Hell Freezes Over

It was silly o clock and I gave up on sleep. I collected my iPhone and electronic book, charging on the landing and crawled back into bed.

I had been listening for weather for the last couple of hours. There didn't seem to be any. I realise that we are incredibly lucky, living under the Maldon Umbrella but from what I'd read about Storm Frank I thought we might get a bit of a wind. 

Since discovering Twitter I have developed a bit of an obsession with freak weather, storms and hurricanes. It's the names. It humanises the weather and makes you think of a toddler tantrum. 

Storms do nothing for the unity of a country. Especially when they add to the imagined divides imposed by its people. Silly Frank! Making life worse for those in the North, leaving us Southerners in blissful ignorance. 

When I was in Junior school we were under serious threat from the weather. We knew that we were destroying the planet and we were scared. Mrs Thain showed us pictures of how the UK would look by the time we were her age. The whole of The Wash had washed away and the coast around Essex had inched it's way closer to London. We saw grainy black and white film of people rowing down the High Streets of Somerset and the villages along the Thames, like Datchett. I remember thinking that I would like to row down the High Street, having spent all my summers helping Alex on Lake Meadows boating lake, I made a mental note to get a row boat for when I was Mrs Thain's age. (Luckily she was about 100, so I've still got plenty of time to get one).

So, we knew. We knew about global warming in the seventies and then Maggie Thatcher took it seriously; closed down the coal mines, supported nuclear power (not always kindly) and we forgot. Scientists also built good flood defences and we all felt perfectly safe once the Thames Barrier was opened in 1982.

When we forgot, we failed to notice how many times the Thames flood barrier saved London from flooding (48 times in 2014), we didn't observe the sea walls protecting us from coastal erosion. We saw fields being used as flood plains but didn't think about how that was stopping the need for everyone to own a row boat to get down the high street.

People like Jeremy Corbyn's brother get to go on TV and say that climate change doesn't exist. We like that idea. It would be so much safer if weather was cyclical and we are due a period of dry weather with normal temperatures. 

However, in my early morning Twitter-fest I discovered something rather alarming.  The temperature at the North Pole this morning was between one and two degrees Celsius. IT'S WINTER!!! This is the warmest temperature ever recorded in December. Normally, warm for the time of year would be -38•c. Two degrees is quite warm for summer. It's like Hell freezing over in reverse.

So, I'm unplugging everything, going for a walk and thinking about buying a boat.

Christmas Traditions

Every family has their Christmas Traditions.  It might be leaving out mince pies and sherry/brandy/beer/wine/milk/baileys for Santa, or singing carols at the Crib Service/Candlelight Service/Midnight Mass/ Eucharist/ on the Quay/ in a pub, or eating your body weight in mince pies/chocolate/turkey/ham/roast potatoes/cheese/Christmas cake, or playing monopoly/pictionary/cards/articulate/charades/trivial pursuit/cards against humanity, while everyone laughs at grandma.  Whatever they are, you wouldn't be without them.

As your children grow up these traditions can change.  You could mourn the loss of innocence. One of the Long Suffering Husband's sayings is, "Change is bad," but I prefer to embrace change.

There is one Christmas tradition in our house that is fast becoming my favourite.

We are not normally a soap watching family and the LSH is usually very much in charge of the TV zappers. If there is something I want to watch then he usually retreats upstairs to the bedroom but at Christmas that would just be rude.  The prodigal daughter and my sister love Eastenders and so he has to sit through it.

At first he pretends that he has to walk the dog but the dog is not interested in another walk, being too busy lying in front of the fire pumping out turkey farts to make everyone's eyes water. He thinks about washing up but he has been too efficient and the kitchen is spotless.  He offers to make tea but most people are still drinking.  He has no choice but to sit back on the sofa in front of the TV.

"I haven't seen this since she was sixteen," he points to Sharon.
"Shhhhh."
"Who's that?"
"That?  Oh, him.  He's Shirley's son he raped Danny Dyer's wife."
"When?  Is he allowed to be in the same show as him then?"
"Dad."
He pretends he's not watching anymore.
"Ooh, someone's in the boot. Is it Vincent?" My daughter and sister discuss the hypnagogic plotline.
"That boy is evil.  Of course he knows.  He's like Damien."
"Who's Damien?  Is that Danny Dyer's character?"
They ignore him. I lift my nose from my book and hum the Omen theme tune quietly.
"I don't think Vincent is in the boot."
"I think it's his mum."
"No. Yes.  Well, maybe.  It could be Fatboy."
"Oh yes.  Fatboy.  Good call.  Fatboy could be in the boot."
The LSH tries to join in again.  "What boot?"
"The car."
He looks puzzled.

"There's someone locked in the boot of the car. Keep up."

"Which car?"

"The one at the Mitchell's garage."

"Oh, the black Nissan 330z."

"Err, right, whatever."

"Is Fatboy fat?" he asks, not unreasonably.

"NOOOOOOO. PHIIIIIIIL," they shout.

"This is cheery. Does someone always have to die at Christmas?"

My Dad wakes up from his sofa-snooze.

"Have they found out that Ken Barlow killed Lucy yet?"

They ignore him. He does it on purpose.

"I could write this," my mum adds.

I couldn't. It's too surreal.

The wonderful thing about this Christmas tradition is that it's the gift that keeps giving. By New Year's Day he will be slightly hooked. He won't be able to tear himself away from getting explanations of why someone is being drowned, someone else is beating up their husband, a little boy is being tortured in his reform school or why the new mother puts her newborn of questionable parentage in the microwave.

Maybe I could write it.

C.H.D.

Every year my son is felled by C.H.D.

You might think that CHD, or Christmas Hyperactivity Disorder is something that only affects children and that at 17 my son would be too old to be taken out by this common condition.  However, none of us are immune and I would advise you take precautions if you are suffering from any of the following symptoms.

1. You have looked at the calendar and realised that it is sometime between the 18th and 24th of December.  Aternatively, you might notice that you have less than seven advent chocolates to eat.

2. You have shopped, thinking carefully about which presents your loved ones would like. You have stroked things and twirled around items that you would like them to buy you.

3.  You have seen Santa (at least once), even if he was only outside the Supermarket.

4.  You have brought a tree into the house to slowly die in the corner and have thrown lights and sparkly things at it.  You might have reminded the dog that it is not an indoor toilet or removed the cat from the top.  You will have probably complained that you don't get that proper Christmas tree smell any more.

5.  You have stopped eating properly.  You eat chocolate for breakfast, grab a mince pie for lunch and eat a sandwich on the run, while traipsing around the shops.

6. Your sleep patterns are weird.  You fall asleep on the sofa whenever you sit down, lie in bed staring at the ceiling and wake at three in the morning to make lists before getting up at 6am because you can't think what else to do.

7.  You have cleaned your bedroom, oven, freezer because you never know where Santa might leave your presents.

8. You have to talk to relatives.

These are the early symptoms.  

Later symptoms can be quite severe.

1.  Exhaustion.

2. Fever

3. Headache

4. Sore throat

5. Drippy nose

6. Cold-like symptoms

7.  Man flu

CHD can even be life threatening.  One year my Dad had a heart attack on the 23rd December.  This sounds very dramatic but my Dad has heart attacks like you or I have colds.  He goes to hospital and sits in A&E for a while, has blood tests taken, nurses walk in and stick thermometers in his ear without even talking to him and then he gets transferred to the cardiac ward where they say, "You again," laugh and tell him he can go home. This particular year, he had been suffering from all the early symptoms of CHD, which were particularly heightened by a longer than expected visit from some overseas relatives.  While we were waiting, Santa was brought in on a trolley.  Yes, that was the year that Santa died.  Christmas Hyperactivity Disorder can be fatal.

If you are suffering from any of the early symptoms can I recommend you sit, feet up, with your favourite drink; eat something healthy and repeat the following mantra.

"It's only one day.  It's just a roast.  Presents are nice but not very important."

Christmas is Cancelled

Some wives get very upset with their husbands at Christmas. The adverts show us what happens: man leaves shopping until the last minuite and wife ends up opening a beautifully wrapped gift of a jigsaw, jumper, pair of socks, foot spa or spare tyre for the car, when all they really wanted was something electrical or sparkly but above all, expensive.

I am not that wife. I like jigsaws and socks and the Long Suffering Husband is particularly good at shopping; if it was an Olympic sport I think he could win a medal.  I might be that husband, though.

I have been out Christmas shopping with the LSH twice and we have done and wrapped it all (I am good at wrapping).

There is a sense of pride and relief in this achievement that makes me want to go back to the girl in the hairdressers and say, "Ha, see, I don't know what the problem was - plenty of time."

With my neck breaking backwards over a piece of porcelain torture equipment while having my hair pulled we had the following conversation:

"Have you got your decorations up?"

"No, it's only the 4th of December."

"Have you wrapped your presents."

"No."

"I haven't finished wrapping either. I only finished shopping yesterday. Have you finished?"

"No."

"Have you still got much to get?"

"I haven't started yet?"

"Oh, you are funny!"

I would like to go and tell her that I'm not funny at all. You can leave shopping until the 19th December and be done by the 21st. I really would. But. 

But. The LSH will have bought me lovely presents and I can just imagine the look on his face, as he opens his one tiny (and not very expensive) gift.

He has been unable to give me much of a list this year. He wants an umbrella holder for his golf trolley. Great. A trip to a golf shop. Just what I love at Christmas.

(This is sarcasm, if you were in any doubt.) 

I have decided that this is all his fault and if you are a wife who gets disappointed at Christmas it's probably your fault as well. 

You see, I hint. When we are out I pick up clothes and say, "Oh, I like that. I think it would suit me better than *insert name of person we are buying for*" I hold it up to myself and do a little twirl. I put it back and give it a little stroke. I do this with several similar items. I look at stationary and say, "You can never have too many notepads." Then, on Christmas Day I am happy if I get an item that is similar to something I have hinted at. It doesn't have to be the same and I don't care how much it cost or where it was bought from.

The LSH isn't very good at hinting. He apparently, pointed out 4 items of clothes he liked while we were out shopping. I racked my brains to remember but couldn't think that he'd done any twirling or stroking, so I asked him how he'd pointed them out.

"I looked at them," he said.

"Just that?"

"I might have said,'I like that,'"

"Might have?"

"Well, I didn't want to be too obvious."

He has dropped hints about wanting a huge smart TV but I'm ignoring that because, to paraphrase Roald Dhal, 'The smarter the telly, the bigger the man."

The LSH is aware how difficult he is this year. He just doesn't really want anything; he hasn't managed to spend Birthday money/vouchers from the Summer and has said that if he can't think what he wants then he doesn't know how I'm supposed to. He is panicking slightly because it means relinquishing control and trusting me to find something that I think he'll like.

It's the control element that makes it difficult for us last minute shoppers.  I could surprise him and buy a big flatscreen goggle box but it wouldn't be the right one. Even the golf umbrella holder is going to be tricky.

I tried to reassure him.

"It's ok. You will at least have an umbrella holder to open."

"It's got to be a Motorcaddy one."

"Yes, yes I know."

"And don't get it from American Golf. It's more expensive than online."

I wasn't calm.

"What do you mean, telling me where I can and can't buy presents from? What does it matter how much it costs? If it's what you want then it's my problem if I haven't paid the cheapest price. I mean, for God's sake, were only talking and extra pound anyway. This is why you are so difficult. I can't buy anything online now because I've left it too late as always. Oh, a flipping great Christmas this is going to be. Me with my great big pile of beautiful gifts and you with the one present that you won't appreciate because I bought it from the wrong bloody shop! Maybe it's time to cancel Christmas. We could just not buy for each other anymore."

I looked up  and saw a very sad little face staring back at me.

"But...but...you'd never have any clothes if I can't buy them for you at Christmas."

He has a point.

Rottweilers, waiting and sleep

We're nearly there and I think we're going to make it. It was touch and go for a while; lack of sleep, worries about concerts, family, crappy health, and university decisions all made Christmas seem like a far distant improbability but suddenly I woke up this morning (3am) and felt hopeful. Christmas isn't cancelled.

Yesterday's church service practice was perfectly fine. I parked my car at the vicarage to unload all the stands, chime bars, music and costumes (oh yes, even a simple church service is a major production at our school). The vicar was putting out his recycling boxes.

"Goodness, you have got a lot of stuff. Hold on a minute and I'll take you in the tradesman's entrance."

I didn't laugh. Professional as always.

I ended up playing the piano for more than I had expected to, as a colleague who I had bullied into it was suddenly sick. Making music can be a stressful business and many of the pupils had anxieties that needed to be calmed. Many of them won't have slept well tonight. I'd like to tell them that sleep has been in short supply in my life since the beginning of December but I don't think it would help. I'm sure that I've told you that I absolutely hate playing the piano in public. 

I'm paranoid about it too. The church piano has to be thumped to get any kind of sound out of it and a wrong note leaps out and makes me wince. During one of the hymns, I looked up and saw a teacher laughing hysterically. I KNEW IT. Everyone was laughing at me. I should give up. Everyone knows that I play like Les Dawson. I am a figure of fun, so unless I can grow a few extra fingers it is time to admit defeat and stop playing. Let someone else have a go.

But despite my paranoia and stupidly lacking fingers we got through it. And no one had to shout at year 5/6.

The rest of my day was spent with my parents, travelling to the Royal Free Hospital for an appointment. I was there to translate for my mum, who has terrible trouble with anything other than a Dagenham accent and to stop my Dad running up stairs.  I'm not a fan of hospitals. I know some people like them but to me they are big, scary, grubby places full of grumpy people who have forgotten how to laugh.

Doctors are so stressed they order coffee and forget to pick it up at the coffee shop, nurses all look tired and harassed and receptionists have turned into rabid dogs. I had a lot of time to observe a Rottweiler at work, as when we arrived there was a note on the board that said there was a 45 minute delay. We settled down in the tropical heat and discussed whether it would be appropriate to strip down to our vests.

 Rottweiler Number One was on duty. She sat at the desk wearing a tight bodycon mini skirt, trainers and a big thick fluffy pink jumper. She had a small fan on her desk, which she occasionally directed into her face. She took people's forms without looking at them, or speaking to them (if they were lucky). On the right of her computer were a large pile of chocolates and on the left an enormous and ever growing pile of wrappers. 

"I have an appointment on the 22nd that I can't make," said an old Gentleman in a very marked way. He was trying to make himself understood, the way you do in a foreign country. "The 22nd. I. Can't.do."

She waved his forms in the air and said nothing.

"I. Need. To. Change. My. Appointment."
Rottweiler One popped a chocolate in her mouth.
"Can't. Make. 22nd."
"Are you de eye patient?"
"I. Need. To. Change. It."
"But are you here for eye clinic?"
"It's. That. I. Need. A. New. Appointment."
"Eye Clinic."
"Appointment"
She examined his forms again and waved them at him.
"Eyes next door.  Clinic 3."
The old man stood, looking bemused.  Another patient in the queue explained it to him.

We wondered how hard it would have been to say, "I'm sorry this is the wrong clinic.  You need the one next door."

Later, after the fifth patient had been through this routine I did have some sympathy for her but you can't expect patients who have problems with their eyes to be able to distinguish between a 2 and a 3 on a letter or a sign and I'm sure they'd rather deal with Miss Rottie than accidentally have major surgery on something that was working well.

Also, in her defense, she was equally rude to everyone.  The doctors, the nurses, the other hospital staff.  When anyone used the phone on the desk she made a great show of getting out the antibacterial wipes and thoroughly cleaning it.  Colleagues approached her with eye-rolling trepidation. A woman with a hospital badge and a woolly hat, quietly asked her for something to which the answer was, "Nurses."
The lady in the hat snuck up and down the corridor knocking on doors and tutting. When it finally became obvious that she wasn't going to find what she wanted she went back to the desk. 

"Err. I'm sorry. I can't seem to find. I don't know who to. I err. Which nurse did you say?"

Rottie waved her hand dismissively without looking.

"Yes. Nurses. One of them." Then she stared straight at the quaking bobble hat, who rushed off, as if she had been scolded. 

We had now been waiting for an hour and so a nurse came out and changed the sign on the board. The waiting time was now an hour. That was good to know.

She thought she had been waiting a long time.

Rot One had a visit from someone she liked and briefly seemed happy. They discussed going out and what they were going to wear. Patients, telephones, doctors and nurses had to wait while they had their conversation but she did stand up and do a little shimmy, which cheered us all up.

It was now an hour and a half from the appointment time and we considered asking someone, to make sure we hadn't missed being called. It happened to me once, waiting for a blood test I was so engrossed in a conversation between two old ladies that I missed the number being changed.

"Not her, though," my mum insisted.

Spoilsport.

A jolly nurse tried to explain, "You be a very portant patient for the prof. He want to see you 'eesell. Ha ha. De prof fink ye very portan." I translated and we only had to wait another half hour. 

Waiting two hours for a  15 minute consultation seems ridiculous, even to someone like me,  who is quite good at waiting and enjoyed the opportunity to sit down for a while. However, the fact that I woke up this morning feeling full of Christmas cheer makes me hope you all get a long wait before the festivities begin.

A Whole Chapter

I've often said that I should write a sitcom based on an adult amateur choir or orchestra. I think this makes people around me in these situations feel quite nervous. I see them taking a sneaky peek in my direction every time they say something that is quite funny.

I have lots of material from concerts in old people's homes and will probably try to include the reaction to my Dad's joke from a concert this weekend. He was the compere, which in an old people's home is a tough gig. We were about to play Frosty the Snowman so he told the, 'two snowman in a field joke'. This always makes me laugh nervously because I know a rude version but luckily he stuck to the, 'can you smell carrots?' joke. 

Silence.

 Complete silence. 

So he thought he'd try to explain it.

"What do snowmen have as noses?"

"I don't know, what do snowmen have as noses?" said the lady who was awake. 

"Carrots. They have carrots. That's why they can smell carrots."

"Oh, really?" said the lady, picking up her jingle bells that we'd given her to play and examining them carefully before trying to eat them. 

It's a tough gig, so by the time we'd got to playing, 'I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus,' he was so flustered that he announced that he'd once kissed Mummy under Santa Claus.  

The Christmas episode will be my favourite to write and over the years I have collected about five notebooks worth of material. I might have to write all the episodes as the lead up to Christmas. Then maybe I could have a pregnant floozie, as a French Horn player.

Maybe it should be a film. It could be the next Love Actually (I hope you saw Emma Freud's tweets this weekend.https://storify.com/Dante_Banks/story-of-the-midnight-showing)

I will have to include a Santa Fun Run. There is nothing quite like standing in a freezing cold park on the edge of an estuary, with rain dripping off your nose an arctic wind blowing soggy music off your stand despite the thirty pegs and piece of knicker elastic you thought you'd secured it with, playing music that nobody is actually listening to (luckily) while a thousand Father Christmases run around you. 

The Santas gather and you play a few Christmas songs to get them in the mood. It appears to have the opposite effect and when you finish an announcement is made. 

"Now the band has finished, we'll go back to listening to some Christmas tunes."

There is a mascot race, with Ellie and Eddie the Eagle, Lenny the Lion, a dolphin, an unidentifiable creature and Fells Ted, who can't see out of his costume and always looks very sad, which is handy as he comes in last. The winner is one of the eagles, who have run hand in hand until the final few yards, giving the announcer the opportunity to say, "Will Eddie finish before his Mrs?," which sounds surprisingly dirty in a Yorkshire accent.

Then you watch the Santa warm up, led by the local PE teacher. A thousand Santas doing the oaky cokey and making a huge conga line keeps you entertained while you drink gluwein from a flask and watch the euphonium fill up with an inch of icy rainwater.

The announcer says that he will start the race and then there will be more from the band (you notice that he didn't specify what the band was going to do more of) so you get into position, adjusting the music, that is now so damp it tears. The conductor has taken the earlier comment about Christmas music personally, so she announces that we will play the Twelve Days of Christmas followed by carols.  The hooter sounds, a blur of red and white flashes before your eyes, the conductor raises her arms, you are ready, just as she brings her arms down the announcer says something else so no one plays. This happens a few more times. You discuss with the band that you've got two bars rest at the beginning, the oboe has three bars rest. You discover that the person with the opening notes hasn't turned up and agree to start at bar three. You struggle to the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas, noting that the swans, geese, and partridges have all decided that Sunday mornings should be spent in the warm listening to the Archers. The ducks on the pond laugh hysterically.

You and your desk partner don't have the carols. "Sing, then," says the 

conductor. As neither of you knows both verses of Silent Night, you sing one in German, causing her to raise an eyebrow, as she thinks you are singing rude words in public. Like you would. You are saving that for We Three Kings.

Polar Express goes quite well but no one has managed to agree on what key to play Sleigh Ride in. You notice a key of your instrument has permanently stuck down. The children dressed as Santa, wearing wellies finish before any of the adults and by the time most are across the line it is agreed that you will play two more pieces, ending with Les Miserables. 

The conductor looks at you. You both try not to laugh.

"You couldn't write it," she says.

"Oh, I could. I will," I say

"I mean, you couldn't make it up."

"Who needs to,"

"It's a whole chapter."

The Invisible Woman

When you get to a certain age, a peculiar thing starts to happen. Young people roll their eyes when you talk; they dismiss your ideas before you've even finished your sentance. 

It's weird.

You start to wonder if you are imagining things. The mental tick list comes out. Did I say something stupid? Have I done something wrong? Is it just me? Is my skirt tucked in my knickers again? 

I know you are now imagining me in front of a class of 30 five year olds who have stopped listening because of a wardrobe malfunction but  I'm talking about women in their twenties. I have suddenly become an invisible irrelevance to this particular group.

I wonder why it happens.

I was trying to think about how seriously I took the menopausal women I worked with when I was in my twenties. At first, I struggled to remember and wondered if they had  not been on my radar, then I remembered wonderful women, like Elsie. Her husband was the grand Elk of a Masonic lodge and she worked full time, looked after her grandchildren and did charity work. Then there was Ann, who gave me several, funny and useful parenting tips many years before I needed them.  I hope they never felt I was rude to to them. I hope I didn't roll my eyes out loud every time they spoke.

Did I secretly laugh at these women with their jersey dresses, elasticated waistlines and comfortable shoes?  Did I chuckle as they told me they'd seen and done it all before?

It is true that I am turning into that cliché. The woman who says 'mum' things, such as, "Aren't your feet cold?" to the young man in the coffee shop without socks on. I'm confusing places that begin with the same letter; excitedly texting my daughter to tell her that something she reported on had reached the BBC news only to get a text back saying, "Winchester not Windsor." I talk to myself out loud. All the time. When it comes to time, I'm suddenly struggling with the 24 hour clock.

"What's the time?"

Looks at phone, "8.22. I mean Twenty past six."

I'm technologically incompetent. My laptop refuses to do something but when a young person does exactly what I've done, it works first time. I find myself watching Sky Sports when I'm in the house on my own because I can't work out how to turn it over. If someone suggested going out drinking and dancing in stilettos (are they still a thing, or am I showing my age?) I would run faster than the gingerbread man. I have a wardrobe full of beige cardigans; 

actually, I don't own a single beige thing because I am basically taupe in colour and so I would disappear completely but my friends do. 

I like gardening, knitting and the Archers (I know, I've always liked those things but I was precocious). I'm tired and I look exhausted but in my defence it is December.

The thing I've noticed about life, is that it's cyclical. I realise that this is not a new revelation. Living with days, nights and seasons should have taught us that. However, in the West, we stubbornly cling to the idea that time is linear. We think we can control it;  manage it with our lists, schedules and plans. We think about the future more than we consider the present or the past. In Eastern cultures it is the other way round and respect is given to people who have been on the planet longer because time is a cyclical phenomenon. Things happen repeatedly. They look to the past for clues about the future. When I was younger I bought into the linear time model completely. I thought I could control it with lists and plans but it turns out that you can't. You still get older and life keeps repeating on you, like a bad tuna, onion and cucumber sandwich. 

Bad Role Model

Something has been bothering me all weekend.

I think I'm a bad role model. 

Not because I sing alternative lyrics to Christmas Carols with the children, although, hearing 32 children walk down the high street singing, "Most highly flavoured lady, salt and vinegar," did make me worry about the performance we were about to give. In truth there are probably many reasons why I am a bad role model but it's not any of those that have been worrying me.

It's the things that people assume are my good points, like being tough, hard working, dedicated and enthusiastic that might be a bad example.

I'm currently in the middle of this Christmas performance season and it is as crazy as ever but I'm calm. I've reached the point where there is too much to worry about, so I will just assume that everything will be fine. I met someone yesterday who said that I seemed very chilled for a music teacher in December. We ended the conversation with her saying, " I'll see you at the Carol concert."  

My mind raced through the calendar, flipping pages to place her at a particular event.

"You look confused."

"I'm just trying to work out which Carol concert I will see you at."

"You have more than one?"

"Errrm, seven this week."

"Oh, I was talking about the one next week."

"Next week? Oh yes, next week. I haven't looked at that yet. I'm sure there will be at least one next week."

This dedication and enthusiasm for music might seem laudable but to some it is terrifying. 

A sixth form student asked my year 5/6 class to complete a questionnaire about whether every primary school child should be given the opportunity to learn an instrument. The answers made me laugh. I particularly liked the answer that said, "my music teacher expires me."

I loved the answers to questions such as, "What encouraged you to play an instrument?" that went something like, "Tuesday," or "Brussel sprouts."

But the most concerning was the child who  answered the question, "What stops you from learning a musical instrument," with the following rant:

"I just don't want to. I don't want to spend that much of my life playing music because I just don't like it that much, OK!"

This is all my fault. I'm sure you can play a musical instrument occasionally - just not in December.

Baby Names: Hilary or Max?

 I know lots of people who are having babies at the moment. So many that I can't keep up with the knitting. I expect all of those couples have, as I did, the baby name book in the toilet. They probably watched films for the credits; the Long Suffering Husband and I briefly flirted with the idea of naming our firstborn Queeg at the end of a film. There are not many decisions I regret in life but it would have suited her and I think the world needs more non-gender specific names.

Queeg

Sigma

Last night the world was raving about Hilary Benn's speech on the Syria bombing decision. People shared transcripts on Social Media. They commented:  "Wow, I don't agree with much that woman has to say but she has really hit the nail on the head." , "Hilary Benn called fundamental Muslims fascists did she? Progress.", and my favourite, "Just watched Hilary Benn's speech and have to say she is looking a little masculine." Twitter didn't learn. In September they all leaped to Jeremy Corbyn's defence over his male cabinet by saying that he had appointed a Hilary. Oh, Jeremy, how you must regret not appointing a real woman! It was a good speech and one that surprised the press, public and the rest of the MPs because Mr Benn had never been quite so impassioned about anything before. He wasn't the first to play the Nazi card in the day; I think  Dan Jarvis said something similar earlier, although at that point everyone (except John Bercow- who has the most impressive bladder in history - ever) was in the loo or having lunch.

I wonder if Hilary Benn has spent his life having his ideas dismissed simply because people think he is a woman.

The other bit of news yesterday was that the founder of Facebook is so pleased to have a baby girl he and his wife have decided to give away lots of their shares. They have set up a foundation to promote 'equality for all children in the next generation.' This is brilliant and they have given their daughter an excellent start by calling her Max. 

One of my Grandad's names (he had four, being a much longed for only son) was Shirley , which he was always very proud of. I'm sad about lots of things today but how I wish we could live in a world where gender didn't matter.

Sick Days

Today I was unable to go to work, so, just for you (no need to thank me) I sat on the sofa with BBC Parliament on the TV and learnt everything there is to know about the Syria bombing debate.

• David Cameron is going to send raptors in.
• Saying sorry is the hardest thing to do.
• They all want us to call the people being bombed Daesh instead of ISIS (due to protests from the International Space Station) but no one can agree on the pronunciation.
• There are lots of old men in parliament.  
• Men shout a lot.
• Women stand up to give the Prime Minister 'motherly advice,' which he obviously chooses to ignore. No teenage boy ever puts his pants in the laundry basket, no matter how often his mum tells him that it will make girls love him.
• Long words are popular.
• 70,000 is a big number for politicians to count to. Let's face it, we've all done it. 1,2,3,....5,000....twenty several.....70,000.
• Jeremy Corbyn, sadly, is a bit shit but he doesn't shout; he just looks sad.
• It's very crowded and people have to constantly ask if someone will give way.
• It's hard for people to make progress but they keep telling you that they will.
• Everyone has made up their mind before they hear what is said.
• There is no worse insult than being called a pacifist.
• Twitter has made up its mind and gets very angry with anyone they don't agree with.
• Women are allowed to speak when the important people have gone to the loo and for lunch but they must say they are a mother.
• Whipping seems quite popular.
• Alan Johnson is good for a soundbite (expect to see  "I wish I had the self righteous certitude of the finger jabbing representatives of the newer kinder politics." in the press)
• Yvette Cooper can be the most reasonable person but Twitter will respond with, "Ed Balls" and "Airhead"
• There is a father of the house and he's a sweet old man who seems to make sense.  They don't shout when he is talking but there is some eye rolling going on, which is a fairly normal teenage reaction when Daddy is speaking. 
• Tim Farron is quite an emotional little bunny.  There were tears in my eyes but I am ill.
• The Defence Committee don't think it is a good idea.
• Some MPs don't breathe.
• Most people think we should do it because we've been asked to. (That's always been my problem.  Honestly! The number of concerts I've done because I was asked when I knew it was a bad idea!)
• No body really knows anything.
• They won't vote until about 10 o clock tonight, even though they've been saying, "tonight," all day. (I hope there are some people still left)

I'm going to turn it off now and pull myself together; thankful that I only have to deal with small children making horrible noises rather than having to sit up half the night to vote on whether dinosaurs can end a religious war.

How to be socially awkward

If being socially awkward is something you'd like to have a go at then here is a quick step by step guide.

1. Go to see Miss Saigon

2. Cry most of the way through

3. Laugh out loud when the man next to you gasps as Kim shoots herself (spoilers)

4. Sit in a coffee shop to try to compose yourself afterwards and tweet the person your programme tells you played Kim.

5. Carry on sobbing.

6. Get a little excited that the actress Tweets you back.

7. Know you have plumbed the depths of social awkwardness.

Where do you keep your horn?

I love my job.

I know I've told you before but children are amazing.  They are funny, even when they don't know that they are being so.  Towards the end of a lesson today a child farted, it was loud and everyone laughed.  The child from whom the wind escaped said, "Oooh, I'm sorry about that.  This lesson is really good and I just got excited."

We all had to agree.  It had been a fun lesson.  We are looking at the first Disney Alice in Wonderland film, listening to the soundtrack and learning the songs.  We've reached the part where we meet Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum and we had our very own Caucus Race, where the only rule was that you had to move in time to music I played on the piano and then at a musical cue sang. "How do you do and shake hands,"

The children had really enjoyed listening for the musical cues in the film that signal danger, funny moments and creeping movements.  They were particularly amused by the noises that Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum made when they bumped into each other.

"Why do they make that noise when they bump their bottoms?"

I love their questions

"Why do you think?" I asked, hoping for someone to say that it makes you laugh.

"Because the composer decided to put an instrument sound in there."

"Well, yes, I suppose so. What instrument did he choose and why?"

"It was a horn."

I couldn't fault their listening skills, so I got out the French Horn and played a few notes. "Did it sound like this?"

"No, it's the horn you squeeze," they all agreed.

"Like this?"

They jumped.

"Why do they have a horn in their pants?" one boy asked innocently (really! He is only in year 3!)

I am a professional and so, of course I didn't laugh.

"Why has one of them got a bigger horn than the other?" asked another genuinely curious child.

"What makes you ask that?"

I know this sounds like a risky question but I wanted to know.

"Well one of them makes a higher sound than the other and you told us that big instruments make low noises and small instruments make high noises, so they must have different sized horns."

Yes! They listen to me.

The only thing is that now they've mentioned it I've looked at those odd twins and I think they both have very tiny horns if they are keeping them in their pants.

Julia has a mature sense dark humour

On my first year junior school (year 3) report, my teacher, who used to take her contact lenses out to keep us quiet, wrote, "Julia has a mature sense of dark humour."

I wonder what happened to make her write that?

It is true, though. I find funerals, hospitals and illness both fascinating and hilarious. 

Not necessarily when they all happen at once but you've got to laugh.

Yesterday, was the 24th of November. It's my least favourite day every year and it lasts all day. It's November the 24th from the moment you get up until the moment you go to bed. It rains, you go to funerals, hospitals and hear about illness and it's nearly Christmas; the first concert is 2 days away and you are not prepared.

But if you look carefully, there is always a small chunk of hope; a glimmer of humour, waiting to catch you by surprise.

You walk alongside the deceased's grand daughter, who you haven't seen since she was an eleven year old giggly flute player in your Youth Orchestra and say, "Am I allowed to say how much you've grown?"

She squeals. Everyone turns to look.

"Oooh! You've grown too, I didn't recognise you!"

Damn! I knew my trousers felt a bit tight!

Earworm

I have an earworm.

A song is stuck in my head and it won't go away.  I've been singing it for weeks.  It goes, " Da da da da da da dee dum.  De da de da de da da dum. Da da da da da da de dum. De da de da de da de dum."

Do you know it?

It's there whenever David Cameron appears on the TV, especially if he is talking about ISIS, which I discovered isn't the International Space Station, with a typo.  I keep clicking on things on Twitter, hoping to see lovely pictures of a moon, a black hole or the rings of Jupiter, only to be disappointed.

I can play it on the flute.  I must have played it before.  It's a pleasing tune.

David Cameron is on the radio now and the tune running through my head makes me think of spring time sunshine and frolicking lambs and it seems at odds with his words.

"I firmly support President Holland's decision to attack and I want Britain to agree to do the same.  We must put an end to the Caliphate of Isil.......airstrikes to target Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi are essential to finally end this self styled Caliph and his reign of terror."

Oh, I've got it!

It's the Caliph of Baghdad.

A comic opera by French composer, Francois Adrien Boieldieu. 

My mind is weird but this is what it does with scary news.  

I quite like the Belgians' response to the terror threat news, as cat pictures make everyone feel better but it has only made me worry about Christmas.  

Your Christmas could be in peril.  #BrusselsLockdown.  I worry for you.  

As yesterday was Stir-up Sunday, my Christmas cake, pudding and mincemeat are all made and although my allotment is weedy my winter greens are doing just fine.  But they really do need to release those brussel sprouts soon, otherwise your Christmas will be destroyed.

What's your favourite Carol?

Bloody Christmas! Every bloody year!

"It's not that bad," people say as they see me with my head in my hands, covering my ears, trying to erase the auditory memory of the growler and the girl whose singing sounds like a Muslim call to prayer.

"It starts earlier and earlier every year," others complain.

It is all beginning to make me feel old and tired and the children aren't helping. They have also noticed that the festive excitement cranks up earlier each year.

"We've decided that as Christmas gets earlier every year then by the time we're your age it will start in January."

I hope not.

These children could be the music teachers of the future. How will they cope if it does? 

Christmas music can't be practised with children before the beginning of November. Parents will send out death threats if you do. How will those poor music teachers get everything ready without the ability to time travel?

It's bad enough already. Our first Christmas concert for the orchestra is next Thursday. Yes, I know it's not even December yet and that means we've only had three rehearsals where we could play carols and Christmas songs.  It'll be fine. Of course it will. Perfectly fine!

This week, in school, I was teaching a song about Christmas dinner and so we are firmly in the realm of the festive mondegreen. "Nuts and currents weeding out the greedy ants."

I told them that next week we would be learning some of the more traditional carols, rather than the songs. I have put this off until now because I need to be in the right frame of mind for the most highly flavoured lady and Away in a manger no crisps in the bed the little Lord  Jesus lays down his sweet ted. The more archaic the language the more potential for a misheard lyric.

"Who was Carol anyway?"

They have such good questions.

This week's orchestra rehearsal was a takeover. As I was trying to sort out a letter to parents with the dates and dress codes for all the concerts (because the children, even when they are as old as 18, don't share this information) they organised themselves and started playing. One of the older members decided to conduct. 

I couldn't believe my luck; a chance to sit down, put my feet up and play the sleigh bells. I made everyone take a turn, searching for my replacement, as retirement sometimes feel like a very good idea.

Each one stood on the platform biting their nails, the edge of their jumper sleeves or bottom lip.

"What shall I do?"

"That's up to you."

"Errm. Yes, but how do I do it?"

"You've been watching the conductor, right?"

Their eyes pleaded, "make them be quiet"

"You have to catch their attention."

"How."

I shrugged.

Obviously, the younger, newer members had more support.

"Of course you can do it. (sotto voce) They don't watch anyway. What's your favourite Carol?"

This led to my colleagues discussing their favourite Carol.

Carol the 2nd of Romania.

Carol Kirkwood.

CarolThatcher 

Pope John Paul II - Karol Wojtyler

I was about to tell my favourite Christmas joke when I noticed our youngest player hanging on my every word.

I'm sure I've told this joke on my blog before but at this time of year it's always worth repeating your favourite Carol. 

Three men arrive at the Pearly Gates on Christmas Eve and St Peter says to them, "Right lads, as it's Christmas I'll only let you in if you've got something with you that represents the true spirit of Christmas."
The first  man panics a bit, pats his pockets, thinking that he has nothing except a lighter, so he pulls it out and lights it and says,  "Errm, this is a light and it errrrm represents the errrrm light that God sent into the world by errrrm giving us his son at Christmas."

"Ooo, very good," says St Peter, "you're in."

The second man has broken out into a profuse sweat.  He only has his keys.  So, in desperation, he takes them out of his pocket and as he does so he breathes a huge sigh of relief as he hears them jangle.  He shakes them loudly and says, "These keys represent the bells that ring out throughout the land on Christmas morning."

"It's a bit lame but Okay, you're in," says St Peter.

The third man is completely calm.  Instantly he pulls a pair of women's frilly panties out of his pocket and waits.

St Peter scratches his head, "I'm sorry, they are very nice knickers but I don't understand what they've got to do with Christmas."

"They're Carol's!" replies the third man smugly.

Shakespeare couldn't spell

I was good at spelling at school. In third year juniors (year 5) I was in the top spelling group and had to learn words like government, parliament and accommodation. My teacher was a bit fierce and you didn't want to annoy her because teachers were still allowed/encouraged to wallop the wayward.  So, I always learnt my spellings. I also read books because I loved them, which is what made me good at spelling. When she realised this she would recommend things for me to read and I thought that meant that she liked me.

 One day, however, when I was laughing at a classmate for not being able to spell something, Mrs T blew my mind, "Shakespeare couldn't spell either and you'd do well to remember that Missy."

Whether she just wanted to give more ammunition to my playground tormentor who had spent the whole of my junior school life teasing me for being 'posh' and 'swotty' or she was making a valid point I wasn't sure but I ran through the scenario in my mind. 

"Julia, how do you spell government?"

"G O V E R M E N T."

"Don't be silly, girl, you know it has an N in it."

"I know because it comes from the verb to govern but you said that Shakespeare couldn't spell so I thought I'd try to be more like a famous writer."

"Pull your skirt up!"
The sharp slapping sound and imagined sting of my upper thigh brought me back to reality and I was glad for one of the few times in my life that I wasn't a boy, who had to drop their trousers.  My imaginary smack was less humiliating because of my gender.

When you write often you make mistakes. Despite being good at spelling I expect my blogs have been littered with inaccuracies. Usually these are just typos . I prefer to write quickly and then go back, read, re-read and edit.  I'm not quite so good at grammar and some punctuation is a complete mystery. My daughter tells me that the extra space after a full-stop is no longer necessary.  Grammar wasn't a large part of the curriculum when I was at school.  I can make what I write understandable from copying what I've read but participles could dangle, unnoticed all over my writing.  I worry about this.  People get very cross about these things.

Michael Rosen had a lively Twitter debate this morning about the identification of 'my' as possessive pronoun.  I worried.  Had I used 'my' as a possessive pronoun?  What is a possessive pronoun, anyway?

It turns out that 'mine' is the possessive pronoun and 'my' is just a pronoun.  (Luckily there are some very good grammar Nazi-bloggers out there).  I relaxed a little.  I would always say, "This blog is mine," Does it matter that I can't name them, if I can use words properly?

Similarly, I wonder if spelling really matters.  I know it matters to the angry people on Twitter. Whole swathes of the country are planning to boycot Waterstone's in Walthamstow because, "how dare a bookshop not be promoting good literacy!"

A typo missed by the proof reader but wait, what about the missing apostrophe? Along with Sainsburys, Waterstones decided to drop its apostrophe in 2012 but have still to change the signage on their shops.

Does it matter?  We know what the sign means.  Shakespeare couldn't spell.  To be fair to him all spelling was phonetic until as recently as 1800.  When researching my family tree I found a Mary Sell or Mary Sele or Mary Cell, or Mary Cele and they were all the same person.  Even educated people like vicars or the keepers of parish registers couldn't agree.

Not being able to agree is very common when people are talking about spelling.  Does it matter if a four year old writes 'carot'? What if the teacher writes it like that on the board after that child identifies the sounds for her? I don't know the answer to that but I know that everyone will have an opinion and will be determined that they are right.  I expect that there are as many pieces of research showing that it doesn't matter as there are showing that it is vital. Teaching is hard.

Today, I was teaching Sammy Fain's songs from Alice in Wonderland.  The words were up on the whiteboard.
"Miss, that word is wrong."
"What word?"
"The one with the red line underneath."
"You mean Slithy Toves?  Does anyone know what the slithy toves are?"
They all agreed that those were made-up words.
"What about a Caucus race?  Is that a real thing."
They all agreed.  Caucus was a real word and they all thought they knew what it meant. Voices were raised.
"It's a flower."
"No it's not it means being careful."
"Don't be silly.  Our upstairs phone is caucus."

Oh, and I thought it was a convocation.  Awkward.

Colouring

Looking back on my childhood with rose tinted specs, I imagine life to have been full of long hot summers, punctuated only by a brief spell of leaf kicking, hiding from firework bangs and singing carols. As a musician, my build up to Christmas was always longer than most people's but we never practised carols or Christmas songs until after bonfire night. Winter lasted for about 4 weeks, with two of them being Christmas; the rest of the time it was summer.

Obviously, that is a better way of running the world. 

Now that I'm old and grumpy, life is one long winter, Christmas lasts for eleven weeks and it rains all summer.

Logically, I know things haven't altered that much but yesterday I discovered something that has disappeared, probably forever. 

You can sometimes spot cultural changes in songs. When my children were small they had a nursery rhyme book that contained these words:

Ip dip do

The cat's got the flu

The dog's got the weasels 

So out goes you!

"Is the weasels when you've got a nasty cough?" my daughter wondered. It was then I suddenly realised that many of those long hot summers, doing handstands on the field also included checking each other's belly for spots. Measles was a right of passage and meant you could have a couple of weeks off school, on the sofa watching Pipkin, having tomato soup for lunch and drinking Lucozade.

It's probably a good thing that children don't know about measles and can maintain their 100% attendance record, especially as they can watch kids TV all through the night now if they want. They can still watch that weird hare from Pipkin and his innuendos on YouTube.

Hartley Hare Being Naughty

Yesterday, I was teaching the children to sing Rocking Around The Christmas Tree,  for their Nativity play. It was so much fun watching them come up with a dance move to fit the line, "Everyone dancing merrily in the new old fashioned way."

They rubbed their tummies as they sang, "Later we'll have some pumpkin pie," but baffled me with the action they chose for, "and we'll do some caroling."

"What are you doing?"

"Colouring!"

"Colouring? What's that got to do with Christmas?"

"We always do colouring at Christmas."

"My mum gets a grown up colouring book too."

"Mine too."

"What about your Dad?"

"Don't be silly, Miss, Dad's don't colour!"

Grrrrrrrr. Of course, colouring is something women are encouraged to do to stop their little brains getting distracted with anything else like world peace, the human genome project or cracking the Beale cipher! Sorry. I just got distracted for a moment there. Back to the story....

"It's caroling not colouring. Have you heard of caroling?"

Blank looks.

"It's where you sing carols."

More blank looks.

"You know, carols? The Christmas songs we sing every year?"

"Like Away in a Manger?"

Phew! Spontaneous singing and happy faces.

"Anyway, caroling is where groups of people go and sing carols outdoors and people give them money for charity."

"Why?"

"Errrmmm," Saved by a girl in the choir.

"Will people give us money when we sing in the High Street for the Christmas Fayre?"

"No, we won't ask them to. Carol singers used to go around the streets and knock on doors."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"If you have a licence."

"Does Father Christmas have  a licence?"

"I suppose he must have. Let's sing!"

Caroling appears to be dead. Long live colouring!

Mustard or Custard

Would you like to play a game of mustard or custard?

It's very simple, or complicated, depending upon your point of view. These are the steps.

1. Sign up to a Barnardo's Young Supporters Concert.

2. Enrol a choir of about 40 children.

3. Practise a dozen songs every week for two months.

4. When you realise that's not going to be enough time make a CD of your awful singing for each child and cringe anytime a parent mentions listening to it.

5. Suddenly realise there are still words you don't know.

6. Try to learn the words wherever you are: walking the dog, in a queue for the theatre, doing the weekly shop, sitting in a coffee shop. In fact, spend as much time singing to yourself as possible without being sectioned. You will find that if you are nearly 5 times as old as your choir members then it will take you 5 times as long to learn everything.

7. No matter how hard you try you can't help singing, "Food glorious food, hot sausage and custard. While we're in the mood, cold jelly and mustard."

8. The day before the concert eat a good tea of hot sausages and custard and make some star shaped biscuits for the children to eat after the concert. (I like Jo Wheatley's custard cream recipe) This is important. A post concert sugar rush is essential if you want to get home on the coach without tears.

9. Get up at 6am on a Sunday and walk the dog.

10. Arrive in school at about 7am.

11. Count to 37. 

12. Load excitable kids onto a coach and travel for two hours to a constant refrain of, "Are we there yet?"

12. Count to 37

13. Arrive a little early and run around the park, warm up on the steps and make sure everyone has been to the toilet.

14. Count to 37.

15. Climb a million steps to put bags and coats in our designated area.

16. Count to 37.

17.  Warn the children that they won't be able to go to the toilet again for two hours. Queue for 20 minuites.

18. Count to 37.

19. Climb back down a million and a few more steps to get onto stage. 

20. Sing for two hours. Stand up a lot.

21. Count to 37. Hand 32 over to your brilliant colleagues so they can climb a million steps and queue for the toilet and have lunch.

22. Stay on stage with five very brave talented children, while they sound check and practise their solos. This step is optional but I can thoroughly recommend it. 

23.Count to five.

24. Go to the toilet without queuing.

25.  Get lost and walk around the building for a bit. 

26. Climb a million steps.

27. Eat lunch.

28. Remind children that this is their last chance to go to the toilet for 2 1/2 hours.

29. Count to 37. 

30. Go outside and run around like mad things for a few minuites. 

31. Count to 37.

32. Go back to the stage.

33. Sing more. Stand more.

34. At 3.30/4pm deal with the 'post lunch slump' and try not to punch any teachers from other schools who set a bad example to their kids.

35. Sing more. Stand more.

36. Count to 37.

37. Count to 37 (couldn't resist)

38. Go to a boiler room, I mean dressing room, where your amazing colleagues have single handedly moved all the children's coats and bags, for reasons that remain unclear but were something to do with us being a nice, friendly school.

39. Eat tea. 

40. Give out T-shirts.

41. Change tops.

42. Remind children that this is their last chance to go to the toilet for three hours.

43. Count to 37.

44. Go outside.

45. Try to take a picture on the steps.

46. Wonder why the flash on your camera isn't working.

47. Count to 37.

48. Go back to the stage.

49. Sing. Enjoy every second.

50. Burst with pride as your soloists do the most amazing job.

51. Imagine you are surrounded by dancing crisp packets. It's like one of those dreams. You have those dreams, right?

52. Tell the children that Trevor, the man with the huge organ is going to be your next husband. (I love Trevor: a man who knows how to use his organ!)

53. Be amazed by the choirs that won the Barnardo's competition. The children were particularly impressed with the singing Dolphins.

54. Watch the dancing and wonder why so much dance is about girls in pants and why people will insist on clapping out of time.

55. Sing and stand more.

56. Wave flags.

57. Wait until everyone has left the stage and take pictures and chat with the conductor.

58. Count to 37

59. Go back to the dressing room and open the biscuit tin and invite the children to play, 'mustard or custard.'

60. Watch their faces as they timidly bite into the biscuit before declaring, "Phew, it's nice. I've got custard!"

61. Offer some to your colleagues, who are also surprised that there is no beetroot or courgette in them. (I think I have a reputation)

Simple!

Hug a bear day

Twitter tells me that today is #hugabearday, which is odd because I've been thinking about Teddy bears a lot lately. I'm assuming that the day has been invented by a British Teddy manufacturer, as checking the American National Awareness day list today is National Canine Lymphoma Awareness Day and National Bittersweet Chocolate with Almonds Day, which is a good job as Americans on Twitter have been confused about the hashtag and have posted pictures of real bears. I am very disappointed that Google won't help me find the source of this day. I need to know whose idea it was and why?

Why do we need a hug a bear day?

No one needs to hug a real bear. To suggest such an idea would be irresponsible. I can't imagine London Zoo using the day as a PR technique, with hundreds of parents lining their small children up by the polar bear enclosure for a quick mauling. 

If the day was invented by a soft toy manufacturer then I can't understand why they felt the need to keep their identity a secret. I've looked at the websites of British manufacturers and they don't mention the day at all. I'm suspicious that a journalist made the day up so that they would be allowed to write something warm and fuzzy once a 

year. 

Wherever this day has come from I still find it a bit odd that I have noticed it for the first time just as I have been contemplating the whole Teddy bear situation. 

There have been so many questions circling my head for the last few weeks.

It started when I went into my daughter's bedroom and noticed teddy Mildred abandoned on the bed.

I thought about how children name their bears, why only one gets chosen to be the special companion, why they get left behind during our twenties but somehow end up back in a cupboard or the loft in our thirties forties and beyond. I wondered if there comes a time post fifty when we finally consign the flea ridden fluff-stuffed cloth to the bin. The thought of doing that to my own teddy leads me to conclude that these are not ordinary bears but are spirit beings with a life and a soul of their own. 

I know. You're thinking, "She's finally cracked. The pressure of letting children bang things on a daily basis has finally taken its toll," but bear (if you'll excuse the pun) with me.

My daughter's bear was far from the only stuffed toy she had. Mildred arrived in a box, through the post, on her first birthday. The Long Suffering Husband and I didn't choose the name, nor did my sister, who had put the box in the post. He was just called Mildred. And, yes, Mildred was a boy. 

My bear was called Claude and I don't know why. My sister's favourite was known as Mo and as the much older bossy sister I remember that she used to get very upset when I tried to give him a much more suitable name.

"But he's called Mo," she would unreasonably insist. 

These bears just arrive when they are needed. I think that Mildred has done his job. He guided a small girl through her childhood and has sent her off in the world to become an adult. He will probably go to keep a watchful eye on her children, just as Claude did with mine. While they  were growing up, Claude sat, bald and blind providing the occasional disapproving tut. They were aware of him, never played with him but Claude was always a serious bear. He liked to help me learn the flags of the world and we would chuckle together about words. "Catastrophe. Ha ha. Cat wins an award but it's too big for it to hold so it falls down the stairs." We were reading Professor Branestawm's dictionary.

When I was about 14 we read Brideshead Revisited and were completely taken with Sebastian, a fully grown man who took his teddy everywhere with him. I think it appealed to us because, like Aloysius, Claude  also had an unusual name and secretly wished that he were small enough and I were brave enough for me to carry him around.  I have since discovered that this man-bear partnership was based on John Betjemin an his teddy, who was called Archibald Ormsby Gore. That is not a name any child or parent would give to a stuffed animal but can only have been the bear's real full name.

Claude is still partial to a chapter of Brideshead before bed

When my sister was still very small she accidentally left Mo on a Park and Ride bus in Oxford. You hear about parents who have to go and buy a replacement when this happens but if I remember correctly Mo found his way back to my sister, which is good because I know she wouldn't have been convinced by a replacement, who might even have had a different name. It is not unusual for lost bears to find their way home. Jenny Murray, from Woman's Hour, told the Daily Mail that her bear who was unimaginatively named Teddy was lost in a shop and although they looked for him and her mother tried to replace him she remained inconsolable, until one day, two weeks later, a Policeman arrived at the doorstep to bring the wayward bear home. I suppose every spirit bear needs to let his fur down once in a while. 

Some bears just know they have to stick close. Sir Robert Clark, one of Churchill's special operations executives had a bear called Falla arrive into his life when he was two. Falla knew how important it was to stick close. He parachuted behind enemy lines and served his time patiently with Robert as a prisoner of war in Italy.

Carol Vorderman still has her bear, Bungee. They would communicate in their own secret language. She says that she keeps him around so that he can remind her where she came from.

Maybe there is no mystery to #hugabearday. The bears finally want recognition for their years of service. It is time to remember the guides, the brave warriors and those that fell along the way.

Did you have a spirit bear?