I have one friend who I met when our both our youngest boys were in nursery. We had nodded at each other for a while, as we rushed to and from the car with our uncombed hair and Weetabix stained cardigans. There was a glint of recognition in our eyes but we had never actually spoken.
Then one day, the letter of the week was F. My son always liked to take something in, which was encouraged and he asked to take in a flute. My friend's son did the same. The nursery owner laughed with me. What was the chance of there being two flute players?
"Did you know she was a musician?" she asked, "Obviously, only part time but still.."
She is a proper, professional musician, rather than a fraud, like me.
Our first conversation was about whether it was possible to be a part time musician.
Music isn't easy. Not even for professional musicians. Despite how things are portrayed on the TV, practice is always part of the unseen preparation. Professional musicians don't suddenly have to stop practising. They may be able to sight-read some pieces but only because they are doing their daily exercises and if they are to play with other people then they will need to rehearse to make sure they are all interpreting the music in the same way.
Sometimes, musicians are asked to do things without rehearsal. They always hate this, as it ends up making them look unprofessional.
Most of my job as a musician is about pretending that everything is fine. To maintain a professional show face, when everything feels like it's going wrong. It's what makes us appear so composed at times of grief or stress.
The rest of it is about moving furniture.
Tuesday 28 March 2017
Sunday 26 March 2017
Poppets, Polos and Pianos
I've always quite liked a funeral. I think they are quite funny. There's a huge conflict in us humans about death. We feel we need to both be sad and celebrate someone's life simultaneously, which is, let's face it, impossible. They are conflicting emotions, which can only be funny.
I thought that my father's funeral would overwhelm me with sadness and I wouldn't be able to see the joy, conflict and laughter but I was wrong. I'm not someone to cry in front of people and my family are naturally funny.
We were all nervous: up early, stressing about not being able to find the right cardigan, shoes or whether we had enough tissues. There was anxious biting of lips, fingernails and hair twiddling (and that was just the Long Suffering Husband.) When the cars arrived we all privately wondered if we could do it but kept our heads down, shuffling our feet until we found ourselves sitting inside. As we drove up the hill we marvelled, silently, at the fitness of John, the funeral director, who walked in front of the cars, without stopping, at a speed of about 10 mph. At the church, we saw there was a queue to get in. The silence was broken as we struggled to recall names.
"Poppet," my sister said.
"Hello, Poppet, how you doing? Haven't seen you for ages." She instructed us how to greet people.
I didn't think I could pull off the 'Poppet' trick.
Mum agreed, "I couldn't call anyone Poppet who was older than about six," she said.
My sister continued to instruct us and we laughed.
We were in a funeral car, behind the hearse with my dad's coffin in, outside the church, laughing about poppets.
Recorded music in the Church has never worked properly for me. I always thought it was some trick to make me use live music; make me practise so that I didn't bring Les (Dawson, whose piano playing I seem to channel) to every school service. For the funeral, we wanted the orchestra to play Children's March but it had to be a recorded version. I had been to the church earlier in the week and we had gone through it, to make sure it worked and everyone was confident. We stood at the back, behind the coffin and waited. I looked up and saw the familiar look of panic, as the technology failed. Usually, when I see that look I get the choir to sing unaccompanied. The vicar apologetically asked me if I would sort it out and just as I started to walk over it sprang into life. I had a sudden panic, as I nearly tripped rushing back to my place, that the piano and music stand weren't ready for the only live bit of music. It was and I was able to regain my composure.
The service was lovely. There were hundreds of people there. The tributes were perfect and even the piano was in tune and seemed to behave better than it normally does.
After the service we went to the crematorium for a quick, private cry, while everyone else went to The Purple Pig for a beer. Funeral cars drive slowly and everyone looks at you. At first, we found the journey difficult. We sat in silence until Mum offered us a polo. Mum likes a polo and it would have been rude not to accept. It is traditional in our family to have a polo sucking competition on long car journeys.
We took it very seriously, poking our tongues out to check at regular intervals. The driver won. On the way back the funeral director tried really hard to equal his employee's acheivement but couldn't beat my sister, who is a world champion polo sucker and still had hers, intact, as we turned onto Limebrook Way, which at funeral car speed was about 45 minutes.
We had laughed and were ready to greet everyone. I even hugged people!
"Hello Poppet, thank you for fighting that dog of a piano and winning," I said to my friend who had accompanied my version of Stardust. We laughed.
Funerals are still funny things and I'm glad about that because life wouldn't be bearable without a little bit of laughter.
I thought that my father's funeral would overwhelm me with sadness and I wouldn't be able to see the joy, conflict and laughter but I was wrong. I'm not someone to cry in front of people and my family are naturally funny.
We were all nervous: up early, stressing about not being able to find the right cardigan, shoes or whether we had enough tissues. There was anxious biting of lips, fingernails and hair twiddling (and that was just the Long Suffering Husband.) When the cars arrived we all privately wondered if we could do it but kept our heads down, shuffling our feet until we found ourselves sitting inside. As we drove up the hill we marvelled, silently, at the fitness of John, the funeral director, who walked in front of the cars, without stopping, at a speed of about 10 mph. At the church, we saw there was a queue to get in. The silence was broken as we struggled to recall names.
"Poppet," my sister said.
"Hello, Poppet, how you doing? Haven't seen you for ages." She instructed us how to greet people.
I didn't think I could pull off the 'Poppet' trick.
Mum agreed, "I couldn't call anyone Poppet who was older than about six," she said.
My sister continued to instruct us and we laughed.
We were in a funeral car, behind the hearse with my dad's coffin in, outside the church, laughing about poppets.
Recorded music in the Church has never worked properly for me. I always thought it was some trick to make me use live music; make me practise so that I didn't bring Les (Dawson, whose piano playing I seem to channel) to every school service. For the funeral, we wanted the orchestra to play Children's March but it had to be a recorded version. I had been to the church earlier in the week and we had gone through it, to make sure it worked and everyone was confident. We stood at the back, behind the coffin and waited. I looked up and saw the familiar look of panic, as the technology failed. Usually, when I see that look I get the choir to sing unaccompanied. The vicar apologetically asked me if I would sort it out and just as I started to walk over it sprang into life. I had a sudden panic, as I nearly tripped rushing back to my place, that the piano and music stand weren't ready for the only live bit of music. It was and I was able to regain my composure.
The service was lovely. There were hundreds of people there. The tributes were perfect and even the piano was in tune and seemed to behave better than it normally does.
After the service we went to the crematorium for a quick, private cry, while everyone else went to The Purple Pig for a beer. Funeral cars drive slowly and everyone looks at you. At first, we found the journey difficult. We sat in silence until Mum offered us a polo. Mum likes a polo and it would have been rude not to accept. It is traditional in our family to have a polo sucking competition on long car journeys.
We took it very seriously, poking our tongues out to check at regular intervals. The driver won. On the way back the funeral director tried really hard to equal his employee's acheivement but couldn't beat my sister, who is a world champion polo sucker and still had hers, intact, as we turned onto Limebrook Way, which at funeral car speed was about 45 minutes.
We had laughed and were ready to greet everyone. I even hugged people!
"Hello Poppet, thank you for fighting that dog of a piano and winning," I said to my friend who had accompanied my version of Stardust. We laughed.
Funerals are still funny things and I'm glad about that because life wouldn't be bearable without a little bit of laughter.
Thursday 23 March 2017
Friends
It looks like there will be many people at my dad's funeral tomorrow, which isn't a surprise, as he knew everyone. It has left the rest of us in the family wondering if we need to get more friends. My sister thought that her funeral might be like an episode of Jeremy Kyle if her clients came.
"And how do you know her?" we would ask
"She took my first baby away dinn't she?"
"Nah, F off. She took all me babies away!"
Then there would be a punch up over who had received the most of her attention.
Before he died I went to the funeral of a friend that was also very well attended. I felt almost guilty for going because even though we were good friends at one time I hadn't seen her for a few years. Her death and my dad's have made me question what kind of friend I am.
Although, I write about stuff, I am quite private and I don't really go out. I have friends who I don't see from one year to the next and I think that maybe this year I should try to put that right.
I've decided that friends are precious.
"And how do you know her?" we would ask
"She took my first baby away dinn't she?"
"Nah, F off. She took all me babies away!"
Then there would be a punch up over who had received the most of her attention.
Before he died I went to the funeral of a friend that was also very well attended. I felt almost guilty for going because even though we were good friends at one time I hadn't seen her for a few years. Her death and my dad's have made me question what kind of friend I am.
Although, I write about stuff, I am quite private and I don't really go out. I have friends who I don't see from one year to the next and I think that maybe this year I should try to put that right.
I've decided that friends are precious.
Tuesday 21 March 2017
Social Worker Poem
Today is both world poetry day and world social worker day so here is poem for my sister.
It's short because I can't write poems but I hope you appreciate the effort.
My sister is a social worker
She's a funny, silly, smirker
Even though her job is hard
She really is quite the card
I hope her clients get to see
Just how funny she can be.
It's short because I can't write poems but I hope you appreciate the effort.
Monday 20 March 2017
Dress Code
When did a dress code for a funeral become a thing?
Obviously, I know that there are traditions about what convention dictates you should wear, which vary from country to country and change over time but in the last few weeks I have been asked (sometimes by strangers) what they should wear on Friday. My answer is always, "clothes," but I think they want me to be more specific.
In England it all started with the Romans, who would wear dark togas to express their grief. This continued with most people wearing dark colours as a mark of respect until the Victorians came along and made their rules. In Spain, they wore white. At the end of the Victorian period mourning clothes were a family's outward sign of their grief. The rules were outlined in household manuals.Women had it hard they had to wear black for a specified length of time , avoid satin, lace or embroidery and wear dresses or hats trimmed with crepe - a hard scratchy material. Men were let off much more lightly and would wear their usual suit with black gloves, hatbands and cravats. Children were not expected to wear mourning clothes. Widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years and half mourning for another two. It was a year for parents grandparents and siblings and four weeks for cousins.
I can see why people want to kick back against all those rules. I've been to funerals where we were told to wear bright clothes, something red or butterflies. Friday is red nose day, so maybe we should insist on red noses.
However, none of us have any particular desire to tell people what to wear.
It's difficult enough without a particular thing being imposed. I wanted to wear black. I wear black all the time, so I should have just been able to open my wardrobe but all my dresses looked tired, like me. Several trips out and I have found a dress that looks nice and I will wear again. In Miss Selfridge I got quite excited because I thought I'd found the perfect dress: a dress with pockets. Unfortunately, it had a split to the thigh, which somehow didn't seem like appropriate funeral attire. The Long Suffering Husband has used the funeral as an excuse to get a new suit. He has a brown one, which would have been fine but it was a bit snug and he really hankered after a blue suit. The lady in the shop wasn't too pushy but she was friendly. She told him that he looked very nice in it, "Are you going somewhere nice, wedding, party?" she asked.
"Funeral," I whispered, not intentionally (it happens when you lose your voice)
"Pardon?" (That's what they all say)
The LSH told her and her brows knitted together.
"Oh? Blue? For a funeral? That's. I mean. That's. Well, I wouldn't have asked. Normally it's black or charcoal grey. Are you sure, you're allowed to wear blue?"
We assured her it would be fine.
"Have you asked?" She was clearly very concerned about the LSH making a huge social mistake.
"Asked who?" I wondered.
"The relatives." She was certain that we should have checked the dress code.
"Oh," I said
"Darling," the LSH questioned, "Do you think it would be alright if I wore a blue suit to your Dad's funeral?"
I assured him that it would.
The lady briefly stepped back but recovered her composure quickly.
"That's why you've lost your voice," she said, "It'll be the stress."
One of the conversations I'd had with Dad in the last week had been about dress code. The Youth Orchestra had agreed to do a concert for the Mayor, who was more particular about what the audience should wear than the quality of the music they were to listen to. He had made quite a big deal out of it and had made comments like, "I know how you ladies like to dress up." Dad thought this was all quite funny. He asked me to post two pictures on out committee chat page, which is what he thought we should wear.
I'm not sure it's how he'd interpret a funeral dress code but who knows?
Obviously, I know that there are traditions about what convention dictates you should wear, which vary from country to country and change over time but in the last few weeks I have been asked (sometimes by strangers) what they should wear on Friday. My answer is always, "clothes," but I think they want me to be more specific.
In England it all started with the Romans, who would wear dark togas to express their grief. This continued with most people wearing dark colours as a mark of respect until the Victorians came along and made their rules. In Spain, they wore white. At the end of the Victorian period mourning clothes were a family's outward sign of their grief. The rules were outlined in household manuals.Women had it hard they had to wear black for a specified length of time , avoid satin, lace or embroidery and wear dresses or hats trimmed with crepe - a hard scratchy material. Men were let off much more lightly and would wear their usual suit with black gloves, hatbands and cravats. Children were not expected to wear mourning clothes. Widows were expected to wear full mourning for two years and half mourning for another two. It was a year for parents grandparents and siblings and four weeks for cousins.
I can see why people want to kick back against all those rules. I've been to funerals where we were told to wear bright clothes, something red or butterflies. Friday is red nose day, so maybe we should insist on red noses.
However, none of us have any particular desire to tell people what to wear.
It's difficult enough without a particular thing being imposed. I wanted to wear black. I wear black all the time, so I should have just been able to open my wardrobe but all my dresses looked tired, like me. Several trips out and I have found a dress that looks nice and I will wear again. In Miss Selfridge I got quite excited because I thought I'd found the perfect dress: a dress with pockets. Unfortunately, it had a split to the thigh, which somehow didn't seem like appropriate funeral attire. The Long Suffering Husband has used the funeral as an excuse to get a new suit. He has a brown one, which would have been fine but it was a bit snug and he really hankered after a blue suit. The lady in the shop wasn't too pushy but she was friendly. She told him that he looked very nice in it, "Are you going somewhere nice, wedding, party?" she asked.
"Funeral," I whispered, not intentionally (it happens when you lose your voice)
"Pardon?" (That's what they all say)
The LSH told her and her brows knitted together.
"Oh? Blue? For a funeral? That's. I mean. That's. Well, I wouldn't have asked. Normally it's black or charcoal grey. Are you sure, you're allowed to wear blue?"
We assured her it would be fine.
"Have you asked?" She was clearly very concerned about the LSH making a huge social mistake.
"Asked who?" I wondered.
"The relatives." She was certain that we should have checked the dress code.
"Oh," I said
"Darling," the LSH questioned, "Do you think it would be alright if I wore a blue suit to your Dad's funeral?"
I assured him that it would.
The lady briefly stepped back but recovered her composure quickly.
"That's why you've lost your voice," she said, "It'll be the stress."
One of the conversations I'd had with Dad in the last week had been about dress code. The Youth Orchestra had agreed to do a concert for the Mayor, who was more particular about what the audience should wear than the quality of the music they were to listen to. He had made quite a big deal out of it and had made comments like, "I know how you ladies like to dress up." Dad thought this was all quite funny. He asked me to post two pictures on out committee chat page, which is what he thought we should wear.
I'm not sure it's how he'd interpret a funeral dress code but who knows?
Just Keep Swimming
I've lost my voice. Again! I know, it's becoming a bit of a habit. Not one that I enjoy, which is a shame. Most habitual occupations are ones that you secretly enjoy, like sucking your thumb, drinking too much gin or reaching for a cigarette as soon as you get out of work - you get some pleasure from them. I can't say that I get any comfort from not being able to speak.
"It'll be stress," people have said to me this week, "don't you think?"
If I could answer them then I would say that I don't think so. I don't feel very stressed. I was tired but I've slept well for the last five nights (unheard of). You are now thinking that I'm in denial and am not acknowledging the fact that my Dad died at the end of February and the funeral is next week. You think that has to be stressful. I'm not sure it is. It's sad but as I said before my overwhelming feeling is still pride at having had such a wonderful father. I do think it's wrong that crematoriums are so busy funerals can't happen for at least a month but it's not stressful, in fact it takes some stress away because you don't have to rush to do everything. Tears will have been a factor but it doesn't explain all the other times I've lost my voice (every 4-6 weeks for the last fiveyears). I haven't been stressed or sad, everytime. Speech therapy gave me a list of things to do, like not cough, drink only water, eat very little chocolate, yoga, have neck massages and a raft of vocal exercises. I do all of those and it makes no difference. The camera up the nose gave my vocal cords a clean bill of health and I'm even more laid back than usual at work at the moment because none of it really matters.
Louise Hay, alternative health guru and all-round-annoyingly-super-positive-person, has some ideas about health issues that become habits. In her world, you have to embrace the symptoms as a clue to what is going on with your psyche then you say (ha) affirmations, to deal with it. As I've tried everything else and people keep telling me it must be stress I thought I'd look at it with an open mind.
She says that problems with the throat are to do with blocked creativity. So, I just need to unblock my creativity, give me that plunger, I'm ready to go for it. Just how you do that is a mystery. I wasn't aware that it was blocked. She says that laryngitis could also be to do with not speaking up for yourself and resentment of authority. I know I said I was going to keep an open mind but seriously? I just can't help saying what I think; it just pops out. It's true, I'm not exactly a fan of some authority figures but I tend to find them funny, rather than resenting them. Mostly, if people tell me what to do I will do it if I want or pretend to agree but do my own thing if I don't. Do I need to actually start telling people their ideas are rubbish, rather than showing them my better ones? Writers always know it's best to show rather than tell but I'm willing to give it a go.
The other piece of advice people give me is to rest. Sitting around doing nothing doesn't help. I worked that out four years ago, in fact it just makes your neck and shoulders tense, which doesn't help. Taking people's advice, I had a day and a half off work. I didn't speak. The first half day I lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. It was boring. The next, I did silent housework. I was bored beyond belief. If I was meant to be standing up for myself then I was going to be at work. If people didn't want to hear my hoarse, whispery, breathy voice then that was their problem not mine. I made some signs. Kids like a challenge. A silent teacher can be fun!
While I was having my silent housework day I came across a photo of me and my Dad at a holiday park in Hayling Island. It's a cute picture.
It reminded me of how much I like swimming now and how if I'm asking for what I want, it's to just get back to swimming (physically and metaphorically). What the picture doesn't show is the level of my terror. Both Dad and I are smiling but I was frightened; scared of everything, especially water, dogs and bees and all of them had been there that day. I wanted to be able to do it but I couldn't. Dad took me to Gloucester Park for swimming lessons. My cousin also went. I remember looking at her swimming across the width of the pool and being awestruck at how she wasn't clinging to the side in terrified tears. Her dad, my jolly green giant of an uncle (his joke, not mine) always tried stories to take away my fear. During a thunderstorm, he told me that it was just Bugs Bunny falling down the stairs. It never worked because I just wanted to know how a cartoon character had got into the sky in the first place. I wasn't a quick fix. It took patience and logic. For thunderstorms I needed statistics and counting and for swimming I needed hours of practice, gently letting air out of armbands and cajoling assurances that I could do it, which took more patience than a swimming teacher could manage so he started to teach me himself. He gave me mantras to say: "Look at me, I'm a gymnast," before jumping in and, "I won't drown if I keep going."
So, if you see me in the pool muttering to myself. I could be repeating the mantra, "I am free to ask for what I want. It is safe to express myself. I am at peace," which is Louise Hay's mantra for laryngitis.
One of the problems of this mantra is that when anyone asks me what I want, I think of food. The Long Suffering Husband is the same. When I gave up chocolate for my voice, I asked him to tell me something nice because I was feeling miserable. "Chocolate eclairs, they're nice," he said after some thought. Dad used to take me into the upstairs swimming pool cafe for a cup of bovril and a slice of hot buttered toast. Maybe, that's what I'll ask for. It's a long time since I've had Bovril.
"It'll be stress," people have said to me this week, "don't you think?"
If I could answer them then I would say that I don't think so. I don't feel very stressed. I was tired but I've slept well for the last five nights (unheard of). You are now thinking that I'm in denial and am not acknowledging the fact that my Dad died at the end of February and the funeral is next week. You think that has to be stressful. I'm not sure it is. It's sad but as I said before my overwhelming feeling is still pride at having had such a wonderful father. I do think it's wrong that crematoriums are so busy funerals can't happen for at least a month but it's not stressful, in fact it takes some stress away because you don't have to rush to do everything. Tears will have been a factor but it doesn't explain all the other times I've lost my voice (every 4-6 weeks for the last fiveyears). I haven't been stressed or sad, everytime. Speech therapy gave me a list of things to do, like not cough, drink only water, eat very little chocolate, yoga, have neck massages and a raft of vocal exercises. I do all of those and it makes no difference. The camera up the nose gave my vocal cords a clean bill of health and I'm even more laid back than usual at work at the moment because none of it really matters.
Louise Hay, alternative health guru and all-round-annoyingly-super-positive-person, has some ideas about health issues that become habits. In her world, you have to embrace the symptoms as a clue to what is going on with your psyche then you say (ha) affirmations, to deal with it. As I've tried everything else and people keep telling me it must be stress I thought I'd look at it with an open mind.
She says that problems with the throat are to do with blocked creativity. So, I just need to unblock my creativity, give me that plunger, I'm ready to go for it. Just how you do that is a mystery. I wasn't aware that it was blocked. She says that laryngitis could also be to do with not speaking up for yourself and resentment of authority. I know I said I was going to keep an open mind but seriously? I just can't help saying what I think; it just pops out. It's true, I'm not exactly a fan of some authority figures but I tend to find them funny, rather than resenting them. Mostly, if people tell me what to do I will do it if I want or pretend to agree but do my own thing if I don't. Do I need to actually start telling people their ideas are rubbish, rather than showing them my better ones? Writers always know it's best to show rather than tell but I'm willing to give it a go.
The other piece of advice people give me is to rest. Sitting around doing nothing doesn't help. I worked that out four years ago, in fact it just makes your neck and shoulders tense, which doesn't help. Taking people's advice, I had a day and a half off work. I didn't speak. The first half day I lay on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. It was boring. The next, I did silent housework. I was bored beyond belief. If I was meant to be standing up for myself then I was going to be at work. If people didn't want to hear my hoarse, whispery, breathy voice then that was their problem not mine. I made some signs. Kids like a challenge. A silent teacher can be fun!
While I was having my silent housework day I came across a photo of me and my Dad at a holiday park in Hayling Island. It's a cute picture.
So, if you see me in the pool muttering to myself. I could be repeating the mantra, "I am free to ask for what I want. It is safe to express myself. I am at peace," which is Louise Hay's mantra for laryngitis.
One of the problems of this mantra is that when anyone asks me what I want, I think of food. The Long Suffering Husband is the same. When I gave up chocolate for my voice, I asked him to tell me something nice because I was feeling miserable. "Chocolate eclairs, they're nice," he said after some thought. Dad used to take me into the upstairs swimming pool cafe for a cup of bovril and a slice of hot buttered toast. Maybe, that's what I'll ask for. It's a long time since I've had Bovril.
Saturday 11 March 2017
Showing Prejudice
Yesterday, I did something that I'm not proud of. In fact I'm ashamed of myself today. I commented on social media. "That's nothing to be ashamed of," you think, "we all do it," but I assumed things I couldn't possibly know and was mean about a human being with a certainty he didn't deserve.
I am talking about the clip of the expert on the BBC where his children wander in. It is so delightful to watch that it has more viral infection power than pandas going down a slide and who didn't love them? I have probably watched the clip 127 times now and feel guilty for being so mean and prejudiced.
When I first saw it I couldn't understand why people thought it was so funny. (Actually, I now find it sad rather than funny)). At first I saw a cold man bat away his small child with the back of his hand and a young, terrified woman drag the children out of the room. My prejudice kicked in and I assumed that the woman was a Nanny (because she seemed much younger than him). I assumed that the push with the back of the hand was a repressed slap and I commented on him, personally. I said that he was a horrible person who would be beating his children and sacking the Nanny later. Social media allowed my to make my initial comment in a way I never would to his face. It might not be quite as bad as people who make death threats to celebrities because they made a comment about Brexit but I am still thoroughly ashamed of myself this morning.
The truth is I know nothing about this man. He is a human being who was just trying to do his best, as we all are.
Having watched again I notice that there are several things my prejudice allowed me to miss.
1. He's on live TV.
2. He's using a webcam in his bedroom. Looking at a blank screen will always make you seem cold.
3. He has staged the room to look like an office. As someone who often has books on my bed I'm fairly certain they are never left neatly stacked and carefully chosen like that.
4. He's on live TV.
5. He's dressed up in a suit for an interview in his bedroom.
6. Because he's in a suit and has slicked his hair back for live TV he appears older.
7. His daughter is delightful, waving a spoon and not in the least bit scared of him.
8. He smiles, awkwardly as he pushes her away. There is panic but not anger in his eyes.
9. He is terrified.
10. He's on live TV.
11. The baby in the walker is cute and also not scared to go into the room.
12. The woman is nimble and quick and brilliant at not showing her face.
13. They are on live TV.
14. Even with her level of agility the woman may not be younger than him even if she isn't she could still be his wife.
15. Wives (and even dedicated Nannies) could rush to get the children off live TV. The fear could come from the situation and not what the man might do.
16. We've all run over a toddler with a baby in a walker and we've all grabbed a child a bit too roughly in times of stress.
17. He apologises a lot. Much more than a super confident child-beating man might.
18. He's on live TV.
19. The woman has super powers and can reach further than stretch-Armstrong (I realise I am showing my age).
20. He's an American academic in Asia, doing a live interview on his webcam from his bedroom, hoping to further his reputation. He probably has tens of thousands worth of dollars in student fee debt and is still apologising.
I would like to publicly apologise to him. I shouldn't have said he was a horrible man. I hope my comments and others like them don't affect his career prospects if he is really a great person just trying to do his best. I will delete my comment from social media and try not to make mean comments about people in future.
I am talking about the clip of the expert on the BBC where his children wander in. It is so delightful to watch that it has more viral infection power than pandas going down a slide and who didn't love them? I have probably watched the clip 127 times now and feel guilty for being so mean and prejudiced.
When I first saw it I couldn't understand why people thought it was so funny. (Actually, I now find it sad rather than funny)). At first I saw a cold man bat away his small child with the back of his hand and a young, terrified woman drag the children out of the room. My prejudice kicked in and I assumed that the woman was a Nanny (because she seemed much younger than him). I assumed that the push with the back of the hand was a repressed slap and I commented on him, personally. I said that he was a horrible person who would be beating his children and sacking the Nanny later. Social media allowed my to make my initial comment in a way I never would to his face. It might not be quite as bad as people who make death threats to celebrities because they made a comment about Brexit but I am still thoroughly ashamed of myself this morning.
The truth is I know nothing about this man. He is a human being who was just trying to do his best, as we all are.
Having watched again I notice that there are several things my prejudice allowed me to miss.
1. He's on live TV.
2. He's using a webcam in his bedroom. Looking at a blank screen will always make you seem cold.
3. He has staged the room to look like an office. As someone who often has books on my bed I'm fairly certain they are never left neatly stacked and carefully chosen like that.
4. He's on live TV.
5. He's dressed up in a suit for an interview in his bedroom.
6. Because he's in a suit and has slicked his hair back for live TV he appears older.
7. His daughter is delightful, waving a spoon and not in the least bit scared of him.
8. He smiles, awkwardly as he pushes her away. There is panic but not anger in his eyes.
9. He is terrified.
10. He's on live TV.
11. The baby in the walker is cute and also not scared to go into the room.
12. The woman is nimble and quick and brilliant at not showing her face.
13. They are on live TV.
14. Even with her level of agility the woman may not be younger than him even if she isn't she could still be his wife.
15. Wives (and even dedicated Nannies) could rush to get the children off live TV. The fear could come from the situation and not what the man might do.
16. We've all run over a toddler with a baby in a walker and we've all grabbed a child a bit too roughly in times of stress.
17. He apologises a lot. Much more than a super confident child-beating man might.
18. He's on live TV.
19. The woman has super powers and can reach further than stretch-Armstrong (I realise I am showing my age).
20. He's an American academic in Asia, doing a live interview on his webcam from his bedroom, hoping to further his reputation. He probably has tens of thousands worth of dollars in student fee debt and is still apologising.
I would like to publicly apologise to him. I shouldn't have said he was a horrible man. I hope my comments and others like them don't affect his career prospects if he is really a great person just trying to do his best. I will delete my comment from social media and try not to make mean comments about people in future.
Thursday 9 March 2017
Hysteria
Occasionally, people I know get disappointed. "I was sure you were going to blog about that," they frown. It happened this morning. There had been so much to write about yesterday that most of it stayed in my head. It was one of those days: everyone thought that our conversation was blogworthy. The colleagues queued up to tell me of their displeasure; re-told stories adding details they would be sad not to read about. Sometimes they embellished the tale just to make certain that I knew how entertaining a blog it would make. Of course, they were right and I really should have made an effort, describing each funny incident with the accuracy they deserved.
Funny things happen in schools all the time. The staffroom is a sitcom waiting to happen but not one of those terrible ones that try to make teachers seem cool and have amusing friendships or relationships with pupils, or those that are obviously written by people who had a bad time at school or have some axe to grind against their children's teachers. What the world needs is a sitcom that is just set in a staffroom, where children are almost incidental and it is the relationship between teachers that is interesting. Teachers often have a reputation of being a bit boring, mainly because they are always talking about their work, never switching off and quoting data, targets and acronyms at anyone who will listen. However, in the staffroom there are moments when the conversation moves to more amusing subjects. (Note to my headteacher: Don't panic! I'm not planning to write it......yet)
Silly hysterics can burst forth at any time. For example, the caretaker can come through to the staffroom wearing his rubber gloves, asking the male teacher if he has a moment. The women will burst into hysterical cackles as the men walk out together, the teacher with his hands clasped over his butt. When the teacher returns the women cry, "That was quick," and the teacher explains that it doesn't take long to look at the biggest poo, ever in the reception children's toilets.
Teachers of the menopausal variety often have wardrobe malfunctions. Remembering how to dress yourself and cope with all those acronyms never goes too well. Odd shoes, tights with holes in and yokes poking out of the back of dresses are quite normal. Particularly at times of stress. Yesterday I think I had all of these and when confessing that the yoke of my dress had been out all morning the conversation turned to the tags you get on tops and dresses to hang them up. "They always end up round your boobs," I said. That's when things started to get even sillier, as we wondered if that's what they were for. Some of us felt that we would need considerably more support and others noticed how long their straps were and thought that they weren't yet at the stage of needing to keep their breasts off their knees.
Ends of school days can feel very long. Sometimes, after the clubs have finished and children have gone home teachers gather in the staffroom to mark books, eat the remains of the cake or biscuits that miraculously appear most days and to wait to find out what new acronyms they have to learn.
During these waits the hysteria reaches fever pitch. The laughter becomes uncontrollable and teachers worry that the 'small lady', who isn't at all small might hear. While they wait they try to describe the lady and realise that they would be hopeless in describing a criminal to the police. They are all agreed on the green flower broach. The next day will still have hysteria but it will be the tired variety.
Wednesday 8 March 2017
Well, who is Mrs E Foreman?
Following yesterday's blog about how terrible some companies are about dealing with bereavement I thought it was time to name and shame. A friend, who is dealing with these things for a relative said that she is keeping a spreadsheet and rating companies on different aspects of their service, including the inappropriateness of their hold music. This is a spreadsheet I need in my life and was wondering if her experiences would match to ours. Maybe, if we all published our spreadsheets then the companies would develop compassion.
This blog is dedicated to the TV liscensing people.
In theory, this shouldn't have been a difficult one. I went online and updated the details via their website. Nothing had changed except removing one named person. I was relieved because I hadn't even had to speak to someone who couldn't say the word 'dead' or pronounce 'condolences '. Two days later my mum received a letter. Actually, she didn't. They sent a letter to Mrs E Foreman confirming the change of name.
Mum decided that a quick phone call would clear the matter up. A rude gum chewing lad told her that they didn't make mistakes and the conversation ended with some shouting. Mum being egged on by her friend in the kitchen telling her to, "Go girl, you let him have it!"
After calming down and checking that I didn't know Mrs Foreman, naming her as the widow as a bit of a joke she decided to try again the next day.
Again, she was met with a total refusal to accept that a mistake had been made. She explained everything and the person on the other end would say, "could you hold the line a minute while I look into that?" disappear for 5 minutes and then ask all the same questions again. This happened several times before he finally admitted defeat and passed her onto his supervisor. The Supervisor came on the phone.
"Hello, Mrs Foreman. How can I help you today?"
You or I would be banging our heads on the kitchen table by this point but mum remained calm and explained it all again.
"So, who is Mrs Foreman?" asked the supervisor.
"Well, I don't know, do I?" said Mum.
"Does anyone else live in the house?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Mum looked round for a bit and thought she might have resolved the problem.
"Well, there's the dog but I don't think she answers to the name of Mrs Foreman. Hold on. Let me try. 'Here Mrs Forman!'"
The dog looked quizzically at her.
"No, I'm sorry it's not the dog. Anyway her first name is Sam, so the E wouldn't fit."
"That's puzzling," replied the supervisor employing every one of her skills that she learnt on her 'how to speak to the bereaved' course.
She continued to ask questions that she had answered before. Things like how she paid for the licence and where and how she bought the very first one.
Mum pointed out that was over 50 years ago and that it really didn't matter anyway. They just needed to change the name and for their own purposes find out how such a stupid mistake could have happened.
They are going to look into it and call her back. If you know Mrs Foreman then maybe you could ring them and let them know, although I wonder if they received a note from the computer to change it and fed up with its silicone annonimity has decided to call itself Electronic Foreman.
This blog is dedicated to the TV liscensing people.
In theory, this shouldn't have been a difficult one. I went online and updated the details via their website. Nothing had changed except removing one named person. I was relieved because I hadn't even had to speak to someone who couldn't say the word 'dead' or pronounce 'condolences '. Two days later my mum received a letter. Actually, she didn't. They sent a letter to Mrs E Foreman confirming the change of name.
Mum decided that a quick phone call would clear the matter up. A rude gum chewing lad told her that they didn't make mistakes and the conversation ended with some shouting. Mum being egged on by her friend in the kitchen telling her to, "Go girl, you let him have it!"
After calming down and checking that I didn't know Mrs Foreman, naming her as the widow as a bit of a joke she decided to try again the next day.
Again, she was met with a total refusal to accept that a mistake had been made. She explained everything and the person on the other end would say, "could you hold the line a minute while I look into that?" disappear for 5 minutes and then ask all the same questions again. This happened several times before he finally admitted defeat and passed her onto his supervisor. The Supervisor came on the phone.
"Hello, Mrs Foreman. How can I help you today?"
You or I would be banging our heads on the kitchen table by this point but mum remained calm and explained it all again.
"So, who is Mrs Foreman?" asked the supervisor.
"Well, I don't know, do I?" said Mum.
"Does anyone else live in the house?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
Mum looked round for a bit and thought she might have resolved the problem.
"Well, there's the dog but I don't think she answers to the name of Mrs Foreman. Hold on. Let me try. 'Here Mrs Forman!'"
The dog looked quizzically at her.
"No, I'm sorry it's not the dog. Anyway her first name is Sam, so the E wouldn't fit."
"That's puzzling," replied the supervisor employing every one of her skills that she learnt on her 'how to speak to the bereaved' course.
She continued to ask questions that she had answered before. Things like how she paid for the licence and where and how she bought the very first one.
Mum pointed out that was over 50 years ago and that it really didn't matter anyway. They just needed to change the name and for their own purposes find out how such a stupid mistake could have happened.
They are going to look into it and call her back. If you know Mrs Foreman then maybe you could ring them and let them know, although I wonder if they received a note from the computer to change it and fed up with its silicone annonimity has decided to call itself Electronic Foreman.
Tuesday 7 March 2017
I need to speak to the account holder
Just over twenty six years ago I was sent home from work because during my lunch break I'd turned into a sobbing bowl of jelly. My father in law had died. I had been fine, that is sad but really fine, not perfectly fine, up until that point. His death was a shock and my mother-in-law, the Long Suffering Husband and his sister could barely function. The funeral arrangements were made, as if we were wading through treacle but it was all over in little more than a week and our jobs were to try to get on with life as best as we could. The LSH continued swimming through treacle, his sister couldn't look at him without crying because of the family resemblance and his mum's heart broke. I organised things. I spoke to the banks and utility companies, listened and made cake. It was one lunchtime, on the phone to someone like British Gas that tipped me over the edge.
"I'm ringing to let you know that my father in law has died."
"Oh, right."
I felt myself tensing up. This was the thirtieth such call I'd made in the last few lunchtimes and I was beginning to wonder if anyone working in any of these places had an ounce of humanity.
I explained that although the bill had been in his name my mother in law was still living in the property and so would like the title and first initial to be changed.
"I'm sorry, I can only speak to the account holder," said the gum chewing imbecile on the other end.
The conversation continued. I struggled to stay calm for a further five minuets, explaining carefully that I was just trying to find out if they needed me to send a death certificate to change the name but nothing else did. The twit continued to insist on speaking to the account holder.
"Good luck with that, then," I erupted. "Unless you've got some kind of special clairvoyant powers then you can't speak to him because he is dead, gone, passed away, deceased, no more, dead, dead, DEAD!" I admit that I was shouting and by now sobbing.
When my mother in law died, nine years later I thought things had improved slightly. There were bereavement officers to talk to, who seemed to at least understand the word 'died''.
It turns out that many companies are no better.
My mum, being brilliant and strong, has been trying to deal with much of this stuff herself and had had a bank's bereavement officer insist that they can only tell the account holder what direct debits were held (so she doesn't accidentally have her phone cut off). The TV licensing people have managed to change the name on the account to a completely different name. When mum rang them they insisted they were right and demanded to know who the person was. The conversation became quite heated with a refusal on their part to admit to a mistake.
I try to see things from the other point of view. I know these people have jobs to do. Probably not ones that they like very much but I wish they could do it with a bit more compassion.
Saturday 4 March 2017
Skiving
Being back at work after a bereavement is tricky.
The organising doesn't stop, you don't suddenly start eating properly or sleeping normally (whatever that looks like) just because you are back at work. You still have a lump in your throat, wish you didn't have to talk to anyone and find yourself staring off into space and losing all track of time.
Your colleagues don't know what to say to you and your day vacillates between feeling and wanting to be ignored.
When you work in a school you imagine it might be easier. Children just go on being how they are, you kid yourself that you'll just be able to put on your professional hat and get on with it. Unfortunately, with teaching comes an unrealistic expectation to be constantly brilliant and when you know that's not happening the guilt sets in. You know a couple of children aren't doing what you've asked them to but you just let them do nothing because, well, you have staring into space to do. You know that you could get a great performance out of a class if you got off your chair and leapt around the room a bit but you don't because leaping goes with sleeping. The level of general chatter is doing your head in and you know you should stop it but the lump in your throat seems to prevent you from saying anything.
The pressure to be in work, when you teach, is enormous. Teachers don't take time off, most save up sickness for the holidays. Caught between the guilt of a less than perfect lesson and leaving the classes without you the first one wins. There is also an unspoken expectation that you will be there.
If you live in the town you work and take time off then you can't risk being seen in case you are judged.
"Miss, where were you last week?"
I was caught off-guard. This wasn't a question I'd prepared myself for.
"Oh, err, I, errr, um."
"Because we were saying that you're never off sick. You come in even when you've lost your voice."
"Ha, ha, yes I do, don't I?"
"So?"
"I.....errr..... couldn't be here."
"Because I saw you. Coming out of the road at the top."
Another child suddenly became interested in the conversation.
"Were you sick."
"No, not really."
"Ummm. You were faking it." He turns round to the rest of the class to announce that I was just skiving last week. The class divides into two clear groups: those that thought I was cool and wanted to fist bump and the shocked, breath holding goody-goodies. I've never been in the cool group before.
"Hey Miss, have you got something in your eye?"
The organising doesn't stop, you don't suddenly start eating properly or sleeping normally (whatever that looks like) just because you are back at work. You still have a lump in your throat, wish you didn't have to talk to anyone and find yourself staring off into space and losing all track of time.
Your colleagues don't know what to say to you and your day vacillates between feeling and wanting to be ignored.
When you work in a school you imagine it might be easier. Children just go on being how they are, you kid yourself that you'll just be able to put on your professional hat and get on with it. Unfortunately, with teaching comes an unrealistic expectation to be constantly brilliant and when you know that's not happening the guilt sets in. You know a couple of children aren't doing what you've asked them to but you just let them do nothing because, well, you have staring into space to do. You know that you could get a great performance out of a class if you got off your chair and leapt around the room a bit but you don't because leaping goes with sleeping. The level of general chatter is doing your head in and you know you should stop it but the lump in your throat seems to prevent you from saying anything.
The pressure to be in work, when you teach, is enormous. Teachers don't take time off, most save up sickness for the holidays. Caught between the guilt of a less than perfect lesson and leaving the classes without you the first one wins. There is also an unspoken expectation that you will be there.
If you live in the town you work and take time off then you can't risk being seen in case you are judged.
"Miss, where were you last week?"
I was caught off-guard. This wasn't a question I'd prepared myself for.
"Oh, err, I, errr, um."
"Because we were saying that you're never off sick. You come in even when you've lost your voice."
"Ha, ha, yes I do, don't I?"
"So?"
"I.....errr..... couldn't be here."
"Because I saw you. Coming out of the road at the top."
Another child suddenly became interested in the conversation.
"Were you sick."
"No, not really."
"Ummm. You were faking it." He turns round to the rest of the class to announce that I was just skiving last week. The class divides into two clear groups: those that thought I was cool and wanted to fist bump and the shocked, breath holding goody-goodies. I've never been in the cool group before.
"Hey Miss, have you got something in your eye?"
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