I bloody love Christmas, I do

"Christmas is just gross, isn't it, Miss?" one pupil asked me early on in December.

We were learning Christmas carols and had been talking about the words and how they related to the Christmas story. I was inclined to agree with her at that point.  Having just returned from a trip to the Church, where the questions got a little tricky I had been thinking about the whole birth story.
"How did the baby get into her tummy?" a child had asked.
The vicar laughed and neatly side-stepped the question.
"They kissed. I bet they did," said another wiser child.
"How did the baby get out?" asked another.
"Pretty much the same way you did," I suggested.
"But they weren't in a hospital," the child protested.
Then they were back to the question of conception. A very enthusiastic church helper tried to answer their questions. She told them that Joseph was much older.
"How old was Mary?," they asked.
"They think she was about eleven," the woman told them.
There was a shocked holding of breath while these year two children processed the fact that someone in year six could have a baby.
"So, how did the baby get into her tummy?"

My year six pupil had looked up the word 'undefiled' in the dictionary (Zither Carol).
"It means she wasn't raped, doesn't it? I mean, how gross. When you think about where you sing, 'veiled in flesh the god head see,' in Hark the Herald and, 'Lo, he abhors not the virgin's womb.' Well. It's just disgusting. Do they really need to over-share?"
I praised her for her dictionary skills and suggested she didn't think about it too much, that we use words differently now and how it was such a long time ago we will never really know what happened.

Despite all this, I'm not put off. I still like the Christian Christmas story. It's a story of hope and tolerance. A story where someone who is displaced from their home can give birth to a person who will change the world.

I'm not ashamed to say that I love Christmas. I love the paganess of it. I love the rituals that help us over the short dadays. I love cutting plants down and bringing them indoors to slowly die, reminding ourselves that things still grow even when it's cold and dark. I love adding lights to things and burning candles, just to help us forget that the days are so short. This year we have lights everywhere and have two real Christmas trees. The Long Suffering Husband and I couldn't agree. I like the tree in the hall, beautifully, classily decorated, so that you get a whiff of pine as you walk in and that everyone who comes to the house says, "Oooh, I love your tree. Gold. So classy." The LSH says it doesn't feel like Christmas unless the tree is in the living room. Last year, he won and I missed the admiring comments about my lovely tree, so it was my turn. As a compromise I trimmed some branches off the bottom and made Beecher's Brook on the mantle piece, while he found the Christmas tree stand.
"It's broken. We'll have to get a new one," he shouted down from the loft hatch. We could get another tree for the living room while we're there."
I've been so excited about my two trees. It feels very naughty, decadent; wasteful, even but I don't care.
"Will you be letting him decorate his own tree?" my mum asked.
"Don't be silly," I said. How could she have forgotten that I suffer from COD? It's like OCD but only at Christmas (Christmas Obsessive Disorder).

I love the pagan tradition of stuffing yourself with fat, nuts and berries to see you through a long cold winter. I make my pudding and cake in November (decorate it on Christmas Eve). I'm even happy to blend in a Thanksgiving tradition and eat turkey and I'll let other commercial enterprises get in on the act. Advent is all about chocolate because we are feeding ourselves up for a long winter.

I love giving presents. I love buying things for people and hoping they'll like them. I love wrapping them, in apaper that matches the tree with added bows and ribbons (see COD). Even my difficulty buying for the LSH, which you will know about if you've read other blogs, would never stop me trying. I love the excitement of gift exchanges. Sometimes the wrapping is better than the present and I think I would just be happy with boxes. I'm trying that theory out on the LSH this year.

I love Father Christmas or whatever you call him. The idea of a spirit that travels the sky in midwinter bringing gifts to children is just marvellous. I love the way that traditions from all around the world get smushed together to make something brilliant. I love to track him on NORAD and love that scientists and mathematicians are happy to believe.

I love that Christmas is a time for belief. The major Christian festival (after Easter) has used these pagan traditions to enhance its own celebration. At Christmas, you can believe anything.

I love singing. Christmas is a time for song. It's the time of year when  you can play songs like, "I wanna go skating with Willie, 'cause Willie is such a good skate." or "I'm a little Christmas cracker, bang-a-bang-a-bang-a that's me." You can shout/sing 12 days of Christmas. You can listen to beautiful choral music and sing Christmas carols, belting out a solo of the descant verse.

I love the traditions that each family develops.  Our family takes a trip to London to see the lights, browse the food halls and enjoy the hustle bustle of the city.  This year it will be just the LSH and me but we are undeterred.  This is one tradition we are never giving up.  I put on my Christmas jumper and the LSH laughed.
"It's a Christmas jumper kind of day," I told him, bouncing up and down excitedly, "I bloody love Christmas, I do."

Tommy

It's not Christmas without the annual youth orchestra Christmas party.  The first one was seventeen years ago. In those days we were in a dusty Quaker Hall, with the handful of children that were members then. The losing quiz team (there were only two) were just as happy with their bag of lemons as the winners were with their sweets. Some things never change: even if there are more teams there is still as much competition for the lemons. Other things do change, though: we get older. Thinking about the seventeen Christmas parties has made me feel a little old, sad and nostalgic.

This was the first Christmas party my dad has missed. When we started, he was the musical director, happily in the limelight, being sparkling and scintillating. He was fun and energetic. I had a small baby and was knackered, happy to be in the background, doing paperwork, writing quizzes, buying lemons. Then time passed and our roles reversed. I had more energy than he did and although I'm more reserved than he is it was time to step out from the shadows. After a while the paperwork became became too much. It was time for him to take another retirement. Luckily, the members we had fifteen years ago are grown up and have formed a team with some current parents to take on these roles. Dad is still on the team, coming to rehearsals when he can. These wonderful people keep me sane. Friday evenings wouldn't be the same without them.

Now we have grown, we hire a room in a local pub for the party and have food, drink and lots of games, as well as the quiz (which is now written by a guy with a PhD). There is still one tradition that is as important as the bag of lemons: Tommy. It wouldn't be a youth orchestra party unless it ended with a game of Tommy.

"I've got the sweets for Tommy but I'm not really sure how it works," said the guy with the PhD. He played the game for ten years but the rules still seem weird and mysterious.

It's a very simple game. All the participants form a large circle and five sweets are placed in the middle. A little time is given for everyone to look,longingly at the sweets, then someone is chosen to leave the room. While they are gone the others choose which sweet is called Tommy. If they have been clever they will have seen which one the person drooled over the most. When they return the room goes silent as they pick sweets, one by one. As soon as they touch Tommy everyone shouts as loudly as they can. "TOMMMMMYYYYYYY!" This makes the person jump and they can't have any more sweets. This is repeated until everyone has had a go, the party is over or everyone is bored.

"Where does it come from then?" asked Dr Who of History.
"It's a really old children's party game," I told him.
"Oh, because I was thinking your Dad just made it up."
"No. We played it at our birthday parties."
Then I began to doubt myself. Had I played it at anyone else's party? I couldn't remember. I remembered pass the parcel, musical bumps, the memory game, guess who I am but not Tommy.
Could it have been a game invented by my grandparents in a party version of 'pinch pudding day'?
Pinch pudding day was a method my grandmother used to make a six person apple pie feed nine. She knew that there wasn't enough to go around, so made a game of it. If you had finished yours then you could steal from someone else's plate unless (and here's the good bit) they had their little finger on the edge. Tommy is a bit like that. It makes you think you are going to get five sweets but you could end up with none. In those poorer than church mice, post war years no child would have ever dared to suggest, "it's not fair."

It might have fallen out of favour now that every child has to win a prize. The way we play it is brutal. The only reference to the game I could find on the Internet was a description on a Mumsnet party forum. It suggested that you put some coloured smarties on a plate (a plate? We put wrapped sweets on the floor. How can you lunge for them on a plate?) and named one Tommy Smartie. If a child chose that one the other children were to say, politely, "No, no, don't eat Tommy Smartie." You can imagine them putting their little hands to their mouth, smoothing down their velvet party frock and giggling guiltily.

This is not a game for nice middle class mum's in their Joules gilet and nautical top. No. In fact it always goes best when it's delivered by a man who played pinch pudding day and understands the rules of survival in a large pack of children. Someone who can prance around in a tutu or silly red braces getting people excited about the prospect of getting more than one sweet from the Quality street tin and changing the rules at a whim, so that all the sweets are suddenly called Tommy, or none are.

"They're all Tommy, aren't they?"

The Show Must Go On

"I love that. I want it at my funeral," is something I've heard a lot recently.

After a Carol concert, that was in a church in aid of a hospice and felt more like a remembrance service, the poems and song choices of people's own funerals were the main topic of conversation. The problem is that even if you plan it you won't be there to see it. Still, it seems to be human nature to think about these things as you get older. It's like planning your imaginary wedding and practising different surname signatures in the back of your RE book when you are in the fifth form (year 11).

I sometimes wonder if I should have the Queen song, 'the show must go on' at my funeral.

The psychology of this phenomenon is interesting. Why to people continue with things in front of an audience that they would stop doing if they were on their own? Is it a survival instinct? Never show a crowd your weakness or they might turn and eat you. Some people are more prone to trouping on regardless.

Musician forums are full of anecdotes about violinists who kept playing after a string snapped and nearly took their eye out or choral singers who kept going even though their hair had just caught light on a candle, or a drummer who thought he'd killed a nun in the front row when his stick flew out of his hand and knocked her off her chair (if you ever wonder why drummers are in Perspex boxes then this is the reason). My funniest moment was probably in a band for a show. The band were on stage, pushed right to the back, on the less sturdy part where the floorboards didn't quite meet. Just before the curtain opened I moved my chair into a slightly better position only to get a slow sinking feeling as one leg of the chair disappeared down the gap. The other band members grabbed various limbs that were sticking in the air and got me back in an upright position while the curtains were opening and we all played from the very first note.

The offending hole

I've never missed a concert due to ill health. My body always seems to know that it has to wait, or if it refuses to wait then I ignore it. One December (it's always December) I had a chest infection and had fallen asleep on the sofa, biting my bottom lip during the afternoon. That evening I did the concert with a temperature and an ulcerated bottom lip (torture for a flautist).

When you put on a show with children the risk of some being ill on the day is huge. Children have more bugs that their immune systems need to catch and so you can never guarantee that your whole cast or choir will be there on the day. Worst still, you can never guarantee they will make it through the whole performance. Once I took a choir to an old peoples home and a girl in the front row went a funny colour. A conductor's job is to keep the choir going and so I held out my hands, she vomited into them and left. My face continued to make the 'keep singing' gestures and the old folk thought it was all part of the show.

In this season of Christmas concerts, nativities and vomiting viruses we all need a little bit of Queen in our lives.

Empty spaces what are we living for.

Abandoned places I guess we know the score.

The show must go on.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please take your seats for today's performance of Strictly Camel Vomiting.

The power is strong in this one

Star Wars metaphors are wonderful. The idea of people having superpowers that although untrained, hidden and suppressed still can be seen or felt by others is a common theme in fiction. It's a theme in the new Harry Potter film too, where the superpower (in this case Magic) becomes an uncontrollable monster (no spoilers but it's a film worth seeing). What happens with real life superpowers? Is suppressing them always bad or are they impossible to hide?

I was beginning to get worried about my own superpower of invisibility. I've been in lots of places this December with different groups of musicians and have provided music at quite short notice when other people are sensible and drop out. People have smiled at me and occasionally thanked me (not always, which is where I sometimes feel that the uncontrollable beast of rage might emerge) and I was starting to think people might know who I am.

However, it appears that the force of invisibility is particularly strong in me.  I turned up at a venue I had been to a few times that week and smiled at Clifford, chatted a while about the perils of being the technical wizard in a church, got the piano key and had a little practice .
"Oh, you know your way around then? That's good," he said, scratching his head. The vicar turned up and blessed me for standing in at such short notice. I think being blessed is the same as being thanked so the beast was abated for a while. I mentioned something about it not being a problem and apologised for the fact that it was me again. "People will start to get sick of looking at the back of my head," I joked. There was a long pause, a sharp intake of breath and a mental glossing over the confusion before he took my hand, squeezed hard and blessed me again.

The mayor was at this event. This year, I have been working closely with the Mayor to put on a charity concert. When he arrived, I smiled and greeted him by name and the thought that he hadn't recognised me crossed my mind. I was with a different group, although at least four of the children were the same. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't use my name or that he looked blankly at me that made me think this but it was an unshakeable thought.

As I was leaving the concert I was feeling particularly visible. People had come to tell me how great the choir were. They had recognised me from the back of my head and the feeling was making me a little anxious and sweaty (or it could have been a hot flush).  I stopped to talk to the Mayor and his wife who were shaking hands and making polite conversation by the door. I asked how their last charity event had gone. "Oh, not too bad," she gushed, telling me about the people that were there, the money they raised and how many chips she'd won at the roulette table. She went on to advertise the other events that they had coming up. I looked at the Long Suffering Husband, who was now deep in conversation with Mr Mayor about golf. They looked like they had been besties since birth. Mrs Mayor talked about a curry night which, "you simply must attend," and told me about a charity concert with a fabulous local orchestra that they have coming up. I shifted from foot to foot for a while, wondering whether to say anything, while she continued to extol the praises of the orchestra.
"Oh yes, I know about them," I decided to say.
"You know them? How wonderful. They really are the most amazing group of children, led by really wonderful people - all volunteers."

Awkward.

Still, it's good to know my force field is strong.

How to distress a music teacher in December

It's not hard to unhinge a music teacher in December. Life is so finely balanced: carved into 15 minute chunks. Every music teacher knows that you must never try to eat an elephant whole. Exhaustion and having no time to think or worry about anything (except at 3am) means that music teachers appear quite calm. They are not worrying that they haven't done their Christmas shopping or ordered a turkey or checked their fairy lights are working or washed the spare bed linen in time for the return of the prodigal daughter. There is a small chunk of time already allocated to those things.

Adding something to a music teacher's schedule, you would think might cause stress but provided there is a fifteen minute window it's all perfectly fine. If there is no gap then the rarely used word can be employed. I'll practise it with you now. Come on. I can do it. "No." See that wasn't so bad was it? Taking something away can cause a brief moment of anxiety but a few seconds later the gap is filled and there is no need to panic.

The thing that really causes stress is changing the time of things. If you had planned to meet a music teacher for coffee in December then remember that 11.30 isn't the same as 11. Changing the time of something without remembering to mentioning it is absolutely the worst thing you can do. Never leave a music teacher sitting in a pub only to turn up and say, "Sorry, I forgot to tell you I wasn't going to be here until 8.30." If you have organised a concert then you must be very clear with timings and never change them. To get a school choir to attend a concert will have required letter writing, permission slip chasing and logistical planning of soloists that would make Santa's elves sweat. You must not send different pieces of information by email that suddenly have the concert starting an hour earlier. If the music teacher checks the timings with you and you have changed them you must be very apologetic.  Know that this change will cause speedy letter writing, permission slip chasing, re-arranging of soloists, who now can't make it because they have a gymnastics competition or lunch with their elderly great grandma. The music teacher will wake in the middle of the night imagining that the fussiest, most complaining parent will arrive with their precious offspring at the end of the concert and book an appointment with the headteacher the next day to demand the immediate sacking of the incompetent teacher. Do not under circumstances say, "Oh well, an hour earlier is probably a good thing. At least the children won't be so tired." This might be true but whatever the music teacher was doing in the hour before (like rehearsing pupils ready for an exam the next day) will have to be rearranged until after the concert and when you can't give an exact finish time of finish the fifteen minute chunk schedule is falling about around the music teacher's ears and she is dreaming of ordering a whole elephant for her Christmas dinner and making everyone eat it whole because in December life is very stressful if you can't eat your elephant one bite at a time.

It's a good job I like elephants.

Politics

Suddenly, we, as a nation has decided that we hate politicians.

Instead of admiring the people who have to sit through hours and hours of boring meetings to get democratic changes on our behalf we now think they are all slimy and untrustworthy. This could be do do with awarding themselves an 11% pay rise at a time of austerity, taking their basic salary to £66,000 a year, or that they claimed for a duck house on expenses, or just that the big institution of government makes it hard to carry out all their principled promises.

But what is the alternative?

 If we are that disillusioned we could have a revolution. Man the barricades, wave flags and sing songs from Les Miserables. Unfortunately, no one writes romantic stories about what happens after the revolution. We could put a military dictator in charge: someone who would promise great things and deliver on many of them, smoke cigars and shoot anyone they don't like but chaotic dictators don't make the best romantic leads. We still have a Queen, so we could revert all powers back to her.  Let her decide that we can eat cake.  That doesn't sound so bad.  I like cake.

Unfortunately, we haven't done either of those two things.  We've just used the voting system to 'stick it to the man'.  I know several people who voted to leave the European Union, just, "to show that tosser Cameron what we think of him." When people are asked why they like Nigel Farage they say it's because he's not like a normal politician and they can relate to him.  They like him because instead of doing the job he was elected for (i.e. sitting in the European parliament holding officials to account and getting the best deal for the UK) he is leaning on the bars of the world, pint in hand, making lewd comments at young women.  Jeremy Corbyn is the same.  Well, obviously he's not the same but he is popular in the same way: not for actually doing his job and opposing the government in a sparkling and scintillating way at PMQs but for sitting on the floor of a train complaining that he can't get a seat.

Local elections are coming up and in the depths of Essex you can vote for a conservative candidate or you can 'stick it to the man'.  Socialism and liberalism doesn't get this far east from London.  Recognised parties don't bother fielding candidates for the disillusioned Tory voter, so it's left to the independents and it's up to us to decide who is least qualified for the job.  We could look to Flo, the flower arranging sixty year old, who seems nice and liberal with a pleasant smile and can talk at length on the subject of keeping gardens tidy.  We could choose Mark, the ex-policeman who has a history of wearing dresses (only in panto) but he has been the Mayor, so he might be over qualified.

I'm a little wary of voting for an independent candidate.  It feels like a leap into the dark.  How do we know what they stand for?  At least if they are Conservative we know they put wealth creation above everything else; if they are Labour they are fighting for social welfare and workers rights; if they are Liberals, they are trying to make everyone happy; if they are UKiP, they want to leave the European Union and if they are BNP the most important thing is to send all the foreigners back home. They have manifestos and they try to stick to them An individual within that party can't make it their sole mission to ban cake but an independent candidate could.

  I would like to vote for a candidate who is clear and honest.  Someone who is standing up to do the job, with the backing of a party registered with the electoral commission, so that I can check on their principals because I don't think that choosing the most incompetent person is the best way to get what you want.

One candidate on our ballot paper is running under the party name  "Fighting Unsustainable Housing Because We Care Party." I was confused.  What does this mean?  It seemed very vague and I had images of people in nurses uniforms battling straw houses, so I looked them up.  The electoral commission has the name registered as one of eleven name changes the BNP made in 2016.  The BNP have worked out that if they choose a stupid title that everyone agrees with like, "Because we can make Britain Better," or "Because we love Scotland" or "Local people first" they can win, especially if they have chosen a candidate who appears to be totally incapable of doing the job.  They have scoured the country for anarchists and idiots and promised to pay for their leaflets and told them that they are just going to help them 'stick it to the man.' They have done particularly well in this area by managing to find a man who can't even sign his own name.

Politics is important.  Democracy is vital.  The alternatives are worse.

I will be making certain that I know who I am voting for and will try to put my cross next to the person I think is most capable of doing the job I want them to; the person who has similar principals to me and will go to meetings and argue and vote on my behalf.  I hope you do the same.  If you want to vote for the BNP candidate then you should so.  I won't agree with you but that is what democracy is for.  However, you shouldn't be fooled into thinking that voting for someone who is pretending to be something else so they can not bother to turn up for meetings and do the job you have elected them for is somehow 'sticking it to the man.'

We want pockets

Tis the season of Christmas concerts.
Fa la la la la. La la la la.
Working hard no time for nonsense
Fa la la la la. La la la la.
Don we now our black trousers
Fa la la la la la. La la la.
Tight they feel after serveral hours.
Fa la la la la. La la la la.

So we brave the shops before us
Fa la la la la. La la la la.
All we want is plain black trousers
Fa la la la la. La la la la
They must have two deep pockets
Fa la la la la la. La la la la.
Room for i-phone, keys and wallet
Fa la la la la. La la la la

"Pockets spoil the line," they tell me
Fa la la la la. La la la la.
Sod the look I'm fat and ugly
Fa la la la la. La la la la.
"Don't you have a great big handbag?"
Fa la la la la la. La la la.
Not on stage for fear of mishap
Fa la la la la. La la la la.

Surviving the C word (a music teacher's guide)

"Miss, Amy used the C word in her story!"

It's amazing how quiet a room full of breath-holding children can be.

"And it's only November."

The sigh of relief could be heard two miles away as the whole room relaxed and the teacher and the TA smiled at each other, knowingly.

"Oh, Christmas? No, you know the rules. Don't mention it."

An eruption of, "Oh, Miss, you used the C word!" followed.

This happened in a class of one of the best teacher's I've ever worked with and I would love to follow her rule but I'm a music teacher and Christmas has started.  There are concerts from now until the big day, where I probably have only one free evening.  Town lights need to be turned on, Churches need children for their Carol services, like some sacrificial rite, Schools have concerts, nativities and shopping events that couldn't run without a bit of singing. Charities raise all of their funds from the unpaid services of child and adult musicians and it all has to be done in the month before the big man squeezes himself down your chimney.

Tesco's advertising campaign has the strapline. "Right, let's do this," which seems a bit peculiar for a shop that is trying to sell things to make a happy family time happier but it is the perfect music teacher's motto.  "Right, let's do this," we cry, hoping we survive to do it all again next year.

If you are in a similar predicament then here are some survival tips from my many years of experience.

1. Sleep - Don't panic.  You can survive without sleep.  You will find it difficult to drop off after concerts (adrenaline will do that) and you will still be awake at 3am when the writing muse shows up or you are suddenly driven into anxious list making.  Make 'who needs sleep' by the Bare Naked Ladies your motto.  Sing it in your head at all times and you will know that there's a guy been awake since the Second World War.

2.  Caffeine - is your friend.  You have seen the pictures of the the kind of webs spiders make on caffeine and you are suspicious that it's not good for you.  You consider booking a brain scan but realise that you are just suffering from rebound withdrawal symptoms.  Just drink more.  It's temporary.  You can go cold turkey with the cold turkey.

3.  Eating - Forgetting to eat is fine. You don't need to worry.  Someone will always lob a mince pie or chocolate in your direction and an extra cookie from cookery club will accidentally fall into your mouth when you are not looking.  It's perfectly acceptable to eat yesterday's left over takeaway at 3am.  None of this will kill you.

4.  Chocolate - Choose the toffee if you want to keep your voice for the whole season but keep the wrappers.  Especially the orange ones.  There's not much that can't be improved by looking at life through clear orange cellophane.  Keep some in your handbag for extra challenging moments.

5.  Doors - are dangerous.  This is not normally something you would have to be reminded of but in your sleep deprived state you need to be extra vigilant. Doors open! Don't stand by the staffroom door waiting for your photocopying. It will open, suddenly.  If you walk down the corridor, singing your sleep song, mentally ticking off the instruments you need to take to that evening's concert the toilet door could suddenly open and you will walk straight into it knocking yourself and the school visitor out.  I've never heard of anyone being killed by a door but I'm sure it's possible.

6. Laughing - will keep you sane.  Laugh frequently. Laugh heartily. Tell children all your best/worst Christmas jokes. Small excited children often sing very badly but do not despair.  It's funny. Words get mumbled.  Sing  'A Wayne in a manger no crisps for his ted," with them.  Let them sing the wrong words but remind them that they must never wash their socks in church.  No matter how busy and stressed it all gets never be grumpy. If you are going to die from anything this Christmas season make it laughter.

7. Swimming - Just keep swimming. Never think you are too busy to swim.  Your waistline needs it to counteract the mince pies and toffee. Also, if you don't keep swimming you'll drown.

8.. Jingle Bells - Your car will resemble an instrument shop.  You will have loaded it with stands, music and various percussion instruments.  It can be quite soothing to have all your driving accompanied by a gentle jingle but make sure you strap them in.  An emergency stop could have a set of sleigh bells whistling towards the back of your head.  Imagine the headline in the local paper:

POPULAR LOCAL MUSIC TEACHER SLEIGHED BY BELLS

Follow this guide and say to yourself, "Right, lets do this," and you will survive to repeat it all again next year.

FC AGM

Walking the dog past the community centre I noticed the car park filling up at a surprising rate for early on a Monday morning. An elderly gentleman got out, his eyes twinkling as he nodded in my direction.  He stroked his long white beard and pulled his wooly hat down over his silvery hair. He started to waddle over the car park when a battered old mint green car threatened to mow him down. The driver pushed his little round glasses back up his nose and scratched his white beard in surprise.  He abandoned the car, sideways between two spaces  and got out.

"Alright Nick," he nodded at the first old man.
"Not so bad. Prostate been giving me a bit of gip but mustn't grumble.  Busy time of year, eh, Nicholas?"
"Sure is."

The men go went into the community centre together. I wondered what they were doing but continued my walk.

On the way back the dog ran away from me, heading back to the centre.  Sometimes he finds little pools of sick, which for some reason he finds delicious.  He seemed more excited than normal.  When I found him, he had a carrot and was happily sitting by the building munching his way through it. It was impossible not to look in through the window.  The room was filled with old men, all with a similar look. It was a room full of rotund, bewhiskered, frosty haired gentlemen. They all had notepads and were checking their lists. Some checked them twice.  Just then, another man cycled up on his bike, his gut escaping from between his trousers and jumper.
"Damn," he muttered to himself, "I bet they've started." He did a little double take as he saw me peeking through the window. "Ho, ho, ho.  Spying on the AGM, are you?"

I'm not sure he was very convinced by my panicked explanation of the dog and the carrot.  It could be coal for me this year, which could be quite useful, as the heating has broken again.

Because I'm Old

On Friday, a 4 year old looked at me, puzzling over something I had said and announced very seriously, "Well, yes, that's because you're old."

She wasn't being rude but simply stating a fact.  It became a bit of a joke in the staffroom.

"I can't remember what I came in for."

"That's because you're old."

"What does that say? I can't read it with these glasses."

"That's because you're old."

The teasing was affectionate and humorous.  

Age for me is quite like Schrodinger's cat.  I'm simultaneously old and not grown up.  My mind is about seven and my  knees feel their full years.  I have grown up children and I'm still a child to my own parents. I teach but I'm always learning.  I'm interested in politics and can fall into fits of giggles when someone tells a silly simple joke.  

This week a friend was tweeting from a conference and I had to restrain myself from replying in a childish way.  The tweet said, "Human Rights isn't black and white but shades of grey." It was a quote. Realising that I probably shouldn't reply publicly I sent her a private message, "50 Shades. Conference sounds interesting." 

"Don't make me laugh," she replied, sending me a picture of a very important looking panel in Geneva that she was sitting on.

Like a small child, I thought, "I've got a friend who is a proper grown up."

Then later in the week she died.  Well, she didn't actually die.  Someone with the same name died in tragic circumstances, which made the news but it was a shock nonetheless and I felt old because young people don't die (except that the person who did die with the same name was young)

My daughter moved in with her boyfriend this weekend.  The Long Suffering Husband  and I drove up to help. It was a shock. Our baby was all grown up and being excited about doing things her boring parents are expert at: a Saturday night film and pizza and a Sunday trip to Ikea followed by a Sunday roast and homemade crumble. Just as we are beginning to get bored of these things they start to excite her.  We felt old and young at the same time.  During the week one of her friends had a baby and she sent me a picture wondering if it felt weird that once she was my baby and now she's a fully grown adult. I told her I found it strange that she's a fully grown adult yet I'm not.

I gave my daughter a fluffy key ring as a housewarming gift.  It seems a little mean as it was a Superdrug freebie but it seemed so appropriate, as it had sparked the initial, "because you're old," comment.

I had put my keys on my desk and the little girl spotted it as she came into the room.  She picked it up and stroked it like a favourite pet. 

"You have to be careful.  Some are dangerous," she warned.

The adults in the room looked at each other.  I picked up my key ring to check for teeth.

"It came from Superdrug."

"Yes, that's where the dangerous ones are but maybe it's just some types of them."

"They only had pink or white."

"Some of them go off and make a sound and the police come and take you away."

She was looking at my key ring suspiciously, edging away in a sideways movement.

"I think I'll be alright," I reassured her, "I'm pretty good. I don't do many naughty things so the police probably wouldn't take me away."

That was when she told me that it was because I was old.

Even her fear of my key ring made me feel old and childish at the same time.  Childish because I hoped it was a terrifying creature that would make a noise like a siren causing the police to arrive demanding an explanation but old because I knew that the coveted key ring had caused her wonderful mother to tell her about shoplifting.  

Remoaning about politics

I've been trying to write this blog post since Donald Trump won the American election but I couldn't find the right tone.  The election reminded me of Brexit in so many ways, even Trump called it his 'Brexit plus plus plus moment'.  It also reminded me of how Corbyn was elected and I kept thinking that politics is properly screwed up.

The term 'remoaner' has been coined by the British press to describe anyone who hasn't wholeheartedly accepted the Brexit (another made up word) vote. Politics now seems to be so peculiar that the press have to make up words.

I have been wondering if I'm remoaner because I am still cross that the public were asked to make a decision about something without being told what that something actually was. It was like offering someone a chocolate cake when you don't have a chocolate cake and having no idea how to make or get one. I'm not one of those people who blames the general public because, well, who wouldn't want real chocolate cake but I do think there was some deliberate misleading going on. Personally, I have struggled to see how people couldn't have known how difficult it was going to be to leave the EU, even if it had been a huge majority decision to leave, it still would have been hard. However, I don't blame people who thought and still think leaving the EU is an answer to all the ills and hardships.  They still might be proved to be right.

I'm also aware of the I'm with Her hashtag on Twitter, which is being used to blame Hilary Clinton's inability to be elected on sexism.  This is something that I agree with.  During the campaign, I noticed that anyone who said anything bad about Trump prefaced it with, "I'm no fan of Hilary but.." I was confused. She seemed to have been a very successful Secretary of State, helping Obama to implement some of his most brilliant social change policies.  She was in politics a long time and although she couldn't work out which email account to use (who can?) her biggest crimes seemed to be things that wouldn't have mattered if she was a man.  She was blamed for things her husband had done, she was slightly cold, she didn't wear nice clothes, she looked old, she told business people what they wanted to hear. So instead, they vote for a man who is the same age (but looks older), has a wife no body is quite sure of, tells all people what they want to hear but has no experience of public office and is probably going to be charged with fiddling of a financial and sexual nature.  Women seem to need to be perfect for people to think they are any good, or they need to stay hidden and work behind the scenes.

When I first started to write this blog, I blamed everything on boredom. "Let's shake it up a bit," people cry. "Life has been too good, too dull. Let's make our politicians do something they don't want to. Serves them right for being good at their job." However, this that didn't feel right.

I had argued with my son, who felt that Hilary wasn't a good candidate.  I told him it was sexism and I wasn't prepared to listen to any other argument and then I thought about it. People hated Gordon Brown, who had been quite good at his job but was grumpy and dour and he was a man, so maybe my son had been right and the ancient by more smiley Bernie Sanders would have been a better candidate.

Thinking about whether I was a remoaner or not I thought that I don't approve of the people who take every dip and difficulty as an opportunity to make those who voted to leave the EU feel stupid. The social media commentators who write something like, "Breakfast cost me 20p more this morning. Hope you're happy Brexiteers," make me very uncomfortable. It's so dangerous to try and divide the world in two. A them and us policy can only increase tension.

I was struggling to publish the blog because I knew something about my anger and frustration was wrong. I knew it wouldn't help.  I thought about a taxi driver we had in Boston who said, "It's funny, America is supposedly the most free country in the world yet people are too frightened to be honest about who they are going to vote for."

Yesterday, I saw a rant doing the rounds on social media, where Jonathan Pie was talking about the American election.

He blame us. The educated guardian reading liberals who shut down any discussion. We tell men that they can't have an opinion of feminism or sexism, refuse to allow people to say they are distrustful of people with a different skin colour, tell people who vote for something we disagree with that they are stupid (or bored).  We do this with an air of superiority and shut the discussion down.  We lose an opportunity to change an opinion and instead people shut down, frightened of talking about their views.  We have to be right at all costs.  I still think that there was misogyny at work in the election but he has a point and it's worth watching.  

So I will carry on remoaning about political issues but I'm not trying to tell anyone what to think and I'm absolutely fine if you disagree with me because it might turn out that I am wrong after all.

Does it show?

Some of the men in my life have been having a bit of a rest.  The Long Suffering Husband has torn a calf muscle (I keep telling him that sport is bad for you) and my Dad has cashed in his frequent flier hospital miles points for a stay in a private room on a cardiac ward. I've been at work, leaping around trying to get small children to be enthusiastic about Christmas songs.

On the way back from visiting my Dad I stopped in at Sainsbury's, to fulfill the LSH's shopping list.  On the end of an aisle were 6 angel headbands for 50p each.  With a nativity to perform at the Royal Albert Hall that seemed like a bargain.  I picked them up and wandered around the store in a bit of a daze.  I hadn't got a basket because you don't need one for bread, butter and an elasticated bandage.  Absentmindedly checking out the Christmas decorations a woman caught my eye and smiled.
"Teacher?" she asked.
"Er, yes, I suppose I am," I replied wedging the butter more firmly under my arm pit.
She nodded, wisely and said, "Yes, I can tell."
I checked my hair.  No pencils wedged in my pony tail.  I glanced down to check my trousers for small handprints.  Nothing.
She nodded towards my hand.

"And the fact that you look knackered."
I couldn't disagree.
"I don't suppose you even know if you need them but you can't pass up a bargain like that near Christmas when there are nativities to do."
They are nice angel headbands, though.

Superpower

My superpower is invisibility.

I'm one of those people that can blend into a crowd and not be noticed. At school I was a skinny, shy, mousy thing; not someone people would be drawn to.  In class I would put my hand up to answer a question, the teacher would look at me for a few seconds and I would know that she couldn't remember my name.  She'd seen me in the class.  She knew I wasn't a problem, got on with my work but she just couldn't bring my name to the tip of her tongue.  If you teach then you know about these children.  I teach a Joseph (or is is Jacob?) that I have this problem with, even though he's been in a class I have taught for what will be 7 years this year.  Sometimes she would just wave her finger at me, raise an eyebrow and say, "Er, yes, you, what do you think?" and other times she would just resign herself to my invisibility and ask someone else.  I wasn't one of those children that got overlooked.  I was Mary in the school play, I sang solos, played the flute, got chosen for competitions and country dancing festivals, picked to tidy the classroom or be the one who used the scissors (I don't know why this was an important thing in my infant school, but it was.) On paper, all the teachers knew my name but somehow my actual physical presence didn't quite match their expectations and there was no recognition when they looked at me.

If you look at lists of the best and worst superpowers to have, invisibility always comes near the bottom.  People think it's a pointless power to have.  They say that the only people who choose it are teenage boys who want it to sneak into girls changing rooms to see them naked or people who want to know what people are thinking of them.  I like my superpower and it's not for either of those reasons.

Being invisible means that you can do what you like and no one notices.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  They notice the thing but they don't notice you and so you can go on and continue as normal.

My power doesn't work on children.  Children I have taught shout my name in the supermarket and tell their parents what I have in my trolley and even babies catch my eye and smile with recognition. One girl, who I had worked with for 20 minutes at a workshop three years before, told her grandad loudly that I was her flute teacher when I passed them in the High Street.

However, adults are completely susceptible to my power.  On Sunday, I had taken some children to a church service to sing and play the flute.  It had been a particularly funny service, with the lady leading it suggesting that my headteacher was full of hot air and then accusing him of having a 'limp one', as asked if she wanted him to tie it up.  Before the service we had been introduced and had shaken hands.  She was someone who I recognised and whose name I knew.  As soon as it was time to call the choir and flute group up I could tell that she had forgotten my name.  She looked at me as she said, "so I'd like to ask...err...whoever is responsible for the singing bit to come up." That evening, I went to see a concert and the same lady was in the room. I smiled and waved but there was that moment, a pause, and then she looked past me.  She sat across the row from me telling someone about the church service and how she'd had to make the headteacher behave because she knew he was going to let the balloon go.  True invisibility means that you don't have to hear what people think of you because they just haven't noticed you.  She did talk about how brilliant the children were and how much pressure she had felt with such a full church.

This morning I worried about losing my power.  Yesterday's blog had been shared a bit and I got scared that my life of eavesdropping and being able to do things without being noticed was over.  What happens to superheroes in comics when they lose their powers?  I did a bit of research and am relieved to say that I feel as though I can breathe again.  They always get them back.  Spiderman lost his through unrequited love and when the world needed him again he just focused very hard and they came back.  Luckily, the real invisible woman (Susan Storm of Fantastic Four fame) has never lost her powers and the likeness between us is uncanny.

Live

The Long Suffering Husband and I are now both over half a century old, our children are grown up, and we are left contemplating the meaning of our lives.

It's a peculiar time; the end of your reproductive years. You've lived at least half of your life (probably).  The first part of your life was spent learning, growing and stuffing enough knowledge into your head to survive.  The second part was about earning money, working and building a nest.  The third and longest was about children and then there is no instruction manual.  What next? You look round at people your age and older, desperate for role models.  "Who do I want to be like?" you ask yourself.  Our society is set up to sneer at all older people, except David Attenborough, obviously because he is like a God but we can't all be David.  I don't travel well, am not that keen on the smell of animals and don't like the cold.

"Do you ever feel that our lives are just passing us by," the LSH asked.  I could hear my heart in my ears, sweat beading on my forehead.  Was it a coincidental menopausal hot flush or was anxiety setting in, anticipating him suggest we take up bungee jumping or sky-diving?  That's what happens to a lot of people our age: they are all suddenly running marathons or throwing themselves off tall buildings for charity.  I want to shout, "What about your knees?" but I can see the appeal of feeling useful.  The other group are buying villas in Spain and planning a long life of nothing but sun and wine (actually sometimes they're the same people). I don't drink wine and have no desire to learn Spanish or be an ex-pat.

"We just need to get out more," he said, "Especially you.  I worry that if I suddenly drop down dead on the golf course, you'll be on your own."
"But I'll have my books," I interrupted.
"Hmm, yes books, but you'll not talk to anyone.  You'll only leave the house to go to work and walk the dog. And if the dog dies, you'll probably get cats and when you drop down dead no one would know and when they break in because of the smell they'd find that the cats had eaten half your face off."

Gulp.

So we went out.

Not far.

And I had a secret book in my handbag, just in case.

We went to a gig.  Real, live music with real jobbing musicians, who are making music because it's their passion, not because a record company (are they still called that?), a TV show, or Simon Cowell tells them to. Obviously, they still want to make a living - everyone needs to eat but the music comes first.

It's easy to think that unless something is in London or on the TV it's not worth seeing but that couldn't be further from the truth. Live music is so important.  It's important enough for the government to have put on the music curriculum for children under seven.

How most schools are supposed to get access to a range of good quality live music has baffled me for a long time.  You would think that with this addition to the curriculum there would be a budget to pay musicians to come and play or to take children to concerts but if anything the budget seems to have been cut. A friend of mine persuaded the local music hub to start a project where she and a group of other musicians went to schools, played some music and allowed the children to try out some of the instruments.  It was a popular thing and then the budget was cut further, the music hub started to charge schools £100 per visit and because a primary school music budget is about 50p the scheme ended.  (Whoops, sorry, I got sidetracked on a rant.)

So, anyway, live music.  It's important but even grown ups with lots of money aren't listening with concentration and understanding to a range of high-quality live music.  I know all the excuses: it's too expensive, all the best gigs are in London, which is just too far, don't like classical music, why bother when you don't even listen to the piped music in the lift, it's easier to just stick on Spotify or Amazon music, who needs music when there's X-factor?

Luckily, there are still people promoting high quality live music and I know some of them.  I've known the folk from macTheatre since our children were first in primary school.  I had just been involved in a PTA fund raising panto (I say involved but somehow managed to write, direct and act in the thing, which is amazing as I don't have any of those skills) and this lady came up to tell me how good she thought it was.Embarrassed, I gabbled on about how she should join us next year and how of course she would be able to do it because if I can then anyone can.  She was polite and smiled and surprisingly kept talking to me.  A week later, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me, as it turned out she was a professional card carrying actress. Although we became friends I still cringe at the memory every time I see her.

One thing I know about musicians is that they often go to drama school and so  macTheatre have many contacts, especially as Barrie spent some of his early career dabbling (his word, not mine) in folk bands and last night they were promoting a concert by Charlie Dore and Julian Littman.

I wasn't sure about going.  Folk isn't my favourite genre of music.  I knew that Julian Littman is a member of Steeleye Span and I bear a grudge, as they have made teaching the proper Latin pronunciation of Gaudete quite tricky.  Some child will always find their version and announce that you don't pronounce it veer-gin-ay after all. I needn't have worried, though because good quality live music is always brilliant, even if you'd rather be listening to a Mozart Aria, a scat singing jazz artist, or a thrash metal band.

Julian and Charlie are quite a team.  Their voices blend beautifully together and both have such an effortless pure tone, which is amazing for people who have been singing professionally for nearly 40 years.  As the concert progressed I realised what a treat we were being given.  To hear a live performance by artists who have been writing songs, not only for themselves but for others, such as Celine Dion, Paul Carrack and Jimmy Nail is very special.  When they sang Ain't No doubt we were in no doubt about their brilliance.  Charlie is not only a very beautiful woman but she is funny.  Her latest songs have been inspired by reading her partner's New Scientist magazine, which she doesn't really understand.  She explained that Pheromones were there to help us find a partner who could be a kidney donor and neutrinos were just particles, like breakfast cereal,  passing through space looking for love.  Then she floors you with a heart of butter and the language takes you to another place.  This is all delivered with humility so that when they are about to perform Pilot of the Airwaves they just say, "You'll know this."

Although it took some effort to go out but I think I will do it again. The LSH has agreed that live music might be the way to go to stop our lives passing us by.

Why Boston?

People who know me have been surprised at my choice of half-century holiday destination.

I don't like America.  When we took the kids to Florida (the obligatory middle-class Disney trip) I hated it.  I hated the fakeness.  I hated how slow the people were.  I hated the portion sizes and the lack of vegetables.  I hated the fact that they drove everywhere.  I hated how long it took to get there and how awful flying across time zones made you feel. So I resisted the temptation to travel to the States until the Long Suffering Husband wanted to go to New York for his 50th birthday.  I wasn't sure but as it was his choice I planned our trip with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker and I loved it.  The people were sharp and intelligent, they had normal sized portions in restaurants with vegetables, it was preferable to walk and it had the best park I've ever been in. 

Coming up to my birthday the LSH nagged. "We should go somewhere."

I pouted and flounced and sulked.  I crossed my arms and said, "I don't want to go anywhere.  I'm too tired.  I'm too old."

"You'll sulk more if we go nowhere.  I chose New York, remember," he pointed out, not unreasonably and despite my grumpiness he persisted until I agreed to think about it.

"Boston," I announced suddenly.

"Why, Boston?" he asked.

"I don't know, I just think it will be interesting.  I want to see some of the New England history. Everyone says you have to see New England in the fall."

Now that I'm back, tired, grumpy and jet lagged was it all worth it? 

It wasn't New York - I didn't love it but there were lots of things to like.

1. Duck Tour - A bonkers drive around the city in an amphibious craft that splashes into the Hudson river, with a guide who pretended to be from Boston, showing his accent, which he claimed we wouldn't understand.  Ducktor (Dr) Fabulous, claimed to be an old radio DJ had us quacking at passing vehicles told us about Henry Winkler's time at Emerson College, the two seasons of Boston (construction and winter), how Boston had the first female only radio station in the twenties and how Boston had the most Dunkin' Donuts because they started in a nearby town called Quincy (pronounced quinzy).
2. Leaves - "New England is so pretty in the fall," is what you hear on films.  You believe it is the only place that has pretty trees but old England has deciduous trees that have nice leaf colours.  The trees around the M25 are particularly stunning at the moment and getting to Heathrow will give you plenty of time to look at them because, well....M25!  However, just outside Boston in an area called Jamaica Hills is Harvard's tree collection, called the Arnold Arboretum and it is fabulous.  I like trees.
3.  Parks - I love a park, especially a city park.  There's something very special about a section of green amongst all that concrete.  Boston common and the public garden are next to each other and have cute animal statues that children enjoy making look huge.  There are nice trees, ponds and bridges,  What more could you want?
4. Witches - I like witches too.  I like the idea of strong women.  It's a shame that they were all killed and blamed for things that people at the time didn't understand.  Salem is quite a fake place.  It's almost like a theme park to all things spooky, which is a shame because the history is amazing.  We were killing (mainly) women in Britain since Henry VIII th's witchcraft act of 1542 but Salem went a little hysterical and killed 20 people in three months.  I was hoping to find out some of this history when we visited Salem but because the residents over the years had felt so ashamed they took down or burned the original buildings.  Luckily, being America they are able to move buildings and you will find several things that came from other places.  The memorial is quite poignant and reminds us to be tolerant and give people a chance, not shunning them for things we don't understand.
5. Walking - They say that Boston is the walking city.  We walked about 12 miles a day.  I like walking.
6. Freedom - Boston is very proud of it's freedom. They have a trail.  You follow the red brick road and look at all the buildings and hear about how awful the English were.  You hear about a man called Paul Revere,, who did everything: he was a horserider, a silversmith, a bell maker, a freemason, a politician, a dentist and he had a poem written about him. I like freedom.
7.  Dragons - Smoke rises from the pavements. The only possible explanation is that they keep dragons.

8. Students - Boston is like one huge campus.  It's quirky, full of coffee shops and there is smell of pot coming from every doorway.  There a so many Universities.  The posh students with moleskin notebooks hang out at Harvard, the nerds with maths t-shirts are in Cambridge at MIT, the theatricals are around Emerson by the common, the music students with their odd shaped cases are near symphony hall at Berklee, the would-be dentists are near Rose Kennedy Greenway at Tufts,  the normal students seem to be closer to Fenway park and go to Boston or Northeastern or Suffolk.  Then there are all the little colleges.  Forty places where you can get a degree is quite impressive for a place a bit smaller than Birmingham.  

9.Pumpkins - Unless you go in October then you won't get to see the pumpkins but what they do with pumpkins is fantastic. 

10. Beacon Hill - This is a brilliant area of Boston, with nice shops and good bistros. Why can you never find places like this until the last day of your holiday?

Ding dong I'll name that tune in one

Boston is a city of competitive bell ringing.

I'm certain that this is true, even though I can find no written confirmation in any guidebook or online.

Yesterday, (Saturday) we walked the Freedom Trail in the rain.  We followed the red brick road, clicked our heels and learnt about how awful the British were.  It was a trail of churches, burying grounds and recommended coffee stops.

We stood under the eaves of Park Street Church at midday, struggling into our waterproof trousers, when the bells began to chime. Not the clunky peel of parallel fifths, with the occasional mistimed note British campanologists manage. This was something else.
"What's that tune?" asked the Long Suffering Husband.
We both agreed we knew but couldn't quite name the piece, although we did think it was probably Mozart. It was seamless. No pauses. No indication that bells were played by individuals. We turned the corner and heard that the bells of King Street Chapel were playing a different tune, this time a hymn and the organ was playing it too; perfectly in time.

After 12 miles of walking in the 'worst rain we've seen in ages - it's  been manic' we sat in our hotel room, exhausted, staring at the wall, listening.
"Are those church bells really playing Ode to Joy, or am I hallucinating?"
They were. They ran through their whole repertoire, including Christmas carols and things I couldn't name for a whole hour.

It's not an easy thing to play tunes on Church bells. It's like that game I sometimes play with a class where they have to sing one note of a song around a circle. It rarely ends up right and even if it is recognisable your ear compensates for the lack of rhythmic accuracy.

I like to think that each church had drawn the best and brightest from across the river from the Harvard Colleges or MIT to compete with each other. I can imagine a tower full of particle physicists timing their rings to the nearest jiffy.

Politician

We're fed up of the politicians that we are used to.  The ones that are capable, intelligent, competent.  The ones who understand how to do the job.  The ones that think before they speak (sometimes even asking people who are better with words than they are to write out what to say for them).  The ones who know that they might need to compromise some of their beliefs when faced with the realisation that the budget just wont do it all. The ones that understand when we are being mean about them but roll up their sleeves and get on with the job, regardless.

No.

What we want are politicians who are more like us.  We want people who most of the time can't tell their ass from their elbow.  We want people who are a bit sexist or racist and are not scared to say so.  We want people who can't manage to buy their groceries without going overdrawn.  We want people who are stubborn and uncompromising.  We want people who lose their keys in the fridge or go to work in mismatching shoes.

It's the only explanation. The only way to explain Trump, Boris (why do we use his first name?), Corbyn, the local BNP candidate with the Thai wife and the lad that kept me entertained on Twitter today.

It was my daughter who first pointed him out to me.

"This boy thinks periods are like weeing, how sad," she texted, her journalistic nose quivering at the whiff of a story.

The lad, and I say lad because from his profile picture and the perspective of my ripe old age I thought he looked about 12, had tweeted that he didn't think tampons should be free and couldn't understand why people were saying they should be.  I've never heard that argument, only that they shouldn't be taxed as a luxury item.  He went on to say, "If u can't control ur bladder then that's not taxpayers problem!"

I was concerned for his education and imagined teachers who had tried to drum a few basic facts into the boy holding their heads in shame and mumbling, "I know you can't polish a turd but I wish we'd sprinkled a little more glitter on this one." I wondered if his parents had been the type to stop him participating in the sex education lessons, thinking they were protecting his innocence.  I imagined them reading his tweets and thinking, "Oh dear, maybe we were wrong."

He was unrepentant, though.  As more people tweeted him to explain the error of his thinking the more he stuck to his guns.  

"pay for ur own tampons if u can't hold it until u get to a toilet.  I don't urinate everywhere and expect free nappies," he tweeted.

Technically, if he had a bladder problem and needed nappies now that he is (hopefully) toilet trained he would be entitled to free pads.  There is a design flaw with us women.  Why can't we shed our uterine lining at will, like we do with other waste products?  Let's face it, we'd all prefer it, especially if it could be painless.   I wanted to suggest he slit his wrists and hold onto the blood until he was at a bathroom a mile away but I thought that might have been a bit aggressive.  I started to feel sorry for him, as I concluded that he had no women in his life.

He got quite upset that women were tweeting him to explain that his suggestion that they lacked #selfcontrol was......well they said lots of things but let's just say.....wrong. He accused them all of being crazy feminists. For him, feminist was obviously an insult. His Twitter bio stated that he was a mennist, which I think must mean that he would like men to have equal rights to women.  He's probably just angry that he can't continuously bleed for 7 out of every 28 days and live.  It also said that he was a politician and his linked instagram account showed pictures of his 19th birthday cake.

Several people asked what party he represented and his answer was, "The Brexit one." 

I told my daughter that I was sad for him and that he can't have any menstruating women in his life.  I imagined him in the care of an elderly, cruel grandmother, who dropped him on his head as a baby.  She agreed, telling me that his girlfriend doesn't bleed.

He had tweeted, "wow I gotta go, my girl waiting for me and I'm here reading all thise single bloody bitches tweets to me need to get my priorities right."

"yo I'm so lucky my girlfriend isn't crazy like these feminists and she never bleed lol always clean."

I was horrified. A pre-pubescent girlfriend.  

The novelist Joanne Harris had also spotted the story and was enjoying the idea of a boy dog politician being completely ignorant.  She replied to his tweet about his girlfriend. 

I imagined what would happen when he met his 'girl'.

Girl: You're late

BoyDog: yo sorry. I got caught up with some crazy bleeding feminists on twitter.

Girl:  Yes, I saw.

BoyDog: yo, it were so funny.  I'm so glad you're clean and not like that.

Girl:  Sit down.  I've got something to explain to you.

BoyDog: What?  You look so serious.  Don't tell me the communists have landed.

Girl:  Every 28 days, dear.  You know how I make an excuse not to see you and tell you about making my monthly visit to my granny?

BoyDog:  Yeah

Girl:  Well, you know my granny is dead, right?

BoyDog:  I thought that was strange

Girl:  Well, I'm not visiting granny.  It's the time of the month, I've got the rag, It's code red. I'm on the blob.

BoyDog:  Noooooo.  Not you too.  Are you a feminist?  I thought you were clean.

Girl: I'm a woman.  All women bleed.

BoyDog: But you hold onto it until you get to the toilet right?  You don't use tampons.  Please tell me that you have self control.

Girl: Look darling, I know you are a bit thick but really, no woman can hold back period blood.  Shall I draw you a picture of how it all works?  By the way, you're dumped.

Before he met her he had time to reply to those who agreed with him.  The hashtag 'I'm with Ryan' appeared, as did #vaginasarescary.  I think most were sarcastic and although sometimes sarcasm is hard to spot I'm fairly certain of this one, even if Ryan is not.

Even though I made up the above conversation I suspect that someone might have had a word, as the young man has now protected his tweets.  He'll make an excellent politician, if he can ever work out which party he is a member of.  

  

Love it or Hate it

The worst effect of Brexit (or the vote to leave the European Union, as I prefer to call it because Brexit is a stupid made up word that reporters and politicians mispronounce as bregsit) so far, is that it caused Tesco to remove Marmite from it's online sales for less than 24 hours. Not the fact that it has given licence to racists to shout abuse at strangers in the street, or the fact that it has divided families, or caused the pound to drop to it's lowest level since 1985, or made Boris 'Papua New Guinea style of orgies' Johnson Foreign Secretary, or caused a severe outbreak of tautologitis (I know.  I made that word up, but.....Brexit means Brexit)  No, it's the yeasty stuff that has caused old men to ring into radio shows in tears apologising to their 13 year old sons for stupidly voting to leave the EU.  

No one realised.  It never occurred to them that something as British as Marmite would be affected by a change in the trading relationship with the rest of Europe.  It's almost like being at war.  We knew those bloomin' foreigners couldn't be trusted.  Baton down the hatches, pull up the drawbridge, stockpile your favourites.  Is grandad's gas mask still in the loft?

My Grandmother never recovered from the war.  It wasn't the bombing, or the young men that were killed in droves, or the German Prisoners of war that she cooked for but the lack of sweetness in her life. To the day she died she had a larder full of sugar and she was never going to be without decent cake again.  I can understand that.  We would all really miss sugar.  If Brexit meant that we couldn't have sugar the 58% would probably be strung up.  However, Marmite isn't really like sugar.  A clever advertising campaign came up with the 'love it or hate it' slogan, forcing people to choose and Britain divided into those who couldn't stand it and those that couldn't live without it.  I guess it was probably 58/42 in favour of the brown spread.  

Truthfully though, Marmite is nothing like sugar.  Even people who like it can go for days, weeks or even years without eating it. It lasts forever and you can always seem to scrape a little more out of an empty pot. It's a spectrum; like many things. Society likes the binary choice. Dog person/cat person? Introvert/extrovert? Trump or Hillary: which one is good or bad? In or out of the EU? Masculine or feminine?  The problem with this is that once someone has made their choice they instantly think that everyone should agree with them and anyone who doesn't is a bad or horrible person.  

A comedian fell foul of this kind of thinking on Twitter today.  He tweeted that Brexit was like Marmite and someone replied that he was a weak-kneed hippy.  Whatever you feel about Marmite, it made Twitter a great place to hang out today if you like a laugh.

These were two of my favourites.

Who knew that hitting the Brexit button would also pull the Unilever?

I'm like Marmite, in the fact that I can only be found in Waitrose and my family hates me.

The number you are trying to reach is busy

I really don't understand my GP surgery. Seriously. I'm confused.  It might be because I'm a novice and have little experience and I'm sure other people understand it much better.

I've been struggling to not be anaemic.  It's my age.  It's common.  I've seen 4 different GPs on 4 occasions over about 3 years.  It's not enough to understand how it all works.  The first time I was sent for a blood test the Long Suffering Husband tutted and rolled his eyes at me, "You have to ring up to find out the results of the blood test," he said.  I had assumed that they would contact you if there was a problem and we argued about it.  He made me phone.
"Hello. I, erm, well I had a blood test and I'm ringing...."
"You want the results?"
"Er, yes please."
"You pressed the wrong number, you have to go through to tests and results, number 4."
"Oh,"
"I can try and put you through, if you want."
"That would be very helpful, thank you."
I heard a huge sigh as she pressed buttons before the phone rang again.
"Hello, test results."
"Oh, hello, erm, I had a blood test, I'm sure everything is OK because you'd have let me know but can I just check..."
I barked back my name and date of birth.
"Yes. Right.  Well, you have to see the doctor."
"Oh, really, why's that then?"
"The doctor wants to discuss the results with you."
"Yes, I get that but why?"
"I can't tell you that, you'll have to see the doctor."

When I saw the GP she wagged her finger at me, as if it were in my control, "You're anaemic and not just a little bit."
I wasn't surprised. I'd been taking iron tablets that I bought.
"That won't be good enough. You can't buy iron tablets that are strong enough. I have to prescribe them for you."

My iron levels have gone up and down. One GP decided to test for Ferritin (a protein that stores and helps convert iron). The tests and results lady told me that I was NOT anaemic because my Hb level was fine but the doctor wanted to see me.
"You are still anaemic," said the doctor, folding his arms and staring at me over his half-moon glasses.
"Oh, when I rang up they told me I wasn't."
"Your ferritin level is low.  It's 13, that's not enough. You have nothing in reserve."
I nodded, wisely.  That just about summed up how I felt; nothing in reserve.
"If you don't take iron you'll just get anaemic again."
I was confused.  I thought he'd said I was anaemic.
I asked the normal range, which was between 41 and 400, which seems a huge difference to me. No wonder the GP seemed unsure.

A few weeks ago I was running low on my prescribed iron and before I put in my repeat prescription I thought I'd go and have a blood test to check (the last GP had given me a form to use when I felt I needed it). Two days later I had a letter in the post telling me that my blood tests were back and I needed to make an appointment. This was a surprise to me and the LSH, he'd convinced me that you had to ring up.

I rang.
"Hello.  I've had a letter asking me to make an appointment about my blood test."
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"Excuse me?"
"You'll have to ring on the day. I'm booking into November."
"I am ringing on the day."
"You'll have to ring on the day. I have no appointments."
"It is the day.  Well, it's a day. What day should it be?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
"Hello? Can I make an appointment, or not?"
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"You said that but I don't understand."
A hefty sigh preceded a snapped, "Eight am," and the phone was put down.

The LSH rolled his eyes again, when I told him.  "You have to ring at eight on the morning you want the appointment, How can you not know that?"
My only defence is that I'm a novice.

I tried.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I became very familiar with the electronic woman but never got through before I had to leave for work.

I ran out of iron tablets, so put in my repeat prescription.

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

Every day.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy

The pharmacy rang.
"Hello.  It's about your repeat prescription.  Your surgery won't issue it until you've made an appointment with them."

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I didn't have to go to work
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I was patient
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I began to feel a little anxious
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

The anxiety turned to irritability.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I checked my watch. Thirty five minutes had passed. Just as I wasn't expecting it the phone rang.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I held
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I was patient
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I needed a wee but I held.
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I appreciated the addition of the extra word.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

Wait!  What had happened to my extra word?  I started to hyperventilate.  Doctors are meant to make you better not cause a breakdown.

Ring Ring   
Ring Ring
Ring Ring

I psyched myself up to talk to a real person.

You have reached the medical centre press one for appointments.
beep
Enter your date of birth
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
Enter your telephone number
beep..............

The receptionist seemed genuinely surprised at how grateful I was to talk to her; a real person, at last.
I had an appointment.

I saw another doctor I had never seen before.
"Hello, what can I do for you?"
"I've had a letter saying that you want to discuss my blood test results."
"Right.  What were they?"
I tried not to roll my eyes.
"I assume it was  because I'm anaemic but I'm not sure because you refused my repeat prescription."
She tapped the computer.
"Yes, you're anaemic.  It's 8 and you're not allowed to go below 7."
I did roll my eyes because I've been below 7 before.
"You've only got one to go. So, why are you anaemic.?"
I couldn't help thinking that she was meant to tell me that but I gave it my best guess and mumbled something about my age, menopause and avoiding hysterectomies.
"That's OK then," she smiled.  "What was it before?"
"I have no idea. Maybe you could look it up, as I don't keep numbers like that in my head."
I think I was polite but I'm not sure.
"I don't understand this.  It was normal.  Why were you prescribed iron in the first place?"
"It was because the ferritin level was low."
She suddenly looked interested, tapping at the computer and mumbling, 'ferritin,' over and over. "Were you given medication for it?"
"Iron tablets."
"Right, well, it's 3 now. I must write that down. Do you mind if I type while the machine takes your blood pressure?"

I took my prescription to the pharmacy and did some shopping while they got it ready. The pharmacist was very nice.
"I know you've paid the prescription charge but if you just buy these then they will cost you £3 less. Would you like to do that?"
"I didn't know you could just buy them."
"Oh yes.  It's only an iron supplement."
He confirmed that they were no different from the ones I had been taking before I started having confusing conversations with doctors.  I can't help feeling that my appointment could have gone to someone that really needed it.