.

I might stay in bed all day.

It's only a date. How can a number make you feel so miserable?

It's not just a date. It's the most depressing date of the year.

Look at Facebook. That'll cheer you up.

I did. It's full of people either celebrating a wonderful year or desperately hoping that this one will bugger off quickly because it's been a complete waste of space. I feel a failure; my year has been mixed with both good and bad things.

What about Twitter?

Oh, that's much worse. It's full of 'what to make for your New Years Eve party' (I have no party to host or even go to, not that I want to because I'm too depressed), 'this is what my abs look like after Davina's 7 minute workout' (eat something people), 'Katie Hopkins' (enough said), 'All the famous people that died this year' (73 in the BBC UK roundup), 'Resolutions' (mine was to be more cheerful and I've blown it before the year has even started) and someone has even posted a suicide note.

Have a look at a website with pictures of animals then.

Okay. I'll try but I'm sure it won't help.

http://www.boredpanda.com/rats-teddy-bears-ellen-van-deelen-jessica-florence/

Ahhhh. That's better.

Yes it is but I'm still a bit depressed and worried that I've started talking to myself.

Thing of the Year

I have resisted making any comment on the Times' naming of the Briton of the Year.  I don't think that they person they've named needs any more publicity and whatever the paper's true intention was he has received it.   People have taken to twitter make better suggestions and Times employees have defended the paper's decision.

I've always been sceptical about the value of awards but I was a shocked by this tweet. 

Does this mean that the empty brown envelope I received from the Mayor this year wasn't an endorsement?  I didn't take it very seriously at the time, was a little embarrassed by it and was a bit naughty during the meeting in which it was presented.  I just couldn't help myself as the man was wearing a dead badger around his shoulders, a lacy ruff that needed a fluff and a chain around his neck for flushing. 

Maybe I should have realised the irony of the award as the empty brown envelope has never been replaced with any kind of keepsake.  They could have put a note in it that said, "Ha ha!"

Now we know that any 'of the year' award is ironic puts a whole new perspective on The Times - newspaper of the year title.

I have some suggestions of my own for 'Thing of the Year'.

1. Ironing

 2. Hot flushes

3. Being 'Perfectly fine'

4. Anaemia

5. Working on a Sunday

6.  Brussel sprout eating caterpillars

7. Funerals

8. Missing Airplanes

Happy Books In Day

It's my favourite day. Boxing Day: The day when you stay in and read the books you got for Christmas.

Wake up.  Read in bed. Eat chocolate
Get up.  Go for a walk.
Get back in PJs.  Read on the sofa.
Open the Fridge.  Read, while getting plates of leftovers out of the fridge.
Eat. Read.  Eat more.  Read more.
Start on the cheese.  Read more.

Listen to The Archers play Blithe Spirit.
Eat some chocolate.  Read even more.
Put waterproofs and wellies on over PJs, walk the dog.
Come back.  Take waterproofs off.  Get a duvet to snuggle on the sofa.  Read more.
Get up.  Get more cheese and Christmas cake.  Eat.  Read.
Read, while watching the film the family has chosen.  Absent-mindely eat a whole tub of twiglets.
Roll up to bed.  Read.

Perfect.

The Great Escape

I don't know how it happened.  As a teenager, I was determined that I was going to be the one that got away. I thought that they put The Great Escape on the TV each Christmas just to inspire people like me. I was going to grow up to have an important job, live in London and be far too busy to waste so much time, eating, drinking, reminiscing and playing games with my large and odd family. Now, I find myself more than happy to spend all day eating, drinking, reminiscing and playing games with my not so large but still quite odd family.

I have morphed into my mother, hosting the Christmas meal, complete with the occasional cooking disaster, which, this year, was cremated pigs in blankets.  I'm probably just as stressed and snappy as everyone avoids me in the kitchen during the morning but I don't have to contend with a perpetually re-filling glass of sherry.  My mother's sherry inspired cooking disasters have become the stuff of legend and no Christmas dinner would be complete without the following conversation.

"Do you remember the year Mum went to bed before dinner?"
"I don't know how that happened!" Mum insists on protesting every year
"It was the Sherry, mum."
"Oh, yes.  Harvey's Bristol Cream."
"Just imagine what it would have been like if you'd drunk it all yourself?"
We remembered; Mum dancing around the living room with a glass of sherry in her hand saying, "Hello little fishy.  One for me, one for you."  Then the memory turns dark and we can all picture the little fish floating on the top of the water.
"Did you kill my fish?" My little sister accuses.
"No!  I don't think it was the booze.  I think they froze to death.  It was very cold behind that curtain on the windowsill."

So, far from being the one that got away I am the instigator. I sometimes wonder what stories my children will be recounting with their children over their Christmas dinner in the future.  This year's main dinner time story was an argument about the one that did get away. Memory is a funny thing.  Some things are completely clear and others get blurred and confused.  Each person has a different slant on what actually happened.  Before I'd managed to get my first spoonful of soup to my mouth my sister asked, "Hey, Ju.  Do you remember the time when we went to the shop and Toby went running down the road with the R Whites sign dragging behind him?"
It wasn't a story I've told my children but as soon as she said it I could picture it.  Toby, our Westie, running down the road, terrified by the clattering sound of the metal A-frame advertising stand that was chasing him.  No matter how fast he ran he couldn't escape the lemonade nightmare.

"Which shop was it?"

I described the picture in my head.

"See,  I told you so!"  My sister was delighted, "we never took the dog to the High Street."
My parents tried to persuade me of their version of events but the picture in my mind wasn't changing.
"Are you sure it wasn't Shuttleworths then?" my Dad asked.
"No, Shuttleworths had gone long before then," I said.
"I don't remember Shuttleworths.  I do remember the roundabout and the den," confirmed my sister.
I had only been thinking about that a few days earlier.  The little corner shop had been demolished to make way for a new housing estate on the woods behind.  The site of the shop was to become the roundabout and for one whole blissful long hot summer it was a large pile of earth, that we dug out to make an underground den with the Withers boys.  We had candles and picnics under there.
Our parents paled and cringed at our memories. "That sounds so dangerous.  Who were the Withers boys?"
My sister described them and where they lived.
"Didn't one of them get done for something a few years ago?" I asked.
"Yep.  Murder," my sister confirmed, casually.

We all agreed that we hadn't tied the dog up outside Shuttleworths. "If it was that parade of shops then why were we all there?" my mum wondered.  She had a point.  We did walk to the High Street as a family but not often to the parade of shops with the butcher, greengrocer, off licence, newsagents and random plumber's store. We thought, again, about how memory can play tricks with you.  "I remember it later," said my Dad. "I don't think I was there at the time but I remember it later."  Memories can be formed that way; from the stories that other people tell.  If they tell them vividly enough it is possible to believe they actually happened.
"No, I've remembered, " he was excited now, "I was driving past and saw Toby running down the hill, trying to get home with the sign attached to his lead."

After dinner there was traditionally time for a quick snooze for the boring adults to get their second wind before the games started.  Drunk belligerent adults arguing over who was cheating the most at Monopoly and my Nan getting tearful and sniffy about having to act out something rude in Charades, while we all laughed at her, was enough to make my teenage self even more determined not to 'end up like that!' Instead, I am getting out the games, insisting that everyone plays and laughing at my mother as she gets tearful and sniffy over having to choose the most appropriate card when playing Cards Against Humanity.

Would I rather have the life I hoped for when I was a teenager?  Would I rather have been the one that got away?  Reading Grace Dent's column in the Independent this morning  Grace Dent's Christmas Questionnaire and seen Rhodri Marsden's 'Guest Bed Horror' tweets https://storify.com/rhodri/guest-bed-horror-xmas-2014 , I have realised that I'm glad that I'm not like them; glad I'm not the one that got away. I get to sleep in my own bed and can send the rest of my family home when I've had enough because even the very drunk can stagger half an hour down the road.

Lowering the Tone

Yesterday was the beginning of Christmas marked by our annual trip to London. We like to have something to eat, look at the pretty lights and see a show.

Somehow, I always seem to embarrass my family, although this isn't hard to do when they're teenagers. Trafalgar Square often seems to be a trigger point, with last year's "big blue cock" incident and the year I noticed a man looking at me and so demanded, "Do you know me?" only to find the rest of the family snickering, "Did you know that was Ian Hislop?" This year we decided to avoid the area.

We went up market. The lights are so much prettier around Piccadilly and Bond Street. Maybe I shouldn't have told the man in Fortnum and Mason that he could get some very nice crackers in Morrisons for £4, rather than the £65 he was considering paying. Sometimes I look at nice things in expensive shops and think that having money might be fun but I wouldn't be able to keep it up. You'd have to wear make up, not have dirt under your fingernails and brush your hair every day!

I could be eccentric enough. I would replace the Silver Shadow Flying Lady with a Christmas tree on my Rolls Royce too.

Everyone was most relieved when we reached the theatre. We were in the cheap seats (not very cheap), so the risk of lowering the tone was reduced. These seats at the Palladium are a challenge for anyone over 5ft with normal length legs. The people sitting next to me were struggling to get their coats off, "Pull my arm!" she'd said to her husband. "Do I need to prepare myself? Is that like pull my finger?" I asked. I'm not sure but I think I could hear one of my children slapping their forehead.

I was very well behaved and didn't say any of the things I was thinking. I'm not a huge fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber's earlier musicals because they were written as school productions, making them seem amateurish even when performed by the most experienced of cast. Also, I get a bit bored by dance. I need words and I am irritated by a big famous star; I hate the way the audience whispers when she arrives on stage and claps half way through her song. However, whatever they paid Nicole Shirtlifter was worth it. The theatre was sold out and it meant that there were many members of the cast making their West End Debut. Although, as the LSH pointed out, she did only know one song, which she sang three times, it was amazing. It's the first time I've ever really truly understood that song bringing tears to my eyes.

This musical can be a little difficult to follow. TS Elliot made up words. It's all set at the Jellicle Cat Ball. "What's a Jellicle cat?" asked the LSH. (There were some diction problems for those of us too far away to lip read).  A friend had recently told me that her son had thought it was the testicle ball. The dancing in this show was amazing and you have to admire people who can sing in tune while doing cartwheels. They made themselves look like real cats and even licked their own arses. It's impossible not to admire their amazing bodies too, with costumes that leave nothing to the imagination.

"Maybe it was meant to be the testicle ball because there seem to be a whole load of neutered cats down there!" I answered.

Whoops! I think I might have lowered the tone again.

Can I help you madam?

Christmas can be a trial if, like me, you are shoppingly challenged.

Luckily, I have a very patient Long Suffering Husband who enjoys the sport. He forces me on a joint shopping trip to a mall on a Monday in early December by booking a day off work and we get everything before 2.30, when I have to get back to teach. Anything we don't get is bought online or by further short trips out at weekends between concerts, instigated by him. Without the LSH, no one would have any presents.

The real challenge, for me, comes when I have to go it alone. Although I laugh heartily at the stories my female friends tell me of the present disasters they have received from their husbands I know that I am a whisper away from that myself. I chuckle at the story of the husband who bought his wife a car tyre because she needed one and delight in the story of the man who bought his size 8 wife a size 22 dressing gown because that was all that was left. I have no doubt that these men love their wives and are terribly disappointed at their present buying failure. I feel their pain but I still laugh.

Concerts, parties, teaching done and it's time to buy the LSH a Christmas present. Knowing my hatred of shopping he is always very helpful and writes me a detailed list, which he gives to me in my busiest week. Often the list contains things that I really don't understand; things from golf shops or specialist DIY stores. Occasionally I have deviated from the list with disastrous results. "What do you mean, you wanted screwdrivers? Aren't chisels the same thing?" The disappointment on his sad little face, as he unwraps the beautifully packaged parcel (I may be terrible at shopping but I can do wrapping) is unbearable. Last year I went totally tonto and told him I didn't need a list. It worked reasonably well. I went for a theme of small presents. 'On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me.....'but he still has a drawer full of things he hasn't used. 

This year, I'm a bit more tired and feeling much less creative. I started with the Internet and discovered that almost everything on the list was out of stock. That wasn't a particular issue because I had missed Christmas delivery dates anyway. It did give me some help as to which shops to visit. Without an Internet search I would never have discovered that "tory set draper 29117 (9 piece)" would be found in a DIY shop and was in fact torx not tory. 

I cannot fault the enthusiasm and helpfulness of the shop assistants that helped me yesterday. The man in the golf shop was so excited that there was only one of the item on my list in the right size and colour left in stock, "I think you should go out and buy a lottery ticket straight away, madam. It's a Christmas miracle!" I think I exuded the air of the defeated, though when the very helpful lady in the Chelmsford branch of Debenhams said, "Oh, they've got item 4 on your list in John Lewis in Bluewater." She looked at my face, saw a wateriness in my eyes and said, "I think you need to stop for coffee. You shouldn't do shopping without caffeine!"

The man in the DIY shop was particularly

, apologetically helpful. I love to go into a proper hardwear shop, staffed with little old men in brown overcoats, where you could ask for "O's or fork 'andles and they would know exactly what you wanted. He shuffled up to me with his tablet in his hand (I love how technology has crept into the unlikeliest of places) and proceeded to help me with my list. "Torx sets? Oh look my spell check has changed it to Tory too! Well, we wouldn't have them in a set. What does he want them for?"

"I don't know, what are they for?"

"Lectricals, cars, that sort of thing. Some screws are coming with this type of head now."

"That doesn't sound right. 

"Does it have to be Draper? We've got some individual Stanley ones."

"I don't know. I probably had better stick to the list. I don't think I could bear the puppy dog face if I got the wrong size"

He shuddered, "Oh, I know that one. I bought my wife some underwear one year as a surprise......never again! Let me see. You might be able to get it from our rival store but they are usually quite a bit more expensive."

"I thought it was just going to be a little present. Maybe I won't bother."

"Look! I've found one in a store the other side of Colchester." He sucked air in through his teeth, "£48, though!" He wished me a happy Christmas and I hoped his wife would love her footspa. I suspect, though, that she and the LSH may be pulling the same face on Christmas morning. The, "I love that you tried but I can't hide my disappointment" smile. 

Mary was a slapper.

I am probably the worst person to be working in a Church of England school.  I have no reverence, I think the whole Christmas story lacks the element of plausibility and I've always said that Mary must have been a slapper.  As a musician, however, I really quite like the familiarity of singing carols where I know all the words.  I like singing 'Lo he abhors not the Virgin's womb' in O Come All Ye Faithful, even though it makes absolutely no sense at all. As a teacher I am sometimes torn about whether I should explain the words to the children; should they know what they are singing about?  In the second verse of Away in a Manger, for example, should the children be told that 'lowing' is the 'ordinary sound that cattle make' rather than the cattle sitting down?  Sitting cows aren't going to wake baby Wayne from his manger but mooing ones might.

The December thing has been tough but I have still found time to do some of the other things I like to do.  I have managed to continue working on the online creative writing course I've been doing. This is the last week of the course and we had to submit a short story (under 1000 words), which would then be reviewed by other people on the course.  Peer reviews are always interesting and the reviews of my story were no exception.  I was hoping for some editing tips and suggestions on how to improve the story but mainly they have just made me laugh. I will explain why but first you might like to read the story.

Lie Detector

Mhairi had never felt more alone.  She pulled the sleeves of her oversized black jumper over her hands, crossed her arms and gave herself a comforting hug. The researcher sitting next to her on the couch, whispering translations of what Joe was saying, even though she could hear every word and the reaction of the audience, didn’t feel like company.  Her breasts tingled, leaving two small wet patches on her jumper. She was very glad she’d chosen the black one and not her favourite light blue, as the thought of not being immaculate on national television mortified her.

“Come on love, it’s your turn now,” said the researcher, “Don’t let ‘im get away with that.  You go in there and tell your side of the story.”

Mhairi smiled sweetly adding, “Fuck you,” under her breath.

“Let’s get Mhairi on the show, ladies and gentlemen.  How are you, Mhairi?”

Mhairi sat in the orange tub chair, placed adversarially across from Joe.  Her heart flipped, as she looked at him. His gorgeous dark eyes , framed by long dark lashes avoided her.  She would forgive him anything, even this humiliation. “Alright”

“Brilliant.  Your hair matches the chair.”

The audience laughed  and Mhairi inched away from them.

“You told my researchers you’re 60% certain that he’s the dad.”

“Yeah. Maybe.  Maybe not that much.”

“Then you were having sex with someone else at the time?”

“Nah.”

“You must have been or you’d be certain he was the Dad.”

“No, I didn’t but it might not be his.”

She bristled at another ripple of laughter from the audience.

“How many people could be the father of this child?”

“Two.”

“Him and another bloke?  Tell me about the other bloke. Where did you meet him?”

“I’ve never actually met him but he did send someone to see me and they told me that he might be the dad.”

“Brilliant.  There’s always a friend stirring things up.  I suppose they put it all on Facebook too? When did you tell Joe that he might not be the father?”

“The next morning.  As soon as they’d told me.”

“Tell her what you told me, Joe.  Come on you two talk to each other.”

Joe still refused to look at her, “She told me when she was 7 months gone.  Two scans and nothing. She let me sit there holding her hand, pretending all the time.  It was only when Gabe told me that she had to own up.”

She opened her mouth to defend herself but nothing came out.

“Oh, come on, Mhairi.  When did you sleep with him?  It was Jude wasn’t it?  You’ve always liked Jude.  I’ve seen you looking at him. “

“No. I never.  I wouldn’t.  I love you.”

“But it can’t be my baby, can it?”

“Don’t call our baby 'it'!”  She was getting angry now.  He could be cross with her all he wanted but not the baby.  Not her special gift.

Suddenly, the baby appeared on a screen behind them; smiling, dribbling and bouncing up and down in the crèche workers arms.

“That’s one special baby.  What would it mean to you Joe to be the father of this child?” Jeremy flicked his prompt cards and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“Everything.  I love that little boy with all my heart but I could never forgive her if she’s lied to me.”

“Right, let’s do this then.  The DNA test results ………………….”

The wait was unbearable. Mhairi became fixated on a woman in the front row, wearing a tweed suit and pearls, with her head tilted back just far enough to make it look as though she had a bad smell under her nose.   Smug cow.  What would you do in my position?

“Well, well, well!  Joe this gives me no pleasure but you are not the baby’s father.” Joe threw his head in his hands and sobbed.

The smug, pearl festooned woman, almost cracked her botoxed face with glee.  “Do the lie detector.  You need to do the lie detector.  He needs to know.  I’m telling the truth, “ Maihri almost shouted.

The audience laughed again.  The woman in pearls turned to her friend, shrugged and Mhairi could imagine her saying something about her being a stupid girl.

“There really isn’t any point in that now.  It’s simple biology isn’t it?  You did biology at school, didn’t you? If Joe isn’t the father then you must have had sex with someone else.”  Jeremy and the audience were really enjoying her humiliation now.

“I didn’t come all this way for you not to give me those fucking results.”  She was surprised that her words weren’t covered by a bleep.  Joe was still sobbing.

“Joe, do you want to know what these results say?” asked Jeremy patting his back insincerely.  Joe shrugged.

“It’s nothing to do with him.  It’s my reputation that’s ruined.  Do the results.”

Mhairi tapped her bitten fingernails on the arm of the chair in time to the Dambusters theme that was unexpectedly playing in her head. She focused all of her attention on the woman with the pearls, trying to ignore Joe, as each result was read out.  The woman was captivated by Jeremy and laughed hysterically at his jokes making fun of her as she passed every test.

Joe moved his chair next to Mhairi and took her hand.  He was beginning to trust her again. 

“Well, well, well,” said Jeremy, “it’s a full house.  That’s most peculiar.  We at the Jeremy Kyle show stand by our lie detector results. Ladies and Gentlemen, it's a Christmas miracle.”

The first review said, "The plot goes after you and angages with you're emotions.  You would like to jump to the last sentence to see the end."   Already, I was worried about getting any useful editing tips.

The next review said, "Characterisation is very interesting.  Here we have the Mary and Joseph story and although it was never stated directly is is very obvious so we subconsciously fill in the characterisation from the bible story.  This conflicts with the characters presented, whose language and demeanour are in sharp contrast with the traditional.  You might ask yourself if this contrast is too sharp."  Oh dear, it wasn't looking good.  Everything about the course had been to encourage us to create characters with conflict, not to be drawn into stereotypes.

Then I thought it started to get a bit strange.  "I wonder should some clarity be introduced for those not familiar with the Christian culture."   Was my piece being reviewed by someone who lives on another planet?  Who isn't familiar with the birth of Jesus, as a story, whether they believe in it or not.

My final reviewer doesn't mince her words,  "This story should have come with a warning before.  It is blasphemous and outrageous.  At this time of year, you should be ashamed!"

I am ashamed - a little - but mostly I'm amused.  Sorry.  I'm resigned to the fact that I'm probably not going to heaven and that Santa will leave me a lump of coal but I still think that Mary must have been a bit of a slapper.

Happy Hump Day

I'm almost giddy with excitement and before you ask, no, I haven't got labarynthitis again. Cliches are springing from my fingertips - I can finally see the wood for the trees and the reason is as clear as mud because I've probably been making a mountain out of a molehill and now that I'm not feeling quite so swamped I might not have to visit the funny farm after all. You see, I don't have to say, "It's December" anymore. I know it is still December but I now have less to do than I've done. I can think about doing other things.

I'm not alone as I had a couple of texts from other musician friends, which have made me think that we should be celebrating 'musical hump day'. One friend texted to ask if it was sad that she was excited that she had been able to clean out the fridge. I replied that I'd cooked a proper meal!!! Another friend sent me a message saying that he had been worried that he didn't know what his children looked like anymore but he'd managed to spend an afternoon with them, so all was well. I even spent some time sitting on the sofa. It's a lovely sofa!

I'm hoping that this 'hump day' euphoria lasts, as today I will mainly be wondering why churches are so cold and why the seats are so hard.

It's December

Everyone gets excited when it finally gets to December. The countdown to Christmas: opening a door of the advent calendar each day, burning a little bit of the candle, going to the church advent Carol service,  drinking gingerbread latte in a coffee shop with shopping bags at your aching feet while the Salvation Army band serenade you with Christmas carols, work Christmas dos where a pianist rises from the floor,  sitting through a performance of the Messiah on hard church pews, fighting your way around the supermarket for your sprouts (you've got to get them on soon!) with strains of  a primary school choir murdering jingle bells wafting down the aisles. It's all exciting. It's also a little bit exhausting.

This week, people have been asking me things and the only reply I seem able to give is, "It's December!"

December means something completely different to a musician. It's a double edged sword. The only time people really want you. The only time that, "let's stick a cd on" becomes replaced with "let's get a band." It's great to be wanted. It's exciting that people want to listen to live music but it is exhausting to try to fit a year's worth of performances into one month. We crawl into Christmas on our knees and spend most of Christmas Day sitting in the chair making incomprehensible burbling noises. The turkey might be over or under cooked, as by the 25th we have lost all powers of reasoning and simple things like telling the time become a liability.

The composer Eric Whitacre put this meme on Facebook this morning, which sums it all up perfectly.

The worst thing you can say to a musician in December is, "Can you do that? Because I'm too busy."

The Long Suffering Husband has learnt over the years and now makes it into a bit of a joke. "Can you go and order the turkey on Monday? Because it's December and you're not busy at all. Ha ha ha. Oh, by the way, I watched a lovely film while you were standing in the icy wind with a freezing lump of metal in your hands and on your lips, getting chilblains on your feet. How are the chilblains, anyway?" The children at school are beginning to learn. When one of the band said, "can you write me a new part? This one is too easy," and I shrugged, "It's December!" I did notice the person next to her give her a little nudge. 

Sometimes, though, they don't get it  and the results can be a terrifying. This week a boy, who was old enough to know better asked, "Could you...the school...put my name on my recorder for me?

"Why can't you do it?" I asked, not unreasonably.

"Because we're too busy"

The room went silent as I took a deep breath and answered very calmly and quietly, "You're too busy?"

"Yes"

"It's December!"

Now, the whole class were watching, listening, attentive. If only I could have been diverted from the words fighting their way to get out I could have taught them something really important like string theory and they'd have got it.

Sadly, I couldn't but I stayed calm and quiet, leaving a sinister air in the room.

"What are you doing after school tonight?"

"Err...I'm not sure."

"Oh, I'm going to do a stall at the school bazaar and then go and conduct an orchestra. I'll get home at about half 8 and have something to eat before I sort some music for the next concert."

"I...err"

"And what are you doing on Sunday?"

"I...err"

"I'm doing a concert in a church. It starts at 5, so I will get there at 3 to move all the furniture around, put the stands up, make sure everyone has the right music and then when the concert is over I'll put it all away again'

"oh...err"

"And what about Monday after school?"

"I.....err"

"I'll be teaching some people and then playing my flute at a concert.

"Oh"

"Tuesday?"

"*squeak"

"A choir concert, that I'm singing in. After teaching a million pupils that is and accompanying three people in their exams"

*silence. Wide eyes.

"What about Wednesday?"

"Errmmmmmm"

"Another concert. Do you think you might be able to find time to write your name on your recorder or shall I do it for you!"

The poor kid shuffled back to his chair and I heard someone whisper, "it's December."

I'm not complaining really. It is wonderful to be able to do what I love but if I greet a request of yours without my usual sunny, "Of course I can," response then I can only apologise a say, "it's December!"

Although, I might have to cancel Christmas this year because I've just been to the allotment to find this.

And you can't have Christmas without home-grown sprouts.

The squirrels are taking over

A few weeks ago I bought a new notebook.

It made me laugh but since then I have been noticing squirrels everywhere and I'm beginning to think that they are planning a takeover in time for Christmas.

We should have realised when that squirrel flashed us all on Bake Off a few years ago. 

Since then, they have been keeping an eye on our television and want a part of it. Squirrels love nuts and TV is full of them. They have been in training, readying themselves for the moment of take over.

Picture: Twitter@Cathymorin19

A few brave squirrel soldiers have already mounted an advance attack, preparing the way for take over day. A few weeks ago I saw a squirrel jump out of a tree on a fellow dog walker and only last week my dog sniffed a squirrel. Now, that's just not right, is it? Dogs chase squirrels because squirrels run away. They do not stand their ground on the path looking cute and fluffy, leaving the poor dog no option but to have a sniff and move on.

A squirrel in Watford has been terrorising a school http://www.watfordobserver.co.uk/news/ and squirrels have been jumping out of Christmas trees.

I can't help thinking that you deserve to have a squirrel jump out of your tree if you put it up this early. Social media has been full of Christmas trees this weekend and although I do love Christmas I can't help thinking that it's all much too early.

This is what your tree will look like by Christmas if you put it up now!

I was beginning to despair of Twitter because of all the Christmas trees, when I came across this exchange and realised just how much I love it.

Oh Janice!

Then a sinister twist occurred and Janice was bombarded with Kirsty Allsop's followers' pictures of Christmas trees complete with crocheted robins. I bet there weren't just robins but squirrels too and some of those squirrels will have been real, sitting in those trees, waiting for takeover day!

Music Teacher Madness

The music teacher was easily bored.  She had never managed to stick to anything for very long and was reaching the dangerous stage where she had been in her current job as long as any other. Another Christmas Nativity, another afternoon of carol singing outside the local supermarket and another lesson observation loomed and it all seemed very familiar.  "I need more excitement in my life," she stupidly thought, "I know,  I'll enter the choir for a national competition."

The choir were excited and most of them learnt their words and sang tunefully, harmonising with each other. They watched the previous winners on YouTube and were keen to start adding choreography.  The music teacher reminded them that they had to get the singing right first as the initial round was judged from a recording.  If they got through to the final then they could add dance-moves.

The time came to record their entry.  A quarter of the choir were absent and the recording was terrible.  The music teacher put her head in her hands and cried.  "We probably won't get through to the final," she said, "but I would like it if we sent in a recording that shows what we can actually do."  The children disagreed.  Not only were they going to get to the final but they were going to win the whole thing and they said it should be recorded again - maybe in school time when everyone would be there.

The music teacher agreed to go in on her day off to re-record their entry.  "Yes!" she thought, "that shows what they can do!"  She went home and burnt the recording onto a CD, printed off an entry form filled it in and popped it an an envelope before teaching her evening flute pupils.

One of the flute pupils was also in the choir.  "Is that it?" she asked, pointing at the envelope.
"Yes"
"I think we should record it again because it could be better and you should ask Petunia not to come because she can't sing in tune."
"Oh no!  It's good enough.  It shows what we can do at the moment.  We want to be better if we get to the final."
"When we get to the final."
"We might not."
"How many schools will enter?"
"I don't know"
"How many places are there?"
"I don't know"
"What if there are 6 places and only 5 choirs in the final?  Then we will know that we only got in because not many entered."
"That's a point.  The competition will be quite tough though because music teachers wouldn't enter their choir unless they thought they were pretty good."
"That's good!  We'll definitely get through then because there won't be many entries."
The music teacher began to shake, her stomach was doing back-flips. She wondered what she had been thinking.
"Are you alright, Miss?  You look a bit sick."
"Oh, errm, well.  It's just that it's a bit scary isn't it?"
"No.  Why?"
"Well, if we do get through the other choirs might be really good."
"Probably, they'll be all those private schools with their proper music teachers who really know what they're doing."
The music teacher laughed and felt better.
She walked the dog round to the postbox and there was no turning back.

A strange e-mail appeared in the music teacher's in-box.
"Dear Music teacher who doesn't really know what she's doing,

Guess what?  You're through.  We don't know how, it must be some kind of fluke. We were hoping that there would be lots of private schools with 'proper' music teachers entering but it seems that you are the only one. Please present yourself and your choir at the Barbican immediately."

The music teacher finished applying superglue to the bottom of Maude's feet and turned round to see thousands of clowns in an audience, all sitting on red velour seats.  They were noisily eating popcorn and throwing sweet wrappers around.  She recognised some of the clowns as people that she worked with and parents of the children in her choir.  She turned and looked at her choir and they all laughed.  She raised her hands to start the song and they shook.
"Does she have Parkinson's?" one of the clowns shouted
"I don't know but she could have put some clothes on," replied another.

Friendly Enough

Warning:  There may be some political ranting in this blog post.  I apologise to anyone who is offended but hopefully if you read this you are friendly enough.

When you walk a dog you meet some strange people and have strange half-conversations.  This morning I met my father and a young couple taking their baby-buffer puppy for a walk - they were walking and the dog was wrapped up in a blanket being carried (strange people) and had a half conversation with a woman who said, "It's alright he's friendly enough."  I began to wonder what friendly enough might mean.  In my experience, most good dogs aren't really very friendly at all, they sort-of ignore each other, after they've sniffed bums and decided that they aren't from the same pack they just go on their way.  They pretend to be friendly, look excited, wag their tails, sometimes jump up at the owner of the other dog for a pat on the head or a treat from the pocket but often that is followed by a dodging move, where both dogs pretend that no interaction was ever intended in the first place. Obviously, she might have been telling me that her dog didn't bite but I had already assumed that from the flexi-lead and the lack of muzzle but I suppose you can never tell, as some owners are just stupid.

This thought about stupid people led me onto thinking about politics, which has been bothering me since the Rochester by-election.  There is a general election coming up and I think the world and it's attitude to politics has gone completely crazy. No one seems to know what any party stands for anymore and people are voting for the MP that looks friendly enough.  We all know that at any moment they could bite but seeing a smiling man in a pub looking friendly enough can win many people's vote.  Even if that man is saying that he will abolish the department for culture because it won't be needed when they send back all the non-British, people still thinks he looks friendly enough.  Even if he says that he opposes all measures to stop climate change and plans to blow up all wind farms that's OK because he still looks friendly enough.  Even if he says that he will refuse anyone who is HIV positive in the country then that's not a problem because he looks friendly enough. Even if he wants to legalise handguns then that will be perfectly fine because he looks friendly enough.

A colleague said that he was thinking that if UKip won many more seats we should all just leave, which might be necessary because I doubt many of us have pure ancient Briton genes,  but I quite like it here.  Admittedly, I'd probably like it even better in the Caribbean.

Since the by-election a Labour MP was sacked for tweeting a picture of a house. Ed Miliband was apparently shown up by Myleene Klass, although I watched the programme and seeing her squeak, "You can't just point your finger and tax things" and watching him laugh at her ignorance didn't make me think he'd been shown up. The hashtag #cameronmustgo has been trending on twitter. Politics is dead.  It has become a joke.

I'm not surprised.  What sane person would want to be an MP? Everything you say will be twisted, you will have to make decisions about impossible things, you will age 10 years in the space of 2. If you have a semi-detached house in London and you are a Socialist the Daily Mail will print a picture of it and accuse you of being a millionaire.  If you are a Conservative The Guardian will write wordy articles about what you are doing wrong that most people will never read all of.  I know there are people who say that there are benefits, such as being able to award yourself a  10% pay rise and having an extra housing allowance but money isn't everything.  It's not a job I'd do for any amount of money.

I'm quite upset about the sacking or resignation (depending on which bit of the press you read) of Emily Thornberry.  I don't know her and I don't know if she is snobbish and looks down on the poor but I do know that this was her tweet.

I can't see the judgement.  England flags are the adopted symbol of those people who claim to want a 'white britain' and the council seat of Rochester had just been won by an MP whose party wants just that.  My daughter sent me this picture of her MPs office on the Narborough Road in Leicester.

I very much doubt if the MP put the flag there herself, as she represents a very diverse electorate.  I find the idea that people who claim to love England are prepared to deface the flag in this way and I'm very confused about the concept of Anglophobes.  This makes me very worried and think that most people just aren't being friendly enough.

Emily Thornberry may be a snob, who doesn't like flags or she may be someone who thinks three is overdoing things slightly.  I don't know. Maybe you know what she was thinking but I don't.  The press phoned her to ask her what she was doing by tweeting it and she just said that she thought the image was 'extraordinary'.  I don't think extraordinary implies judgement it just means more than ordinary.

I'm upset because I want a bit more fight in my MPs.  I want someone to represent me who is prepared to stand up for what they believe in and not cave in to the first journalist who sees things differently.  In the last few days Ed Miliband has been running round saying that he loves white vans and quite frankly that is extraordinary. There is such a thing as being too friendly.

People don't like Emily Thornberry though because she is wealthy.  She worked hard at school, became a human rights lawyer and then a barrister and married a man with a title who is a high court judge.  She invested some of her wealth in property.  This seems to be the biggest crime a labour party MP can make.  How dare they not be from the North, be fighting their way out of a wet paper bag and wearing cardboard boxes for shoes?  To be a socialist, the aim is to lift yourself out of poverty and then pay a decent amount of tax to lift others out of poverty.  It is not to stay forever poor.  We need educated socialist politicians and educated clever people have usually had careers that pay them very well before they go into politics (or have a good inheritance, so they could start politics early).  Gladstone, Disraeli, Joseph Rowntree, Octavia Hill and even Nye Bevan (I know his Dad was a coal miner but he had scholarships to the best schools and universities) weren't poor when they made lasting changes that gave workers rights and helped the poor lead healthier and happier lives. I know that labour politicians have a hard time from the press and can't win whatever they do and I remember when Michael Foot was pilloried for wearing a warm but not very expensive coat. Maybe she had to go because she wasn't friendly enough.

The idea that you have to be poor or Northern to understand what people are going through is bonkers.  All it takes is compassion.  At the weekend I noticed that India Knight (a twitterati journalist) was accused of not understanding what it was like to be an immigrant by someone because her mother (who was a Pakistani immigrant) married a wealthy man.  I don't think that person was being friendly enough.

Theresa May was on Desert Island Discs this week, with unsurprisingly conservative music choices (Fanfare for the Common Man, Elgar Cello Concerto and Magic Flute) and when she was accused of being boring and not going to the pub with other MPs (I'm sure Sue Lawley put it much more eloquently than that though) she said that she thought women in politics should be allowed to be who they are and not pretend to be something they're not. This is probably the only thing I will ever agree with Theresa May over but I think she needs to be careful, as not going to the pub could be seen as not being friendly enough.

I would like to turn it round.  I think it's time that we were all friendly enough and gave the politicians a bit of a break and let them get on with running the country and while we're at it we could give the teachers a bit of a break and let them get on with teaching our children.  In fact let's just try to be friendly enough, sniff a few bottoms, decide not to bite and move on.

Stir Up Sunday (again)

I've been writing this blog for several years now and every year I write about stir-up Sunday.  I'm sure I'm getting boring, or maybe I've always been boring.  I love a tradition and this probably makes me quite a sad woman but I believe in making my own Christmas pudding, cake and mincemeat, even though it probably costs 3 times the price of the supermarket varieties and I usually throw the cake away when I discover I'm the only one eating it and my stomach appears to be carrying twin food babies.   This tradition is a recent one; before children I had a pre-Christmas tradition of buying a small Christmas pudding each week and testing them all to find the one I liked the best for Christmas day.

I think it all started with Delia's Christmas book, which was published at the same time as the birth of my daughter.  There was something about becoming a mother that made me suddenly want to become a domestic goddess and you just can't go wrong with a Delia recipe.  But there is always an ingredient that is left out of the Christmas Pudding recipes I've seen.  Not one of them mentions the drop of blood and a hair.  It's a good job otherwise Delia would have people rushing out to get a particular blood type from a small town in Essex, Nigella would make sure that the hair was seductivly swept from the fringe while pouting in the mirror, Jamie would have us sniff a lot while we dropped the blood in and Mary Berry would insist on the sacrificial blood of your first born .  Oh yes, that Mary Berry is evil, you will know if you've ever tried one of her recipes.  I do try to follow the recipe to the letter but no matter how well I tie my hair back or how careful I am with the knife and the grater these items manage to creep in.

The Delia Christmas pudding recipe uses stout and it is probably a crime to pour what you don't need in the recipe down the sink.  You may think that is a strange position to take for a non-drinker but I was brought up to believe that you didn't throw alcohol away.  It's a good job that my father is still alive otherwise he would be turning in his grave at my non-drinking and instead he can just tell people that he doesn't know how a daughter of his can be such a disappointment. So rather than drink it I searched my many cookery books, which pleased the Long Suffering Husband because he always says that I have thousands of cookbooks that I never read, until I found a recipe for sticky gingerbread that uses stout.  This gingerbread is not the biscuity kind that men and the houses that you buy in supermarkets are made from but the kind that reminds me of the picture in my childhood Brother Grim book of the house owned by the witch in Hansel and Gretel.  Co-incidentally the witch also looked a bit like Mary Berry and you could imagine her baking perfect sticky gingerbread bricks to sandwich together before decorating with every sweet ever invented.  This gingerbread is a fun recipe to make.  Once you have heated the treacle and stout together you add bicarb and stand back as the volcano erupts.  Then it fills the whole house with beautiful smells.  Everyone looks forward to having a piece for pudding (we only have pudding on Sunday) and then you get to step 5 and at the end of the paragraph in very small print it tells you to wrap the cooled bread in baking parchment and seal it in an airtight tin for at least three days.

Stir up Sunday has never been quite such a disappointment.  We now have a jar of mincemeat (to be saved for mince pies), a christmas cake (to be thrown away sometime after Christmas), a Christmas pudding (to be burnt alive on Christmas day) and the best smelling gingerbread in the world that can't be eaten for at least three days.

Qu is for Quissmass

When I was younger, I remember my mum saying that she blamed teachers for winding children up too early for Christmas.  I disagreed.  As I child, I was perfectly capable of winding myself up.  Christmas is just exciting and as soon as it gets cold children know it won't be long.

This morning it got cold and the children were excited.  I was wished, "Happy Christmas" by at least six children today and at that point I don't think I could have been accused of winding anyone up.  I had been woken in the middle of the night with a headache that just wouldn't shift and I was grumpy; "Bah Humbug," was my preferred reply.

It wasn't the best day to have a headache; my day for teaching songs to KS1 for their Nativity and knowing just how excited they already were wasn't going to help.  I knew they were over-excited when I watched a colleague write her starter sound on the board 'qu' and hear the children say, "Qu for Quissmas!"

Maybe I am responsible for winding them up too early but you can't learn ten songs in a week. This year's nativity is about an ordinary ox and I confess that it's not my favourite.  I'm struggling to get excited by the songs.  The Ordinary Ox song has the following lyrics:
"He's just an ordinary ox and he does an ordinary job he's  not a cow or a bull or a mule he's just an ordinary ox."
 One of the children asked me what an ox was.  I said that I thought it was a sort-of cow and the child said, "Well, why isn't he an ordinary cow, then?"
"Because a cow is female if it's a he then it would have to be a bull."
"Why isn't he an ordinary bull, then?"
"I don't know."
"Is a mule a type of cow?"
"No, it's a donkey, horse sort of animal."
"Oh, right."

Two faced Cow

Ox

The closest I'll ever I've get to Bull-ocks

Children can make you feel really stupid from time to time.

I asked my colleagues.  They didn't know.  They did know about Oxtail soup and we joked that our Ordinary Ox probably shouldn't have a tail and maybe could have a Heinz soup label in place of the missing tail.

Thankfully, there is the Internet and so I looked it up.  The shock! An ox is a non-breeding male cow, used for pulling carts etc.  To make it non-breeding, it has been castrated.  An ox without it's tail or it's bits!  I sent a message to my colleagues.

"I've just looked it up - an ox is a cast roasted bill"

I'm not very good at texting when I'm tired with a headache.
One colleague wondered if they put the testicles in the soup and the other said that she hated oxtail soup and as far as she was concerned it definitely tasted like b?£@!cks to her.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a memory that bovine bollocks are a delicacy.  I googled 'bull's testicles recipes' and found that the testicles are cut off the calf when it is branded and this makes him more docile, grow meatier and stronger but less aggressive.   The testicles are thrown in a bucket of water, peeled, washed, rolled in flour and pepper and fried in a pan.  They are considered to be quite a delicacy and dating back to Roman times were eaten as an aphrodisiac.  In some places, particularly Montana and Illinois the have a twice yearly 'Testicle Festival'  Being a huge Archers fan I think that Tony Archer would love to attend a testicle festival and would be happy to donate Otto's balls to the celebration, if Tony every recovers from being crushed by Otto, in what sounded like a scene from Jurassic park.

I have so much to tell the children if they ask again.

Post Christmas Blues

I've got a severe case of post Christmas blues. It was Christmas this weekend, wasn't it?

It must have been.  Both children came home and then on Friday evening we played Christmas Carols in our pyjamas.  On Saturday we visited my parents and played cards around the table and then in the evening it got cold enough for a fire and we had a boxing day type picky food feast, where I ate my body weight in cheese. On Sunday we had a huge roast and lounged around complaining about our 'food babies'.

I should be glad.  If that was Christmas then it was quite painless.  I didn't stagger into it completely exhausted after an endless round of concerts and shows.  I escaped without any chilblains from the outdoor carol concert playing.  I hadn't lost my voice and now I'm not picking pine needles out of everything.

However, the anti climax of such a painless Christmas has left me feeling bereft.  It's a good job the first of the dozen concerts is this coming Saturday and I still have time to become drained of all energy.

Impress me

First impressions count.  People think you can tell a lot about people by what you notice on first seeing them.  This is something I've been thinking a lot about lately.

The online writing course I'm doing encourages us to sit in cafes and make notes about the people that we see. This has caused me to sit in cafes, drink tea, eat cake and think about writing. People watching has always been a hobby of mine and I like to wonder and imagine what their story is but instead of being inspired I have just started think about how wrong it is possible to be.  I've also been thinking about how long it can take for the truth about a person to reveal itself and how there can be things about people you think you know really well that suddenly surprise you.  I'm not talking about the skeletons in the closet that someone has carefully hidden or the things they have hidden in plain sight, like Jimmy Saville and his paedophillia. I'm talking about the boring things things like, "How could I have not known that you hate cheese, I've known you forever," or "You hate cats?  Really? You always 'like' everyone's cat pictures on Facebook."

Then, while I was thinking about first impressions a man appeared on the TV in tears.  He had been judged on what he was wearing and the world was horrified.  "Those bloody feminists, making a man cry, not appreciating the work he's actually done and judging him by his clothes."  This makes me smile.  The irony of it.  Feminists are being blamed for doing something to a man that everyone does to women all the time.  Just look at the comments about any reality TV programme and you will see that they are about what the woman in wearing and what the man says. I do feel quite sorry for the man, who doesn't strike me as the least bit mysoginistic but just has a terrible taste in shirts.  It also makes me really sad that a woman would think that she wouldn't be welcomed to work with this man because he likes brightly coloured shirts with cartoon women on.  If you were clever enough to work in this area of science, you are surely clever enough to tell him that you hate his shirt? I'm not saying that I approve of the way women are 'cartoonised' to have enormous boobs and tiny waists but I don't approve of David Beckham being paraded around in his pants for women to drool over either.

Dr Matt Taylor doing a press conference in shorts and the offending shirt (Picture from the Independent)

Then I noticed a story about a Newsreader, Karl Stefanovic in Australia, who had worn the same blue suit for a year and not one person had commented.  He started doing it in support of his co-presenter who would get terrible comments on her outfits on a daily basis and could never wear the same thing twice.  However, on the video clip he begins to wonder if it is actually sexism because he had noticed that the comments his co-host received were from women, not men, who are clearly thinking about things other than the clothes. Maybe, these are the same 'feminists' who didn't like the scientist's shirt.

Karl Stefanovic and his co-presenter who can't stand the smell anymore

So, in my cake eating sessions, I have been looking at people's clothes and wondering what they are telling me about the person.  It's not something I'm very good at because I'm always more interested in what people say and do than what they wear but I realise that other people do focus more on the outer packaging.   Is it wrong to assume that the woman in the top with the horrizontal blue lines owns a boat? or that the 50 year old woman wearing socks with her pumps, a gilet with straw in the pocket and an alice band in her hair is in an unhappy marriage and loves her horse more?  A friend joked recently that she was worried that the man she had seen at the hospital hadn't been a proper neurologist because he wasn't wearing a bow tie, so maybe clothes are a more important part of the story that I thought.

And now, I am not only unable to write but desperately anxious about what my appearance is telling people.  I don't make much effort and wear a lot of black and I don't think I even brushed my hair this morning.  I am concerned that I might look like a bit of a lush, who is too hungover to take any care over her appearance.  I worry about this because, despite being a boring non-drinker who likes to stay at home and not really talk to anyone when I'm not working, the children at school think I'm a bit of a party animal.  I know this because they were challenged to design a house for me (it was a shapes and perimiter maths challenge) and they gave me a bar in the garden so that I could 'entertain all my friends'.  I'm also a little worried that my dress sense makes me look less than normal because on Friday the Foundation Stage class were a bit distracted by the rain and one child said that it felt as though they shouldn't be at school.  I agreed with him and said that I thought it was the kind of day when you should be tucked under a duvet in your pyjamas watching a film.  Another child looked at me, wide-eyed in disbelief and said, "Do you actually have a telly?......Really?"

TOIL

Maybe I'm looking back at the past with those rose tinted specs that we all tend to wear but I'm sure when I first started work people knew how many hours they were expected to work and then they worked them.  If they needed to work extra they were asked to and then they were paid for it.  I've had lots of jobs, so I'm probably not just looking back at the one perfect job. When you went home that was it for the day.  You didn't check your e-mails or get a midnight text from your boss reminding you of a report that had to be written for the next day.  You didn't have a computer at home, so there was no working on that Powerpoint presentation until you found the font that conveyed exactly the right message.  Maybe teachers were always sitting up until the wee small hours marking books and cutting things out but I wasn't a teacher then, so I can't comment  But it's not just teachers that are working stupid hours now. I know that my sister works all day and then writes reports all evening and at weekends, my cousin works long into the evening and struggles to justify taking a weekend off from work and I have friends who answer e-mails at 3am.

Then there is this peculiar new phenomenon called 'time off in lieu' or 'T.O.I.L'.  It's a phrase that has always confused me.  Toil just sounds like more hard work not the rest you should be having because you've worked when you shouldn't have. It's a sneaky way for employers to get free work out of good natured people. Because most people have kind-of accidentally worked extra time it's difficult to measure what hours should be taken in lieu.  If you say, "I'll just take that report home and finish it while I'm watching Eastenders," is that time you should be banking?  And when you take work home to finish off do you spend more time on it than you should?  Do you take off the minute here and there that you spent putting a load of washing in the machine?


As my own worst enemy I don't add up the extra time that I do.  I don't count church services or concerts that I attend or time spent arranging music or editing tracks. I guess that many people would be having to take more time off than they were in work if they honestly counted the extra that they did.

The phrase, 'time off in lieu' has always amused me as well. Whenever anyone says they are taking time off in lieu I hear  "time off in the loo," and get a mental image that probably isn't appropriate. Toil is the beginning of toilet.

Today, I have had time off in loo, having spend much of the night suffering with a bit of a wobbly tummy.  This morning I decided to be honest (I don't suppose many teachers ever are) and take the day off to be on the safe side and have spent the day feeling guilty and a little bit of a fraud. It has been a very productive day though. I have finished the musical puppets for the EYFS teachers to use, arranged some music for the Flutti Tutti group, made a backing CD of Christmas songs for the choir performances.  practised the piano and recorded the accompaniment for our choir competition piece and studied some flute duets ready for a pupil who needs a change from their current pieces.

Maybe I need more days in the loo to get everything done.

Paranoid

  I think someone is out to get me.  

Actually,  someone is not only out to get me but out to get all primary school music teachers. You think that's a bit extreme?  Maybe.  But it is undeniable that a hardworking primary school teacher who has decided to make her life easier by singing songs that should just be easy in the run up to Christmas doesn't expect to be accidentally lured  into swearing in front of 30 (or 60 in one instance - 2 classes together) small children.

Schools buy in Christmas Nativities so that they have the script, the backing CD, the music, staging suggestions and everything they need to make it easy.  They expect to be able to put on the CD and for the children to learn how to sing the songs by osmosis.  I'm a bit old fashioned in this respect and like to actually teach the children the notes and words they should be singing.  I always get a bit worried around Christmas time, when the speed at which songs need to be learnt outstrips the time you have to teach them because these are perfect conditions for a mondegreen.  "On the first day of Christmas my tulip gave to me," "Deck the Halls with Buddy Holly," and "Sleep in heavenly peas," for example. 

This year we have bought a Nativity about an Ox and some toys. I'm still not quite sure why the Nativity needs to be re-written every year but that's another blog post.  Some of the toys are soldiers and they sing a song based on the American Military marching tune, "I don't know but I've been told...." 

 When the lyricist has tried to squeeze their words into the song they have found themselves with the word 'country' and three notes and for some strange reason they have split the word into "count- er - ry"  What's wrong with that? Try saying it.  

As I repeated the phrase over and over again in front of the class I was teaching (they just weren't getting the notes right - hence my paranoia) I was struggling to keep a straight face.  The word, split in this way, sounded like a skill the woman from Thailand, who was on the Graham Norton show many years ago, aiming ping pong balls into a bucket would have.

Graham was delighted with her cunt-er-ry skills

I have changed the emphasis now but the children will still be learning the song by osmosis and I expect to hear a few cunteries creeping in.

If this were the only bit of swearing I was about to do then maybe I wouldn't be quite so paranoid but I am also singing Frozen Karaoke, with year 3/4.  We love a bit of Karaoke and it's a music teacher's easy option.  There is a nice little Disney app, which shows the pictures from the film, puts the words over it with a dancing snowflake.  There is an option to record your performance, so all the classes can compare each other's singing.  They love it.  After we had started with the obvious 'Let it Go' I thought I'd practicse another song for next week's lesson.  

Disney Frozen App

These songs aren't easy and whilst I was hoping for an easy ride in the run up to Christmas my ears really can't take the caterwauling that occurs if I just let them sing without telling them how it 'should' sound.  I picked 'Fixer Upper' because I thought it was a great song.  That is, until I realised, that they are out to get me again.  Whose silly idea was it to put a tongue twister in the middle of a song that kids might want to sing? 

Try it.  Three times fast: The only fixer upper fixer that can fix a fixer upper ...

Disney are evil.  I have deleted my recording of the song from the school i-pad and won't be trying to sing it in this week's lesson.   

I'm becoming so paranoid that I've decide to sing all the other Christmas songs we do this year in Latin.  I'm sure it's safer.