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.