VIP

This year the Mayor has decided to make our Youth Orchestra his chosen charity.

It's lovely.  It really is.  A proper honor.  But with that honor comes duty and responsibility that I'm really not sure I'm qualified for.

During my brief period of being a fast track graduate trainee in a bank (brief because I hated it and was spectacularly bad at selling personal loan insurance to people who didn't need it) there was a lot of talk of networking.  To be successful, it seems, you had to schmooze your way to the top. It was nothing to do with your skills or intelligence but everything to do with your ability to go to parties, work out who the important people were and talk to them  This was probably what made me decide that a career in banking wasn't for me.  That and the fact that I hated meetings.  I always sat thinking, "If we just did this instead of talking about it the problem would be solved."

I was invited, by email, to a 'cutting of the Queen's birthday cake' celebration earlier in the year and I wasn't sure.  I felt I had to accept.  I thought it was my duty, even though I was worried that I might accidentally forget where I was and refer to the leader of the council as Slimball Susan or something. On the day when I had to let them know I decided to accept  and soon a nice invitation arrived in the post for me and a guest.  I told the Long Suffering Husband who said, "A church service?  It's not my thing but of course I'll come and support you," and then promptly booked a golf weekend away for that day.  My son looked at me as though I'd grown another head when I suggested that he would like to come with me.

On the day, my daughter was unexpectedly home and she said that she would, "love," to come with me.  I spent the day feeling ever so slightly sick.  I couldn't work out what was wrong but I couldn't settle.  I paced the house and checked in the mirror to see if I was still there.  I was.  There was no getting out of it.  I looked at the invitation again.  An afternoon tea reception starting at 4pm.  "I wonder if I could have hot water," I said.  "I'm sure you can," soothed my daughter. I was getting more and more anxious.  She stroked my arm, "Are you sure you want to go?"
"No, no, don't make me," I wanted to shout but instead I said, "I've got to.  I said I would.  I think I should.  I'd be letting the orchestra down if I didn't."  She reassured me that everything would be fine.  I could take my notebook and write things down or pretend to be part of the catering team, whatever I needed to feel comfortable.

Ten minutes before I looked in the mirror again.  I was still there. Still no reason not to go.  Where was my invisibility superpower when I needed it? I checked the invitation again.  "Afternoon tea reception starting at 4pm and the Celebratory Songs of Praise Service at 6pm, followed by a glass of wine and cutting of the birthday cake."  

I started to hyperventilate.
"It's okay mum, breathe, what's the matter?"
"At. Least, Three. Hours......Three...... I. can't. be. nice. for. three. hours."
"Look mum, if you don't want to go, I wouldn't mind."
"But I should."
"They probably won't even notice that you are not there and if they do just say you were ill."
"I could do the church service and watch someone cut a cake but a two hour afternoon tea with people who think I'm called Hilary."
"Why would people think you are called Hilary?"
"I don't know.  That's just what happens."

I didn't go.  I felt bad about it.  I had let my whole orchestra down.  I worried that the Mayor would change his mind and decide that due to my inability to network we weren't going to be his charity of the year.  I knew I'd never be invited to anything ever again and felt a guilty sense of relief.

A few weeks later, it seemed as though my absence had not been noticed.  They probably spent the whole afternoon calling some poor woman named Hilary, Julia.  We were still the Mayor's charity.

Then a new invitation arrived in the post.  Would I and a guest like to watch the carnival procession from the Moot Hall balcony?  I liked that idea. It might be fun. The LSH said he would come with me and promised not to book any golf games.

The LSH has a new friend at work.  A lady (yes, women can be engineers!) who works in the next pen (I don't know why engineers are kept in pens) had come to ask him if he would ask his colleague to be quieter when he was on the phone.  The LSH was surprised but spoke to his colleague and then introduced the two, so they could understand that they were both nice people, who just happen to be on different ends of the volume spectrum.  All engineers are on some kind of spectrum.  This lady also happens to live in our town and we have bumped into her a few times at the park or the supermarket.  She talks to the the LSH about the town whenever she sees him.  She has made it her personal duty to commend it to him and tell him all about it's charms.

"Are you still enjoying living in Maldon?"
"Erm.  Yes."
"It's such a wonderful town.  I don't suppose you've had much time to explore it yet."
"Well, I've lived there for 22 years, so maybe not."
"Oh.  You know about the carnival then?"
"Yes I do.  It's funny you should mention the carnival because my wife has been invited to watch it from the balcony of the Moot Hall this year."
"Oh, I'm really cross about that."

The LSH was taken aback, wondering what I had done to offend this woman.  He ran through the list of possibilites in his mind and decided that they were endless. He must have shifted uncomfortably, looked at his watch and cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry.  Not your wife.  I don't even know her.  I'm sure she's great and deserves to be there. No, it's just that I haven't been invited this year.  I want to be on the Town Council but they tell me that there won't be a place for me until someone dies."

The LSH sympathised and said that I'd told him about the tie, suggesting that she might not need to kill someone if she was a man.

"Anyway, you'll really love it.  It's such a fun afternoon.  Everyone gets dressed up, you have a fabulous lunch and then you go out on the balcony to watch the carnival."
The LSH swallowed hard. "Dressed up?  I was going to wear my shorts."
"Oh no. If it's really hot the men can even take their jackets off.  It might be a good excuse to get your wife a new frock."
"I don't think she'd like that.  She told me she was going to wear jeans."
"Oh, she can't do that. Be a dear, get her a new frock."

By the time the LSH got home he was in a bit of a state.
"Do I need to buy you a dress?" he asked anxiously before telling me about his conversation.

I've checked the invitation and  the start time is 12pm.  The procession starts at 2.30 and will get to the end of the High Street by 3.30pm.  That's three and a half hours of schmoozing in uncomfortable clothes.

I started to hyperventilate. I looked in the mirror.  Still no powers of invisibility.

The LSH rubbed my arm.  It will be fine.  You can do it.

"I'm sorry. How did I do this to you? You'll hate it."
"So will you."

He was right. My breathing shallowed even further and I checked the mirror again.

"We'll be fine.  We can be two introverts together but I'm not wearing a suit."

If only VIP stood for very introverted person then I'd be fine but I have just over a week to keep looking in the mirror and hoping for invisibility. They would definitely notice if mine and the LSH's seat at the dinner table were empty.

Five Weeks

Dear Parents,

Chill out.  You've still got five weeks to go.  That's five whole weeks with your children. I've seen you, in the Supermarket, in town, at the park.  And you are letting it get to you. It will be a very long five weeks if you don't unwind a little.

You will notice us teachers, looking calm, relaxed, twenty years younger than we did last week.  We are the ones sauntering down the supermarket aisle, whistling as we think what we might like to eat tonight.  We could cook something extravagant with our new-found energy or maybe we'll just get some cheese to eat with all the wine and chocolate that you so kindly bought us.  You will see us in town sitting having a coffee, that lasts hours, while you (Dads in particular) drag your children across the road, ignoring the crossings because you just, "don't have time for this!" We will be the one's in the library with a huge stack of books to checkout, smiling at your screaming child, who will not go and tell the nice lady about the book she has just read and who doesn't care about the stupid reading challenge anyway.  Reading challenges are not a problem for us, we've waited seven weeks for enough energy to read more than a page without falling asleep.  We will be the people in the park, whose dogs are genuinely smiling because this is the longest walk they've had in ages and they are allowed to stop and sniff whenever they like.  We will tell your children that they can stroke the dog and watch the relief on your faces when you realise that the tantrum over whether it is legal to have an ice cream before midday has disappeared as quickly as it arrived (By the way it isn't.  Ice creams can only be consumed after noon.  My children are grown up now but it is still a law they stick to).  The teachers are the only parents who aren't stressed in the company of their offspring.  One or two certainly seems preferable to thirty.

When I was in the Supermarket today I saw some very harrassed parents.  Children are unpredictable and difficult.  They have questions that you might not have the answers to.  They want to do their own thing; they have their own ideas and they are unintentionally rude.

I was getting my trolley and  I walked in front of a little girl of about nine who had just collected one for her mum.

"Whoops.  I'm sorry," I said, "I wasn't looking where I was going.  Isn't it a lovely day?  Can you hear that blackbird?  He sounds so happy."
The little girl drew a huge breath, probably to tell me everything she knew about blackbirds when her mum shouted,  "Be careful, Petunia.  I told you to watch where you was going."
Petunia looked at me and sighed, "Technically Mum, it was that girl's fault."
"Girl?" I thought and suddenly I loved Petunia, "It was," I told her mum, "I wasn't looking where I was going."
The mum ignored me, lines furrowed into her brow and her voice the pitch of a rusty circular saw.  "That's not a girl.  It's a lady."
Petunia looked at me, back at her mum and then at me again and put her hands on her hips before pushing the trolley to catch up with her family.
"Oh mum.  I think you need to get your glasses on.  This girl is sooo much younger than you are."

 I saw Petunia again in the bread aisle, where she was sobbing into the rolls because her brother was now pushing the trolley and it wasn't fair.  Her mum looked ready to explode.

The whole shop was gripped with whinging children and shouting, stressed parents. I picked up a cake muttering to myself, "It's an apple turnover sort of day," and an old lady laughed.  She said, "You've just cheered me up.  It's horrible in here.  I was just wondering if I should call Social Services."
The lad restocking the shelves with bread said, "It's just the start. It will get much worse before it's over."

A little boy said to his mum, "It's an apple turnover sort of day.  That lady said so."  His mum looked at him, smiled and said, "What big ears you have Mister Wolf.  Shall we get some for lunch?"
The old lady asked her, "Why?"
"Why, what? Apple turnovers are nice." she puzzled.
"Why aren't you like everyone else?  Everyone else would have shouted, 'not now. We don't have time to think about cake,' and then there would have been crying and maybe a slap."
"Well," the mother said, thoughtfully, "I'm a teacher."

If you are not a teacher and you are finding the school holidays stressful then please remember that it's only just begun.  Try to smile.  Try to laugh.  Your children are amazing and they will be grown up and moving to Coventry before you know it.  Then you will regret all the times you didn't think it was an Apple Turnover sort of day.

Enjoy the next five weeks.

From a former grumpy old woman who is a happy girl (for the next 5 weeks).

The Rise of the Pintrest Funeral

I'm from a big family and in big families people die. A funeral was a reasonably common childhood occurrence.  Not every week, or anything, but often enough so that they seemed a normal part of life and not really that big a deal.

Now that I'm an adult funerals seem to be a very big deal.

The funerals of my childhood consisted of turning up at a house in a smart dress (Dad will have fetched his black tie from the back of the wardrobe), taking the flowers out of the car and putting them on the front lawn.  Then we would go inside and have a cup of tea, while grown-ups dabbed the corner of their eyes with proper handkerchiefs, until the funeral directors arrived.  These were always large, whistling men, with a twinkle in their eye and a wink for us children. I once asked one why he was so cheerful, in the circumstances and he shrugged and said, "The worst has already happened kiddo." We would then all bundle into our various cars and drive too slowly behind the hearse.

It was always raining.

At the crematorium we stood huddled under umbrellas while the men took the coffin out and we followed it in.  The vicar or celebrant said a few words, always getting some of the details wrong. We sang the Lord's My Shepherd (badly).  The coffin slowly disappeared behind some doors, into what I always imagined to be a dragon powered furnace.  Tears flowed, quietly, except maybe for an odd aunt who would have a full sobbing breakdown and a prayer was said. We stood up, shuffled out and went to the pub or back to the house for a glass of Sherry and a cucumber sandwich.  Aunts and Uncles would plaster you with unwelcome kisses, tell you that you've grown and everyone would agree that they should meet more often, "although, next time, in better circumstances." Better circumstances, like weddings, often ended in a fight but funerals were reasonably jolly affairs, with beer and reminiscings.  I quite liked funerals.

Now, as an adult, everyone I know who has organised a funeral seems to treat it like the event of the century.

 I thought, at first, this was because I wasn't posh enough.  Our family funerals weren't in church or attended by grown ups with degrees.  As a member of the 'good' school choir I did sing at a few funerals in church; the huge funeral for the girl in my year who was run over on her way home from school, the funeral for a teacher who had loved Fats Waller (so we sang Ain't Misbehaving), the funeral for an ex-headmaster and school governer, for whom we sang everything in Latin.  It still wasn't a huge performance.  The congregation sang The Lord's My Shepherd and the Vicar got some details about the person's life wrong.  Having the school choir there just meant that the hymns were in tune.  At a church funeral the shuffling outside was to wait for the immediate family while they stood by the big muddy hole in the ground in the rain.  I don't know if these people went to the pub, had cucumber sandwiches and a glass of sherry or hired the local stately home for a Pimms and Prosecco knees up because I always had to go back to school.

These days, everyone in the immediate family has to say something.  They deliver a witty, pithy, funny eulogy.  The children read a poem.  Musicians play a piece (I've lost count of the number of children who have asked me to write out Somewhere Over the Rainbow because, "It was Grandma's favourite song and Mum thought it would be nice if I played it at the funeral on my flute." Music is chosen to reflect the life of the person.  Gone are the days when everyone started crying at the the word 'lie' in the Lord's My Shepherd because that note was just slightly out of range for most normal human beings.  Now, I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles can be the hymn of choice (although probably not for a Millwall fan).  Coffins are brightly coloured and invitations are sent reminding people that Great Aunt Dotty was a happy soul and she would hate people to wear black.  The pub or a cucumber sandwich and glass of Sherry isn't an option anymore, as the wake is catered like a wedding.  There is a remembrance table, where people can write about the person and put it in a jar, there are flowers, cakes and candles, tastefully placed around a large photo.  There is a basket of tissues labelled, "for happy tears." but no one from the immediate family is crying.  They are working too hard to host the party.  Grief will be postponed to a more convenient time.

I blame Richard Curtis and Pintrest.  It won't stop me watching Four Weddings and a Funeral and blubbing when John Hannah reads Auden's Stop the Clocks, so beautifully and because I promised myself that I will spend the school holidays seriously writing I have spent the day making funeral Pintrest boards.

  However, I hope that when it comes to arranging my funeral none of my family think they have to do any more than shuffle in from the rain, listen to the celebrant get the details of my life wrong, sing the Lord's My Shepherd badly, begin to grieve and go to the pub.  If they want to put on a concert or show about my life they can do it later, when they feel less numb about the whole thing but only if it's funny.

Always Angry

"You're always angry lately," the Long Suffering Husband said after he had tripped over his shoes, made a loud huffing noise and dropped his spare clothes for the fifth golf game of the week (yes I know it's only Wednesday) on the edge of the bed.

"It's all this stuff about women. Oh, and the fact that you just woke me up from probably the only sleep I'll get tonight."

Newsnight had been on the TV and they were discussing how the 'women's vote' was going to decide whether Trump becomes the next President of the USA. 

"There's no such thing as a women's vote," I growled.

"More women vote than men in America."

I kicked the covers off my sweaty, flushing body.

"But they don't all vote the same way. It's not like women are born with a womb and a hive mind. We can think differently from each other, you know."

"See! You're always angry."

He's right. I do feel more angry than usual. I'm sick of the news, of politics, of people, of pianos. None of them are making me happy. The weather finally decided to give us Summer all in one day , it's the end of term, I can't remember when I last slept for more than 4 hours and all of this has made me tetchy. 

I was cross yesterday. The Labour Party, rammed to the gills with rampant mysoginistis, decided that the woman who challenged Corbyn for the leadership couldn't win because of her gender so they found a man to replace her. Then the press found it necessary to further humiliate her by suggesting that she had lost the plot by shouting, "porridge," on live TV when everyone knows the standard sound check question is, "What did you have for breakfast?"

I was also furious with the man who refused to serve under the new Justice Secretary because she had no legal experience. Well, that's what he said but look at this list of Justice Secretaries he served under and their backgrounds. Can you spot the difference?

Liz Truss Degree in PPE and work as an economist

Michael Gove - History degree and journalist.

Chris Grayling - History degree and tv journalist

Maybe history and journalism are closer to the law than economics. That's it. Absolutely nothing to do with being a woman. 

To be a woman today, it seems as though you all have to think the same and be perfect. I can't do either of those things so I resign.

That's it. I resign from my position as 'woman'. I don't want the job anymore. I feel as though I am no longer adequately qualified for this role.

 From now on I'll just be a person and maybe I will start to be less angry.

Cockwomble

"It's been a cockwomble sort of day," my friend texted.

It wasn't a word I'd heard before but I instantly knew what she meant. She had encountered many men who were being purposely difficult, slightly missogynistic, whilst framing everything in humour to remove your right to be offended. We all know a cockwomble or two. 

You know how Wombles only appear on Wimbledon Common after dark when there is lots of litter? Well, Cockwombles only appear when your life represents that green patch of London at dusk; when you are tired, ill or grief-stricken. 

Obviously, like real Wombles they are there all the time but you just don't notice them or they don't bother you.

"It must be great having your job at this time of year."

"Hmmmm, yes it can be rewarding but end of year performances can be a challenge."

"I bet the kids love it though, just doing a bit of singing."

"Not all of them."

"It's not as if it's hard work is it?"

"Learning four songs in a week, word perfect? No, you're right. After all it's only a bit of singing."

"Yeah, it's not like it's real man's work."

Cockwomble.

You know the men. They suggest that you are less capable than a man would be because of your sex. They joke and you are not sure if they are mysoginistic, stupid or think they are being funny. When they suggest that you should have had training before changing the printer cartridge (actually, why are you changing the printer cartridge on your day off?) you are not sure whether to laugh. Is he joking? You suggest that you'll be fine. He persists. You laugh. He walks away, happy. 

Later he points at you and tells another man that he caught, "this one," changing the toner cartridge without training. The other man is torn. He can't decide whether to join the joke, say, "yes, normally I'd agree with you but she's fine," risking insulting you by saying you are a man. You feel like you have been publicly humiliated but know that it's best not to say so. In these situations I have the solution. You say, firmly, whilst laughing, "Oh, you're a cockwomble! How did I not notice before?"

Popular Psychology Killed Feminism

I've always thought that I was a feminist. I believe that women are just people, like men and that having a womb, boobs and a whole sack of complicated hormones shouldn't mean less pay or worse treatment. 

I always thought that separate playgrounds for boys and girls at my junior school was stupid, I saw no reason why I shouldn't take science A levels and I couldn't see why everyone was making such a fuss about a woman Prime Minister. 

Then I became a mother and as a mother I think I lost a little bit of my brain. 

During my pregnancies I hoped to give birth to girls. I was a girl, I understood girls so I knew how to raise a girl. Boys were some terrifying unknown creatures from outaspace. 

What?

What was I thinking?

Looking back now, it all seems so odd. Twenty five years of believing that men and women are equal gone like the dew on the grass on a sunny morning. I can't explain it, except to blame popular psychology. 

These were the days of John Gray. This American pop-psychologist was riding high in the book seller's charts and had convinced the world that men and women were not only different but were so different that they came from seperate planets. Not the same species even but worlds apart. I read the books, of course I did ( I read everything) but I also believed them. There was much to commend. He had noticed that human's communication isn't always very effective and suggested ways to solve it. For example he suggested that women were accused of nagging because they weren't very direct when asking for what they want. There are obviously long standing cultural reasons why this could be more true for women than men, however it has nothing to do with a fundamental neurological difference between the two aliens. Once our daughter was born we noticed that this particular 'nagging' habbit was more likely to be adopted by the Long Suffereing Husband than me. 

Me:  "Pick your toys up and put them away......NOW.....1...2.....3. Well done."

LSH: "You never put your toys away." "It's such a mess in here." "I really think it's time those toys went away" "Ouch, F**in' Lego." "It's no good coming crying to me now. It wouldn't have got broken if you'd just put it away." "Ugh! The toys are still all over the floor." "Why don't you ever listen to me?" "I only asked you to put your toys away."

As a parent, I was more confident. It never occurred to me that she might not love me if I told her to do things that she didn't want to do. 

The principal of effective direct communication from the Mars and Venus book applied equally well to men and women. It's almost as if men and women are the same.

I didn't learn though.

When my son was born that fear raised its ugly head again. My daughter had fitted the 'girly' stereotype, showing a preference for pink. She liked what I thought were typically female games and toys but truthfully she just preferred to play with people. We played games where we acted things out and she interviewed me. She had imaginary friends and found out all about their lives and she played with her globe and dreamed of going to Peru (which just happened to be one of the pink countries). I was terrified because popular psychology was talking about a male crisis. Feminism had destroyed men, they had lost their place in the world. They were buying guy liner and moisturising their faces and this was all because they were helping with the washing up. It was an identity crisis of epic proportions and something had to be done. 

Not wanting to contribute to the crisis I bought a book. Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph. 

It told me that boys are different and my parenting had to be different. My boy was different to my girl. He didn't much like people. He preferred to play with things. He chose the dolls, bricks and trucks but preferred animals and imaginary creatures, although he was (luckily) placid enough to be a prop in my daughter's games and would submit to being interviewed whenever she decided it was necessary. He became a lifelong Pokemon fan (probably because they don't talk) Neither of my children were physical; they didn't like to kick a ball around and catch terrified them but they both liked a good walk. According to my latest guru, Steve, most of boy's problems weren't my fault anyway. It was a book bought by mums but aimed at dads, who he blamed for being too distant and not a good role model. It was alright then I could relax because the LSH was present, being a good role model nagging about toys being left on the floor before picking them up himself. 

I noticed that he was a good role model for my daughter too. It was almost as if you could do the same things to raise boys and girls and that they were the same species.

But I still didn't learn.

My daughter had started school and had a group of bright friends who could be quite mean to each other. They were all jostling to be noticed; they all wanted to be the best and if they had to stand on each other to get to the top of the pile then so be it. My little girl was struggling. These were hard lessons. They were harder than maths, which she just didn't get the point of. 

So, guess what? Yes. I bought a book.

I bought Odd Girl Out by Rachel Simmons, which was later re-branded as Queen Bees and Wannabes and became the basis for the film, Mean Girls. When our girls were being mean to each other us parents pulled that sideways smile and said, "Well you know, girls can be so cruel." We didn't do anything about it. We didn't sit our girls down and say, "treat people how you want to be treated," Actually, I did but I don't know if she listened to me. Schools accepted the reality that 'girls' were mean. 

Then my boy started school. There was a mean boy. He called him names and pinched him under the table. I don't know what was said in return (as a parent you only get one side of the story) The school seemed less inclined to believe this was happening. Parents said, "It's so much easier with boys. They just hit each other and it's over with, not like girls. Girls can be so bitchy." I didn't think there was much difference in the way my son's friends spoke to each other than the way my daughter's friends spoke but there was a difference in the way us adults reacted. 

As I've done more work in schools I've seen that boys can be equally mean, especially when they are tired and emotional.  You'd think girls and boys were from the same planet.

The problem is that I'm still hearing all the things that were in these books. People still believe that men and women are different. Parents are still consoling each other with, "Girls can be so bitchy" Boys are still frightened to say that someone is being mean to them just in case the worst insult of all gets lobbed at them. 

"Oh, honestly, Fred. You're such a girl!"

(and that is probably their mother speaking)

I'm happy to notice differences but if you divide the world in two then one ends up being the opposite of the other. Boy:girl. good:bad.

May You Live in Interesting Times

The Chinese have a curse, which goes something like, "may you live in interesting times."

These are interesting times and they are hurting my head.

Everyone else seems much more confident about what is wrong with  society are and how to fix it than me.  All I can see are problems and no solutions and it just makes me want to run away and hide.

Theresa May is going to be Prime Minister on Wednesday.  Whether she's still Prime Minister on Thursday......well, the way things are going, who knows?  People are saying that she doesn't have a mandate, Jeremy Corbyn has a huge mandate and Angela Eagle will never have a mandate.  I don't even know what a mandate is.  It's one of those words that makes me snigger, like a naughty 14 year old in a sex education lesson.

Theresa May's first words were, "Brexit means Brexit," and again I'm confused.  I don't know what Brexit means, especially when she pronounces it Br-egg -sit.  I imagine a sit in protest by British hens. If you have read my blog before then you know what I think about the vote to leave the European Union and I know that people have voted to leave but how that leaving happens, well, I'm completely confused.  I just hope no one actually invents a time machine to take us back to the 1950s because I suspect it wasn't as great as people imagine. The only thing that really seems to know what Brexit means is the jet-stream, which has firmly cut us off from the rest of Europe.

Politics isn't the only thing that is happening.  Schools are getting ready to break up, giving parents, teachers, students and politicians one last chance for a row before the summer break.  Everyone is a little tired and fractious.  Exams are done, SATs results are out, and the hard work is over. Teachers are desperately trying to cram all the lovely things that kids will remember into the last two weeks.  They have planned more than they can fit in.  Parents are feeling the pressure and are writing blog posts about being asked to provide a yellow t-shirt at a moment's notice, or pay for an autograph book. They are complaining that they shouldn't have to give up an evening to bring their child into school for the play, when that child only stands up to mumble, "Please turn off your mobile phones," wondering how hard it would be to teach them to enunciate. (Trust me: it's very hard)  Politicians are blaming the teachers for the incomparable SATs results, teachers are blaming the politicians, parents are blaming everyone and the kids are keeping quiet, hoping that nobody blames them. In the blog posts everyone seems very certain of how much everything should cost and how much work everyone should be doing for the money they are paid.  I don't even know how much work I'm meant to do for what I'm paid.

This idea that everyone knows how much money, time or effort it takes to do someone else's job baffles me.  Until you've walked in someone else's shoes, you have no idea.  It's the kind of thing you hear when people talk about teaching.  "How hard could it be?  They start at 9 and finish at 3 and those holidays!"

The Guardian, this morning had an article about Newsquest newspaper group offering a very senior journalist £100 a week to 'put together' 5 pages of news content.  https://www.theguardian.com/media/greenslade/2016/jul/12/newsquest-to-freelance-fancy-producing-five-pages-for-100
Newsquest is the group that took over (and in my opinion) ruined our local paper by reducing the pages, having less reporters, relying on press releases and moving offices out of the town.  The most stunning thing about this article are the comments.  There are people who are saying they could do the job for half the price, which I'm sure they could, although whether it would be a good job and whether they could pay their fuel bill is questionable.  The suggestion that one person could write 5 pages of news in a day and sub-edit it (so that it fits on a page) seems a bit of a push to me but even if they could then I question whether the comments suggesting £100 for a day's work is good pay.  Freelancers are always paid more than full timers - that's because they don't have any of the other benefits in a salary package. So, at £100 a day, you are looking at a maximum full time salary of £25,000 (for an editor/journalist/sub), as a senior position.  That's not going to pay your mortgage in Reading. You might earn less than that but should a highly qualified person (degree and further exams) really be earning that when MPs are earning about £75,000 a year (plus expenses).

Then there's music.  Today music is interesting.  Piano keys are shifting, children are shaking in their sandals and people turn up to exams without their music or instrument. At least David Cameron cheered me up with his happy tune last night and some very clever musicologists have analysed the ditty and others have turned it into a proper piece of music.

I'm thinking about starting a new political party.  I might call it, "let's just be nice to each other party."  We could wear beige, drink tea (or hot water, in my case), share cakes.  We wouldn't be the party for people who want to take control but the party for people who find it difficult to decide what to eat for dinner.  We'd make sure that people were paid fairly and that everyone was allowed to have a nice time. It would be the party for the people who don't want to fight and certainly don't want to live in interesting times.

When Engineers Organise a Sweepstake

Us Brits have an unusual relationship to sport.  Most of us are armchair players, with loads of advice and suggestions, even though we would be a bit breathless and sweaty if we had to run for the bus. There is a hierarchy as well.

Most sports are only watched during major tournaments and often only if they are played in the UK.  Wimbledon, for example, is probably the only Tennis you will watch all year and you might not even watch it all, unless Andy Murray is winning and you suddenly allow him to be British, rather than Scottish for your full support.  Cycling might get you shouting at the TV during the Tour de France, especially if it is in the English leg and you can see your town in the distance.  You might have a little bet on the Grand National (with mini eggs in our house because it coincides with Easter) and you watch the boat race wondering why Oxford and Cambridge are the only two teams to reach the final every year. Rugby is for world cups, Cricket is for the Ashes with the hope that we show those Aussies who invented the game.  Football, however, is to be watched religiously if 'your' team is playing and comments will include you, as if you were a vital part of the team, "We were rubbish tonight, hardly got a kick on the ball." Football is on the TV all the time.  Even when the season is supposed to be over.

International Football tournaments, like the Bake Off and the imminent birth of a baby trigger a compulsory office sweepstake.

There was one at your office, right?  You picked a team out of a hat (or more likely the box the photocopier paper came in or an empty crisp packet) and even if you hate football you were mildly excited when Iceland were still in, despite everyone laughing at you when they saw your pick. The person with the team that wins gets the money.  If you work in a creative office there might be a prize for the worst team or the team that scored most goals but it's usually simple and straightforward.

This is not the case if you are an Engineer and your colleagues are somewhere firmly on the spectrum.

The Long Suffering Husband has tried to explain his office sweepstake to  me several times and although I'm still not sure I understand it, I think this is how it works.

1.  The organiser (we'll call him Fred, for no reason other than I prefer to use a name) uses some complicated mathematical technique to sort the teams into 5 groups.  This could be based on world rankings, but there are almost certainly other factors involved which alter the statistical calculation to determine whether they are in group A B C D or E.  Group A is the best and group E is the worst.

2. Fred's wife has made five beautiful velvet and silk lined bags with a gold cord drawstring with embroidered letters on the front.  The team names are printed (Engineers can only write in print) on individual pieces of paper (all exactly the same size and shape) and placed into their correct bags.  This step is checked several times, following the Engineers life motto, "measure twice cut once."

3. Each member of the office is seen in turn and once the fee has been taken from them and only when the fee has been taken Fred lets them pick their teams.

4. Each person picks seven teams.

This is where I started to get confused.
"What do you mean seven teams? Are there 3.4 people in your office."
"No, you don't understand.  Listen."

5.  They pick two teams from group A, two from group B and one from the other three.

"But there won't be enough to go round."
"Wait. You will understand but it's complicated."

6.  Fred makes a note of the teams they have picked and puts them back in the correct bags. The person picking is not allowed to put them back, as they can't necessarily be trusted.

7.  Fred goes to see the next person to extract money and make a note of their picks.

"So, lots of people could pick the winning team?"
"Well yes."
"That's silly."
"No it's not.  It's more complicated than just the person with the winning team getting the money."
"It would be."

8.  Each person who has entered is asked to guess the number of goals that will be scored over the whole tournament as a tiebreak decider. This, of course, isn't a guess but is another complicated mathematical calculation based on the number of goals in previous years, weighted by the length of the goalkeepers hair.

"Ah, so if two people have the winning team then the winner will be the one with the closest number of goals."
"No.  It's more complicated than that. We'll come back to the goal thing later."

9. Fred makes a beautiful spreadsheet to keep the results in.  He enters the names of each of his colleagues, the teams they have picked and their total goal 'guess' He colour codes cells and adds formulae so that he can keep up to date with how things are going.

"What if nobody has picked out the winning team?"
"That won't matter."

10.  The tournament starts.  Fred relaxes: he has nothing to do for the first few games.

11. After the first round the people who have teams that have been eliminated get zero points for those teams.

12.  Teams that are eliminated in the next round get 10 points each.

13.  Teams that reach the quarter-finals get 15 points each

14. Teams that reach the semi-finals get 25 points each.

"Oh, I see.  It is complicated."

15.  At this point someone will have worked out that their combination of teams could get them to win if only they had Germany as well.  They seek out someone who has picked Germany and makes them an offer of combining both their teams and splitting the money. Fred rules the idea out, as, "it is not in the spirit of the rules", as he devised them.

16.  After the final, Fred sets his spreadsheet to work.  The second place team gets 50 points and the winner gets 100 points. Fred has the final scores for everyone.

"So you could have picked out the winning team and still lose because you haven't got as many points?"
"Yep."
"Weird."
"I know."

17.  If two people have exactly the same score then their guess of total goals becomes the tie-breaker.

"See, I told you the goals would become relevant later."
"Yes. I wonder if  Fred will have to use them?"
"I hope not. We're only up to 103 and I calculated 124........."  He goes into a long detailed explanation of how he worked out an average of goals over the 45 matches multiplied by the tensile strength of the goalkeeper's toenails.

18.  Fred calculates the winner.

"So the winner gets all the money?"
He looks at me as if I have lost my mind, "Well, no."

19.  Fred give the person with the 4th highest score 10% of the takings.  The person with the 3rd highest score gets 15%.  The runner up gets 25% and the winner gets half the money.

"How many people are there in your office?"
"Twenty two, why?"
"I was just thinking that it might not work out but it will be alright because the 4th placed person will get £2.20."
"Oh no, Fred thought about that.  There's no point in splitting pounds up.  It was a £5 stake."

20. Fred delivers the winnings to his colleagues.  Each colleague tries to explain how the sweepstake could be improved for next year.  Fred sulks and refuses to speak to anyone for at least two months. The rest of the office are relieved: talking at work is most definitely over-rated.

As a mother

It was coming.

I knew it was.

A leadership contest between two women could only end in tears. Where were the men to save us from all this? Sensible men, who wouldn't need to be perfect. Men who didn't need to be everything. Men who could make mistakes and that would be fine, in fact it would make us like them more because they were human. Men like Boris: he's still a dick but that's fine. (Luckily, Gove is out of the contest because he's a cunt and no one wants to think about that bit of female anatomy) Men who might have children (or not) but don't  have a womb to worry about. Honestly, if there had just been one man left, none of this would have happened. He could have become leader and we could have all pushed those bloody wombs to the back of our minds. 

As soon as Andrea Leadsom appeared on our screens for the Leave Campaign TV debates her constant refrain of, "as a mother," was ringing in journalists' ears. It    was one of those dissonant chords that jarred and bought an uncomfortable lump to the throat. Anyone, and yes I do mean anyone, who interviewed her would be compelled to ask about it. 

I've had children, am slightly younger than Andrea Leadsom and I was baffled by her constant referral to herself as a mother. Being a mother was my main job, anything else I did was part time work. It was a choice I made because I was lucky enough to be able to and I loved it. It's probably the only job I've actually been any good at but now that my children are grown up I wouldn't reference my mothering job at an interview to run the country. It would be like saying, when I was in reception class I liked playing with Lego and so now that I'm 18 I think I'd make a good banker. It was also odd because it implied that unless you had pushed a baby out of your vagina (oh wait, that might be a step too far. Was she one of the too posh to push brigade?) you didn't care about the country.

Rachael Sylvester from the Times asked the question.

"During the debates you repeatedly said as a mum. Do you feel like a mum in politics?"

Good question.

It could have gone in so many different directions. 

But it didn't. 

It went down the direction that would make a splash. I can just imagine the journalist texting her own mother after the interview. "Can't say anything yet. Got a really big story. So excited."

She said, "I'm sure Theresa will be really sad that she doesn't have children so I don't want this to be 'Andrea has children Theresa doesn't' because that would be really horrible but genuinely I feel that being a mum means that you have a very real stake in the future of the country, a tangible stake. She probably has nieces and nephews, lots of people but I have children who are going to have children who will be part of what happens next."

She offered it to them on a plate. The conflict. Remember, conflict is always the story. Set childless women against those of us with baggy wombs and the story is sold. And she's right. It's really horrible.

The reporter filed her story. Twitter went mad. Women were fighting in the aisles of the supermarkets. It was a bloodbath. Andrea Leadsom cried, "it's not what I said! This is gutter journalism!" Theresa May kept quiet (although it might be too early to say that as she's not on Twitter)

I don't agree with Ms Leadsom but we should be very careful about dividing women into two groups. Look what happens when we give the world binary choices. (Chaos over Brexit)

Vote Mothers! Vote Childless Women!

These are not the issues. 

Vote for the person that can do the best job. Remember that no one is perfect. Stop buying the line that women can have it all, do it all, be it all. Women are just like men, with a womb. Remember that the press is there to entertain us; be entertained, enjoy the hilarity of the comments but don't base your voting decisions on it. And above all, don't take a side and join the fight. This is not about defining womanhood.

When Truth is Stranger than Fiction

I've had a couple of days off work, sick.  I'm not very good at having sick days.  I know some people can enjoy them but I feel guilty, even when I'm sleeping a lot.

I've spent the last two days watching House of Cards on Netflix and keeping up with what is going on in our bizarre political world at the moment.  I started to worry that I was getting the two confused but it turns out that the real life stuff is weirder than the drama.

I fell asleep during a episode (sorry, chapter) of the first series and when I woke up Tony Blair was looking tired and emotional and talking about the Iraq war. After an hour and a half he'd pulled himself together and was looking like someone who was quite enjoying himself. Journalists had been given three hours to read a 2.6million word report before they interviewed him. I read at about 200 words a minute, so it would take me 9 days and nights, only longer because it seems like the kind of book that would help insomnia. I'm so impressed with those journos. Most have hardly slept since the whole Brexit thing as well.

I was confused. Then Michael Gove appeared and said something sinister to the camera. "You might think that but I couldn't possibly comment." No. That was a dream. I think.

     Huffington Post had the same dream

Today, I had reached the second series where Gove had been replaced by a woman. A woman who knows how to shoot a gun. There was speculation that her CV was a work of fiction. Financial journalists claimed they had never seen her at any of the meetings she had claimed to be at. 

Her supporters organised a rally. "Meet your new Vice President, Andrea Leadsom." She was supposed to give an in depth post Brexit financial analysis but said something about it not being so bad, really. It was worse after the last financial crisis that plunged us into recession for years and it hasn't even happened yet. She suggested that people just needed to be positive, so her supporters said, "Yes, too right, what-ho. Let's have a march like those jolly chaps that support Corbyn do and doesn't she have nice hair."

They tried but they weren't very good at it. They spilled out onto the street and milled around, wondering who had the jug of Pimms. Eventually, they walked, chanting, "What do we want?....Leadsom for Prime Minister.....When do we want it?.....right now (please)" One woman clutched her pearls (literally and possibly figuratively). Never have you seen a group of people less comfortable in a Tshirt. They were tucked neatly into jeans or worn over a shirt and tie. A dog barked. 

Then white powder was discovered in some mail. The White House went on lockdown, while the VP's wife told the world she'd been raped but that was the fiction. In real life the white powder had caused the Lords to be ushered out onto the balcony, where they were fed ice cream.

I'm really looking forward to getting back to work, where the children won't confuse me. 

The Garden Vote

I confess, what is happening in the Labour Party is making me sad. I wanted Jeremy Corbyn to be everything his supporters say he is. I wanted him to fight passionately and stubbornly for the rights of the workers. I wanted them to be right that it was just the biased press that was stopping us seeing the real Jeremy. A little bit of me was even hoping  that the vote of no confidence from the people he is meant to be leading was just hype by a Blairite PR company. I suspect, though, that none of that is true and that he is just stubborn, humourless and not a very good party leader and I say that as someone who often has the House of Commons on the TV as background noise when I'm home alone, sad as that confession is. However, my biggest problem with Corbyn is his front garden. The man is supposed to be a gardener. You can find pictures of him on the Internet with an enormous marrow but he seems happy with a scruffy hedge, roses that need tying up that scratch him whenever he forgets to duck when leaving his house.

With all of these resignations we are being treated to a nightly view of politicians' front gardens. Mostly, they're a scruffy lot. Even Boris Johnson, who has a very smart London home with a shiny black door, railings to match and swept paths has a huge weed in the pot containing a straggly tree by his front door. Michael Gove's front patch is a disgrace and the number of MPs that have their wheelie bins on show is just criminal.  The only garden I've liked so far is Tim Faron's.

Angela Eagle:  "I've got marrows in the back garden this big.  Beat that Jeremy!"

Would it be too much to ask for a photo of the front garden of the person you are voting for on the ballot paper? I think it would really help.

When Dads are in charge

"Hello Miss.  Is that your dog?"
"Yes.  Are you having a party?"
"It's the presentation evening."
"I get free drinks," one lad boasted, shaking his glass of coke at me.
They flashed wristbands in my direction.

I had steered the dog past paper plates of sausages and a small pile of vomit.  We had taken a sudden side step to avoid the young man swearing at and kicking the bins, while a group of older men ignored him, preferring to stare at their pints and discuss football.

"When I grow up I want to be a dog," one of the children said, wistfully.
Normally. I'd say that they can be anything they want to be but that might be a bit ambitious.
"OK.  But it would be good wouldn't it?"
They all agreed.
Even I was convinced.

There were children everywhere.  I was now surrounded by a large crowd that could have been quite intimidating.  The dog took an exception to the boy who pulled his tail and growled at him before hiding under my legs, looking at me and saying, "Sorry. but where are his parents?"

"Miss, do you know about the scary men?"

"Are they at the party?" I asked, thinking about the chap arguing with the bins.

"No, they're in the wood."

"Are they?"

"Yes. There's two of them. Army men. Will you go with us and see?"

While I was trying to think of an excuse to avoid going into the thicket with 50 kids, one girl rolled her eyes.

"It's a fairy story."

"A fairy story? What, like Cinderella?"

"Yes, you know, when you are meant to believe that Step-mothers are horrible but then they turn out to be nicer than your own mum and they take you shopping and let you have a hot chocolate and a big bit of cake."

"No, you're wrong. There are two army men in there."

"There might be," I said, "Sometimes people go in there to smoke."

"Yeah, I told you."

"They're in there by the lake."

"The lake?"

"Yeah, there's a lake in there.......with alligators  in it."

"There's no lake in there," I said

"Well, it's more of a swamp."

"There is a damp area if there's been a lot of rain and loads of foxes," I conceded

"There are still alligators, or crocodiles. Crocodiles live in swamps."

The girl with the fairy tale theory had heard enough.

"Look, it's a myth. It's like Theseus and the Minotaur. You know, like a story that they tell you to stop you going in the maze. It's what happens when Dads are in charge"

I left them to continue my walk. We turned the corner and the dog noticed a sweet smell before two men, dressed in camouflage gear, clutching larger cans, stumbled out of the copse. They were giggling.

"Mate, did you see that crocodile?"

"Nah, bruv, it were an alligator, weren't it? Stands to reason. Crocodiles aren't pink."

A Dali Painting of Hell

When you don't sleep the world turns into a weird place. Last Thursday I stayed up to watch the referendum and this week I forgot how to sleep after an exciting concert.

Last week, on Friday, after a full day of teaching and orchestra practise I went to see a small play in the Moot Hall. It was about Ann Carter, who I will write about in another blog when the world has calmed down. As is usual for these type of events the cast and building managers outnumbered the audience. 

After the show we were all ushered into a back room, where there were bowls of crisps, nuts, chocolate fingers, twiglets and bizarrely a plate of cheese scones, the size of a 50p piece. There were cartons of wine and juice, for which we were encouraged to donate £2.50 a glass and we had to buy raffle tickets. The room was small and dark, with a musty smell. The huge oak door had been shut behind us and the lead in the tiny windows at the top of the room gave the effect of bars. Perched on a brick ledge outside the window were two fat and ferociously bonking pigeons. The crisps and wine were on a huge dark wood table with intricately carved legs, which took up most of the room. Around the edge were church pews. Most people stood and we talked about the referendum, the play we had just seen, the grain riots and women's history. I was feeling woozy, the room seemed to shift a little, so I sat on the bench. Suddenly, I had won the raffle and people had burst into song. Proper, finger-in-the-ear-folk-song singing. The kind that tells a moral tale. Everyone else knew the songs and joined in. I looked around, concerned that I might have actually died at some point and this was Hell. Time started to do the thing it does in the Dali painting. After several songs I found myself tapping my foot and singing, "A drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. Oh, a drop of Nelson's blood won't do you any harm. And we'll all roll on behind. And we'll roll the old chariot along......"

A lady looked at me, smiled and said, "Come on, I'll take you up now."

I followed her up the winding stone steps, while she talked about witches and bells. She threw open the door to fresh air, a glorious sunset and a feeling that this might be heaven. I looked over at the building where I had conducted an orchestra rehearsal in and it was glowing.

 

It wasn't heaven or hell and I was allowed to leave. 

But the world had changed beyond recognition. History was being made, politicians were fighting, the weather had forgotten that it was meant to be doing summer and everyone was stressed and miserable. I tried to carry on as normal. I walked the dog and stood on a bee. George Osborne taught me a new world as he appeared onTV to say that he didn't "resile" from any of his earlier warnings. I did the shopping and pushed the fully loaded trolly over my foot. I went to work and had an uncharacteristic cross moment where I think I might have resigned. I read the papers (and Buzzfeed - who seem to be keeping a humourous perspective on it all), wrote my blog and spent time with my family. I went to a concert that I didn't have to organise. It started at 7 but I didn't finish teaching until 8. "It's ok, I'll put the band on just before the interval," I was told. I walked into the building at ten past 8 and could hear the band playing. I ran up the stairs putting my bass clarinet together as I went hoping that I would be in time for the solo in the Stevie Wonder piece, however I only managed the last note. In the interval, I ate strawberries the size of a six year old's fist. The dog got depressed. The groomers wondered if his strange mood was something to do with Brexit. He told me that it was the ugliness of the word that really bothered him.

 Then on Thursday evening a hall full of sweaty people forgot everything. They sang, laughed, cried, encouraged and burst with pride. "I had the worst week but that was just what I needed," people said.

I had something to eat and watched Question Time. It was on late. Then I went to bed. 

At 2am I woke up. Wide eyed. Two hours sleep seemed as though it was enough. I got up, paced around, went back to bed, read, wrote and the sun came up. I listened. Nothing. There hadn't been a dawn chorus. Panicking that the end of the world really had arrived or that I had really gone to Hell last Friday evening I went into the garden. There were some bird noises, especially pigeons who seemed particularly frisky. It appears that the dawn chorus is mainly a mating thing and most birds (except pigeons) have done enough of that for one year.

 I relaxed a bit.

Standing barefoot on the patio in my nightie I spotted the little patch of chamomile lawn. Chamomile is supposed to help sleep, so I walked round and round in the fine drizzle that had just set in. After twenty minuites I felt calm and thought I'd try to go back to bed only to discover I'd taken a large family of baby spiders with me. I got up and wrote more.

Friday passed in a blur until I noticed that the political madness has moved to Austria, where a court ruling has over-turned the presidential election result and Australia, where people have been trying to vote for the gorilla that was shot.

This morning I told the Long Suffering Husband that my daughter's address was 32 Windsor Gardens, which I am fairly certain is Paddington's address. 

If this is a Dali inspired version of Hell then I'm not sure I'm coping with it very well.