On the 6th day of Cheesemas the government gave to me...

 I did warn you that it was going to be a big news day.  Did you keep up?  No.  Well that's fine because nor did the government.

On the 6th day of Cheesemas the government gave us a complete (*insert expletive of choice) comms disaster.  If you were confused before then that's nothing to how you feel now.  

The day started with our region declaring a National Disaster.  This meant that the hospitals are on the verge of collapse, ambulances are stacked up outside A&E, doctors are even closer to the edge of a breakdown than normal and the public health and council leaders need to ask the government for some proper help.  

Parliament sat all day.  They discussed and voted on the Brexit bill, which was passed 521 to 73.  It's unlikely that you had Parliament TV on in the background but if you did you would have seen Theresa May vote for a deal that was worse than her 'worst deal ever' and watch Boris Johnson get sycophantically praised for it. It's not often I feel sorry for a woman in an orange jacket. 

Then it was Matt Hancock's turn.  He was very excited about the vaccine and explained how we had decided to administer it, not as it was designed, with the second dose after three weeks but to wait 12 weeks, so that everyone could get their first jab. Everyone thought this was a brilliant idea because it's always best to take medicines as you want and not follow the instructions on the packet. 

If you were a teacher, preparing to go back to school and mix with 30 other households in a non-socially-distant way then you will have looked at the empty House of Commons with envy.  MPs were appearing via Zoom to praise or chastise the government.  If you don't watch Parliament TV then I don't recommend you start unless you have a very strong stomach.  If the fawning, toady lickspittles don't make you feel a little queezy then you are a stronger person than me.

Jeremy Hunt appeared on screen, looking relaxed and happy not to be in the cabinet anymore and the speaker told him off.  Apparently, he was inappropriately dressed.  Pyjamas, Christmas jumper, forgetting to put on a shirt (like Peston later on the ITV news)?  No, None of these.  He just wasn't wearing a tie.  It is important, if you are a man in politics to never forget to hang a phallic symbol around your neck to prove your virility.

An MP asked about schools and Matt laughed and said that Gav would tell us about it later and that he didn't want to 'steal his thunder'. Gavin Williamson: the Thor of politics.

Another MP asked about the military help for schools with testing and pointed out that when you worked out the numbers each senior school would get less than half a soldier each.  As it's the 6th day of Cheesemas I might have a dippy egg with grilled cheese topped soldiers for breakfast.  Less than half a soldier each isn't enough for anyone.  

I was beginning to feel so confused that I was looking forward to Boris at 5, where he could translate it all into helpful metaphors for me.  Even if he chucked a bit of Latin in it would have been clearer, I thought.

Most of the country was watching How to Train Your Dragon, which seemed like it could be an instruction documentary for times to come.  

Then Gav (as we teachers like to call him) bumbled up.  His thunder still firmly in the seat of his pants, he explained, even less clearly that primary schools were a unique environment.  Household mixing absolutely had to be avoided at all costs and senior schools would have a staggered start so that they could ask children who can't stick a worksheet in properly to administer their own tests, which would make everything completely safe. Testing will begin in Ernest.  Schools without an Ernest will have to wait. Primary children find it impossible to stick things up their noses and so can't administer their own tests, leading Gav to conclude that they must, obviously, be safe environments. 

He set out a confusing timetable of events, which seemed to be a staggered start with primary schools returning on 4th  Jan, Exam pupils on the 11th of Jan and everyone back on the 18th of Jan.  Then he whispered that there would be some areas where schools wouldn't open at all, except as they had done in the first lockdown.  It's not a lockdown.  It's tier four plus. He said that the list of places where schools wouldn't open would be on the government website later but how much later he couldn't say. He told University students to go back but not go back.

MPs appeared on the little telly screen to cross question and they were furious.  Even those who just praised teachers, to have something to say without criticising the government were furious.  

Journalists, headteachers and parents were scrabbling around trying to get a copy of the list. Eventually, a few journalists had an unofficial copy and most of Essex was in the area not going back.  Headteachers were still unaware. 

Even when the full list was published, Redbridge, which has one of the highest rates in the country was accidentally left off.  

Boris interrupted how to train your dragon and spoke to the nation.

"When you err can you vaccine," he said clearly, reassuring the nation that he was most definitely on top of things.

"I say again, schools are safe." 

My friend's WhatApps went into gif overdrive.

"We are going to leave the tunnel behind."

Unintended consequence of Brexit, I wonder?

"Covid loves a crowd."

But not a crowd of 30, which would be a primary school class and schools are safe.

My daughter had spent the afternoon swearing, not entirely sure if the copy she was editing was entirely accurate.  The government press release was confusing, to say the least. "A timeline.  A timeline would have been useful," she shouted at the Press release.

The dog was furious.  This is what he had to say on the subject.

I'm just staggered that a government, with so many communicators in it can be quite so inept at communicating.  You would think that after this year nothing would surprise me but it did.

While parents wait to find out how schools will respond to these challenges the Prime Minister's chief PR person  is showing us pictures of his son, to prove that genius springs from his loins.

I'm off to eat my half a cheese topped soldier and check how many people with questionable morals called Ernest have been given honours in the New Year list.

5 Golden Cheeses

 I’m not sure if full moon insomnia is a real thing or just a personal phenomenon. On full moon nights I rarely get past 2am. I have a rule, though, that I’m not allowed to get out of bed before 5 and play the game of fooling my fitbit that I’m asleep by lying very still.

Last night was a full moon. A big waxy ball of cheese in the sky. It seemed to be saying, “You’ve still got me to eat.” I broke my own rule and got up to look at it, although I clearly wasn’t quite as awake as I thought I was. I didn’t have my glasses on and at such a distance  was seeing double. No. Not double. More. I could see five golden cheeses. Perfect for the 5th day of Cheesemas.

It’s going to be another big news day, so seeing five big rounds of cheese in the sky might be the best thing you’ll hear about today.

4th day of Cheesemas

 I know. You are getting fed up of cheese now.

“Can’t I eat something else?” you cry.

The kids are beginning to fight. No one wants to play board games anymore and when you suggest a walk you get the look that makes you feel like the worst parent in the world - and that’s just from the dog.

This, however, is not the day for quitters. The kids won’t be back at school for seven days.

Oh wait.

Gove is on the radio.

Phew!

Back to school as normal. Seven days. You can do this. No. You can’t catch coronavirus in schools. Don’t be silly. Look, there’s a bus!

Yes, children will be back at school as normal. Staggering in. Oh and test them first.

We hope to get children back to school as soon as it is possible.

People are looking at the heat maps and noticing that the change and spread started in September. What happened in September? #CloseSchools trends on Twitter. 

Gavin Williamson is busy texting his buddies to decide what to do. He’s worried that he will have to sue himself if he orders schools to go to remote learning.

Only exam students and Primary schools to go back. We all know that small children never spread disease. Never in the history of all mankind has a child ever wiped its snotty nose on a teacher’s arm or coughed in their face. And you definitely can’t get ill if you are taking exams.

Healthcare staff are beginning to explain how desperate the situation is in hospitals. No one yet has managed to successfully tell the government that a faster spread is more of a problem for the health service than the deadliness of the disease. In the last year they haven’t suddenly magicked up more doctors, nurses or other resources. In fact, with so many having to self isolate it might have made the problem worse. There are now more people in hospital with Covid than there were at the height of the lockdown but hey ho, schools are safe.

Whatever happens, with the cases being so high in this area, this is undoubtedly going to be the most difficult term so far. Kids and teachers will have to self isolate more often than is healthy. Some children will never forgive themselves for killing granny or their maths teacher. Schools will struggle to run as staff get sick.  

So, like I said. This is no time for quitting. Get that cheese out, have a nice glass of wine or six and wait for the government to decide to, again, do too much, too little, too late.

I mark the 4th day of Cheesemas with a long brisk walk (on my own if the look everyone gave me yesterday is anything to go by) followed by a mixed cheese toasted sandwich, while I plan my most flexible lessons possible for next term.

You might predict a riot but I propose a toastie.

The 3rd day of Cheesemas

It doesn’t take a lot of good living to feel a bit gouty. 

I’ve woken up this morning feeling not quite myself. Bloated and grumpy, with a furry tongue and a fuzzy head.  I checked Twitter and the trending subjects were #deathto2020 #snow and #Julia. 

It’s never going to help if your name is trending. 

I looked out of the window.

“Hurumph! The snow must be in Birmingham or somewhere. We don’t even get the good hashtags!”

The Long Suffering Husband pulled the duvet over his head. Wise man. 

I watched Charlie Brooker’s Death to 2020 yesterday. It’s like a more depressing version of his Wipe, covering the UK and America. It’s genius but has probably contributed to my gouty mood.

My grandad got gouty just after Christmas. He loved life and would be great at the Christmas party, drinking my dad under the table and fiddling the Monopoly game in a way that got my uncle accused of cheating by my stickler neighbour. He caught me noticing what he had done and smiled, eyes twinkling and showing his bad teeth before switching to a deadly serious look and pressing the lump of yellow Araldite that fixed his glasses together. Sliding his spectacles back up his nose became an unwritten sign of secrecy between us. I thought he was old but he must have been in his early fifties. 

A few days later we got a phone call. Mum looked worried and we all bundled into the car to make the journey that was just long enough to require a stop for me to be sick. (I’ve never travelled well). We stopped at a lay-by next to the heathland that is probably office blocks and flats now and mum bought some roadside flowers to cheer my Nan up.

When we arrived my Nan came to the door.

“He’s very grumpy,” she told my mum. “It’s very painful but the doctor said that it’s entirely self-inflicted. Too much good living.” With that she gave her trademark sniff that we all laughed at and turned on her heel. 

Grandad was sitting in the middle of the room in his favourite comfy chair. The fire was blazing and the room was so hot it was difficult to breathe. Grandad had one leg propped up on a kitchen chair and his foot was bandaged up. 

“Gout!” He declared. “Don’t touch. Keep the kids out!” 

This was a shock. The first time he hadn’t been thrilled to see us. 

So, on the third day of Cheesemas, in an attempt to feel more heathy I’m going to make a spinach soup and crumble the blue cheese into it.

On the second day of Cheesemas

 It’s the second day of Cheesemas. This is the day where you start to lose track of time and the only effective way to mark the days is to notice how much cheese is left in the fridge. 

In my yoga workout this morning, Adrienne randomly said, “Life is good and so is food.”

Yesterday, on the first day of cheesemas (also known as books-in day) I sprinkled a little grated cheddar on my bubble and squeak, tucked into the cheeseboard at lunch after a Turkey sandwich and cheese balls and then continued to eat cheese, reading books until it was time to roll off the sofa and go to bed. We watched Soul together as a family and thought it was a bit depressing.

On the second day of cheesemas there is still an unbelievable amount of cheese in the fridge, despite the amount eaten it looks like a very tiny mouse has nibbled at the corner of each. This is not the time to give up. Your cheese stomach is not yet full, you don’t have to start hiding it in other dishes.

In other news. On the second day of cheesemas Priti Patel announced that the first law post Brexit that we are going to make that the EU said we couldn’t is to bring back the death penalty and 210 people were recorded as having died from Covid on Christmas Day. That’s Christmas Day! I don’t want to bring the mood down but what is wrong with this country?

Sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. Back to the cheese and books. There is, after all, only ten more days until the cheese is all gone and we head back to school, where you definitely can’t catch Covid.

The second day of cheesemas will have to include a long walk and an attempt at a more positive attitude.

Happy Books-in day

 This unusual Christmas seems to have been quite good for a lot of people. 

Young couples stayed at home and enjoyed each other’s company, there was no travelling all over the country to see relatives that you only see at weddings, funerals and Christmas. Parents spent time with their children. Those who were alone formed a social media band and shared pictures of what they were doing all day and felt less alone than they normally would have.

There were obviously more rotten supermarket turkeys than usual, as social distancing had caused the birds to be out of the chillers for longer than they should have been but people coped.

I had a fabulous time. We had a perfect dinner (I didn’t burn anything), presents were perfect all round and our little family could be all together. 

I love Christmas. I love everything about it: the magic, the excitement, the cold crisp weather, bringing plants indoors, twinkly lights, chocolate for breakfast, bubble and squeak the next day, Turkey sandwiches for a week, cracker jokes, arguing over a board game, the twelve days of cheesemas and most especially, books-in day. 

Stay in, protect the NHS, read books. Perfect.

I was very lucky with my book presents this year. The only question is, where to start?

I hope you all got loads of books and are going to have a brilliant books-in day too.

Christmas

 I love Christmas.

The end.

Prosper Mightily

 Well, yesterday was a big news day. Despite being in the kitchen it was still impossible to miss. 

Matt Hancock put more of the country into tier 4 from Boxing Day and warned that the virus has been to South Africa, where it had a great time, sent a postcard and came home and is now feeling stronger than ever. So we have two fast spreading mutant strains and one of the South African cases has been found in Braintree. Matt has properly lost the plot and giggled inappropriately when talking about the people that have died. The poor man has been on a very steep learning curve, is probably on the verge of a breakdown and sits down like Woody from Toy Story. I know it’s not a popular opinion but he probably does deserve an OBE or something because he has at least tried to listen and learn. This can’t have been the job he signed up to.

Matt Hancock or Woody?

He brought Jenny Harries on with him and they both spectacularly failed to understand teacher’s concerns. The idea that 300 children in school is safer because teachers can tell them how to behave is laughable. Just having that many people together in a building presents a risk we aren’t prepared to take in any other part of society. The issue with having children out of school is that it further widens the gap and there aren’t enough teachers to provide good quality online learning, while still providing in person education for the vulnerable. 

People were shocked but relieved that at least they didn’t have to change their plans for Christmas Day. 

While this was going on, Brexit talks were ongoing. Robert Peston saw pepperoni pizza being delivered and concluded that they were celebrating. Laura Kuenssburg was more cautious and Sky news have been late to every announcement since Kay Burleigh’s birthday party. Eventually, Peston nearly exploded with excitement as he announced that a deal had been done. Free trade would continue.

Details are to be announced this morning at an 8am press conference but none of us care enough to watch that on Christmas Eve. Boris will act like Santa and pretend he is delivering the Christmas present we all want and say stupid things like, “Britain will prosper mightily.” However, you can guarantee that this deal won’t make everyone happy and that there are still people sitting in rooms shouting, “What about John Dory, it’s not just cod, you know?” I’m not holding my breath until all 27 countries and our Parliament have agreed to it.

In the meantime, it took the Sikh community to calm the lorry drivers stuck in Kent down. They fed them curry. You’ve got to love Sikhism, it’s such a peaceful community based religion.

Most of us don’t care about all this news. We’re not particularly bothered about prospering mightily. We just want things to go back to normal, have enough money to live and do the things we like and for the health service to be there when we need it.

Happy Christmas Eve Eve

 Today was always one of my favourite days of the year. 

For us children it was a day of freedom and choice. Both parents were busy and we could choose to help or keep out of the way.

Keeping out of the way involved watching Shirley Temple films or reading books. Sometimes we would get out a puzzle book or just double check our televisual choices over the next two weeks that we had circled in the Radio Times. The main Christmas food shop had already been done and so the tray with nuts that you had to crack yourself and the box of ‘eat me’ dates were on the side. The Quality Street tin called to us, while we ignored the satsumas shouting, “You could eat me, I’d be more healthy.”

Mum was busy in the kitchen. There were mince pies, sausage rolls and the Yule log to make. Christmas cake decoration was accompanied by a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and enthusiastic but poorly pitched carols. The preparations to feed up to 20 people during the day (and more in the evening when the neighbours joined us for a party that usually ended with a Monopoly argument) were endless. If we wanted then we were allowed to help in small, limited ways, for example sprout peeling. Generally though, I think I avoided mum during these preparations. She probably preferred not to be bothered by us. She wasn’t stressed on this day, though. It was the day she liked.

If I was going to help then I would become Dad’s right hand woman. His jobs were to go to the supermarket for the booze and to pick up the Turkey. If you think queues are long at the moment then you’ve forgotten what Christmas was like before online shopping. Dad and I would laugh at the people fighting over the last pack of streaky bacon. His calm, happy approach always stays with me on these occasions. I pushed the trolley while he filled it to the brim with alcohol and mixers. 

“A  couple of party sevens, Old Bob, Abbot ale, a bottle of gin for Nan, Whiskey for Uncle F, better get a few bottles of the Harvey’s Bristol Cream for your mum.Cointreau? Do you know what mum wanted Cointreau for?”

“The pudding I think?”

“Oh right. It’s better than wasting the brandy I suppose. That reminds me. Babycham. And those little bottles of snowballs.”

“Paul next door makes his snowballs with advocaat, they’re delicious,” I remind him, so he gets both. 

It seems odd now but in the Seventies in our house babycham and snowballs were considered to be children’s drinks. Adults could improve them by adding proper alcohol. Brandy and babycham was a particular favourite. 

Then we would spend a long time choosing the wine. 

“If you can’t afford the most expensive, you might as well buy the cheapest. That’s what Monsieur Cadeaux told us last year.”

Our holiday in a gîte had been a revelation for dad’s alcohol knowledge. Somehow, after my sister had a nosebleed and ruined a pillow and my dad had tried to explain in very broken French, he and the farmer spent quite a lot of time together, drinking. The wine and Calvados he had brought back hadn’t lasted long enough though. 

In the end he didn’t go for the cheapest. It was Christmas, after all.

In the mammoth queue that snaked down the cleaning product aisle, upsetting anyone who had left the major clean too late, we practised our Christmas cracker joke telling skills, played word games and watched people. 

The car, fully loaded and clanking when it turned the corners felt much slower and heavier than it had before. 

“Phew! That was hard work. It gets busier every year,” dad said, justifying the need to stop at the pub for a quick pint. I sat in the car and he brought me a coke with a straw and a bag of ready salted. 

Then it was on to the farm to collect the turkey. We drove down the track, bottles clinking with every bump and dip. Only a few weeks before the yard had been filled with live noisy birds, chattering about the weather and the silence was deafening. 

“Don’t think about it,” he told me, noticing the ashen look settling on my face.

When we got home the booze was unloaded into the garage before we noticed that my uncle had dropped off a surprise gift. 

“It’s a pheasant. Apparently he shot it and wants me to cook it for Christmas dinner. It’s still got feathers!”

These memories make me happy. Even the memory of my uncle saying, “I shot that,” ever time you lifted a bit of meet to your mouth,” with dad countering with, “I grew that,” with every vegetable eaten, is funny and makes me smile.

I wonder what kind of memories people will have from this Christmas. No one will be cooking for 20 or having the kind of party where people spill out onto the street to test their drunkenness by walking the white line in the centre of the road. But as memories from different years blend together one small Christmas is unlikely to stand out.

I expect that many of you will, like me, still be having a happy Christmas Eve Eve. I’m off to collect my Turkey before making mince pies, decorating my Christmas cake and still making enough food for 20.

All I want for Christmas

I don’t want a lot for Christmas. There’s just one thing that I need. I don’t care about the presents. Underneath the Christmas tree. I just want you for my own. More than you could ever know. Make my wish come true. All I want for Christmas is....

My Emily’s case notes from Broadmoor.

I know! She’s not my Emily. She lived in 1882, murdered her child and has absolutely nothing to do with me but she’s keeping me awake at night. Her aunt chats to me about it, her mother sobs as she dictates a letter to her daughter. Her grandfather writes another bawdy song and gallops past, letting me know that everyone thought the horse was ‘bow-wow mutton’ until he got his hands on it. 

This is totally normal behaviour, right? There’s nothing to worry about here. 

Although I’m having a great time I am beginning to wonder if this fantasy life/ historical research might be a little on the odd side.

I was out walking when I took a call from a friend who was having to self isolate.

“Are you out?” she asked, jealousy dripping off her tongue.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Shouldn’t rub it in.”

“Where are you?” she said, hoping to live vicariously.

“The cemetery.”

“Oh, er, um” 

There was an awkward moment. 

“Oh no. I love it. It’s my favourite place. I’m wandering round and finding all the people that were alive in 1882 and I try to imagine what they thought about Emily.”

“Oh, right,” she said, “That’s perfectly normal” 

You could tell she was glad she had to be stuck in doors and didn’t have to mix in society with nutters who wandered the grave yard talking to ghosts about murderers. 

I told her that I’d found out that Emily had been sent to Broadmoor and that her records were in the Berkshire records office and that I was hoping to get copies before Christmas.

“You don’t want a lot for Christmas then.” she asked.

“No. You’re right. I don’t want a lot for Christmas, all I want is Boroadmoor case notes.”

I’m sure I heard my friend mutter. “Hmmm, totally normal!” Under her breath before humming the Mariah Carey song

The good news is that I’m going to get my wish. The notes are on their way. The transcribed part is already in an email and so I’m off to research the difference between a bonnet and a hat.

Too fast

 For those of us that find it difficult to make decisions (including Boris Johnson) the world is moving too fast. I have some sympathy with the Prime Minister; I know what it’s like to find decision making hard. 

If you are, like me and Boris, a natural procrastinator then it might be because there are too many options. How do you know if the thing you didn’t choose would be better?

Being of a similar mindset I was very sympathetic when he made his decision about backing Brexit by writing two articles. It’s exactly what I’d have done if it was my decision to make. 

People like us prefer decisions to be made for them (probably not a trait you want in a Prime Minister). We pretend that we are just easy going but really we are just vacillating between the options.

“Shall we have a take away?”

“Oh yes, we could, or I could cook. I don’t mind. What do you think?”

“You don’t want to cook do you?”

“Well no. I don’t suppose I do. Take away it is then.”

“What shall we have? Indian? Chinese? Turkish? Fish n Chips? Pizza?”

“Indian. No Chinese. Oh but that pizza is so good. You can’t go wrong with Fish n Chips, well you can, sometimes it’s awful. Turkish is nice but such big portions. Curry? Didn’t we have a curry last week? Pizza? So many choices. What do you fancy?”

“Well, I was thinking Chinese.....”

Interrupts, “Chinese it is then.”

“But Chinese makes me thirsty. I never sleep well when we’ve had Chinese.”

“Oh. What do you want then?”

“I don’t mind. You choose.”

Now, you are still left with four options. How do you choose? 

Half an hour later, the chip shop has closed and everyone is cross with you because you haven’t decided and they are hungry. Then someone mentions that the Mexican in town is now doing take away and the decision gets even harder. Life was so much more simple when it was Fish n chips or a curry. 

This kind of approach to decision making, where you wait for long enough for someone else to make the decision or for the other options to run our probably isn’t good enough for a pandemic, or Brexit but here we are. 

France have closed its borders and put us in quarantine (it’s almost like Countries in the EU had independent control over their borders, who knew?). Lorries are blocking most of Kent  which has one of the highest Coronavirus rates in the country. There’s  10 days to go until we leave the EU without a deal. Whatever you think about Brexit then you have to be cross at the wasted opportunity. The virus is out of control enough for other countries to be panicking. Our reputation is ruined. Every day there has been a new major shift and it’s impossible to keep up. 

Each decision not made spirals the country further out of control.

Stop it Julia! You are just being over dramatic. If you make decisions in this fatalistic way then you can’t stress about controlling the outcome. You just have to think that whatever happens, it will be. Stop looking at the big picture and just put one foot in front of the other. Look at the small things and breathe.

Here’s a soothing rainbow of berries that ended up in my pocket after yesterday’s walk.

PANIC!

I really wanted to write something positive today.  I've started this blog so many times.  I've changed the title and gone around in circles trying to find something nice, or funny to say but it's impossible.  

Last night, before Strictly, the Prime Minister came onto the TV, late, as usual (so little respect) to tell us that the promised Christmas mixing he said it would be inhumane to cancel had now been cancelled.  He put the whole of London, Hertfordshire and most of Essex into a new higher tier.  Tier 4 means that non essential shops, hairdressers and indoor sports facilities must close.  You also are not allowed to travel between a tier 4 and a lower tiered area, which is interesting for people living in Grange Road, Kelvedon because there is a small section that isn't controlled by Colchester borough council and therefore in tier 4, while the neighbours are in tier 2. Christmas day mixing can continue but only for the places not in tier 4.  Support bubbles can continue but only for the elderly (I think I might have misheard that one) and none of us are allowed to celebrate my dog’s birthday on the 31st of January (I didn’t mishear that). Chris Whitty, rudely, told everyone to unpack their bags. 

Only three days before they had put London and most of Essex into the top tier (3) and told everyone it was safe to go and buy the big turkey. They already knew that the virus was spreading more rapidly than they'd like, that the new strain had earned itself a gold star by being very effective at spreading through humans and that was why they thought tier 3 would do it.  I can't be the only person that thinks 3 days isn't long enough to see if it worked.  

This feels like government by panic, which is the scariest thing.  

The panic spread.  People left London in droves, trains were packed, retail park shopping centres gridlocked, hairdressers stayed open until midnight.  

Everything this government does makes it worse.

The numbers are scary. Basildon's case rate went from 514 (per 100000) to 865 in a week.   This virus is not (and I would argue never has been) under control.  We left the first lockdown while there were still a lot of cases out there.  By allowing to the virus to keep spreading through people we gave it the chance to change.  

The tiered approach doesn't seem to work.  The restrictions that Leicester has been living with since 30th of June has made little to no difference to the spread of the virus.  Leicester Mercury published a helpful timeline of events, which starts on June 1st, when schools reopened for year one and six.  Everyone knows that it's a school spread virus but it's politically damaging to have children out of school.  

Yesterday was a difficult day.  Although nothing has changed for me, it was thinking about all the people who will now be struggling that caused me grief.  My empathy chip kicked in and I just felt sad and angry,  I'm in the suddenly enviable position of having two dead parents, children already at home (one buying a house and the other at Uni, so tested before he came back) and a sister who lives alone.  My Christmas will be the same.  I've nearly finished my Christmas shopping and only have two things to buy, which were going to come from a pet shop and garden centre, which as we all know are essential shops.

Today will be better.  As people come to terms with the announcement and work out how much of the law they are prepared to break they will feel sad that they ate all of the Christmas chocolates last night or be red around the eyes from the tears they shed over the winner of Strictly or be nursing a sore head from cracking open the sloe gin. They will start to make jokes about how many tiers there can be and develop new plans because even though our government is panic stricken, we can be better.

Sleepless Bird

 For the last week or so, we’ve noticed a bird that sings late into the night. It’s still singing when we go to bed. 

“Maybe it’s a blackbird?” we thought. Remembering the Beatles’ song.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these lonely wings and learn to fly. You were only waiting for this moment to arrive.”

Then I remembered that it wasn’t a real blackbird but a protest song. 

I googled blackbird song and it didn’t sound quite right. 

Last night, I had one of those panicky nights where sleep only comes in 20 minute bursts and you have to throw the window open and breathe. The bird was singing all night. 

Standing in the garden at 4am I listened carefully. It was a robin. 

“Why do robins sing in December? Long before the spring time is due?” 

I searched my song bank of knowledge for the answer. 

“I know why and so do you.” 

Well, that’s not very helpful is it?

I think it’s because they sing all year and there are less birds around, so that we notice the little native robin. They are also bold and not afraid to sit on your garden fork to grab the first freshly turned worm, so you know it’s their song.

However, there were no songs to explain why they are singing all night. Google helped. Robins, apparently, are used to hunting in low light conditions, which is why they can live in England through the winter with its long dark evenings. 

“It’s all the Christmas lights!” I shouted at the Long Suffering Husband when he first woke up. “The lights are keeping the robin up all night. She’s having to hunt all night. She must be exhausted. As if 2020 isn’t bad enough. Sleepless birds.”

I know what it’s like to be a sleepless bird.

I must refill the bird feeders.

Last day of term

 There’s nothing quite like the excitement of the last day of term before Christmas. Teachers have usually reached the exhausted manic stage, where they sit in the staffroom at the end of the day, giggle, tell rude jokes, use all the swear words they’ve been holding in all term and throw chocolates at each other.

“Here have a teeny tiny Bounty.”

“Oh, I was hoping you were going to offer me your finger of fudge.”

The kids have been whipped up to super excited levels and are ready for an afternoon of film watching and colouring, in preparation for the days of endless visits and kisses from Aunties they rarely see. 

Not this year though.

This year children are staying in their bubbles. Teachers are terrified to share chocolate in case it ruins their Christmas. Many schools will be closed or class bubbles self isolating. 

There’ll be no getting together in the hall for a silly Christmas sing-a-long, where kids hope to be sitting in the row that lets them belt out, “Five gold rings.” 

There are so many things that this virus has ruined but the last day of term is one I find myself unaccountably sad about.

Instead of all those lovely things, I am going to have to content myself with posting the song on the school Facebook page and a virtual staff meeting. 

Word Nerds

 Writers can spend hours agonising over the right word and the pleasure they get from finding the perfect phrase is nothing short of orgasmic.  The little wins over finding one little word can keep you on a high for days.  You walk around the house muttering the phrase over and over, chuckling and congratulating yourself on your genius.

If you are a word nerd yourself, or live with one then you can spot the signs.  There's a particular look in the eyes and a self-congratulatory smirk around the corners of the mouth.  

If you watch the press briefings then you frequently see this look on Boris Johnson.  He is, after all, a writer before he's a politician.  A bloody good writer too, which probably isn't something you can say about his political skills.  

"We need to hold our nerve....we're in a race towards the Great Global Festival.....we need to take personal responsibility......the overall situation is alas.......Think hard and in detail about the days ahead......A smaller Christmas is a safer Christmas.....Have yourself a Merry little Christmas."

The smirks popped out all over the place.  The GGF is fabulous, even I'm smirking and it never hurts to link to a song. Song writers are the biggest word nerds and have already done the work for you.  

Word nerds aren't new.  This pleasure is even mentioned in the Bible. Proverbs 15:23-26 tells us how pleased God is with our ability to find clever words.  

"What joy it is to find just the right word for the right occasion! Wise people walk the road that leads upwards to life, not the road that leads downwards to death.  The LORD will destroy the homes of arrogant men, but he will protect a widow's property.  The LORD hates evil thoughts, but he is pleased with friendly words."

The arrogant men have also found friendly words.

When I was at Uni I spent my holidays temping in London.  I could work a switchboard, type and had a good telephone voice, so I mostly worked on reception in big city banks and  for foreign market traders.  It paid really well and gave me the opportunity to observe lots of different people.  Champagne quaffing yuppies in red stripped shirts and braces slid across the carpet in front of me on their shiny shoes bragging about their Porsche, while the tea lady in floral pinny stopped for a chat to tell me about how her part of London wasn't the same any more.  In my final year I tried to get placed in offices that were doing the kind of work I might be interested in doing with a psychology degree.  I was particularly interested in advertising/marketing at the time and so was thrilled when a week's temp cover came up at a creative agency in Chancery Lane.  

The people were very different to those I had come across just a few steps east.  Instead of talking about money, deals and getting the receptionist to cover for them with their wives when they were in a hotel with a girl they were obsessed with words.  They still cheated on their wives but the light in their eyes over one word or phrase that could change the mind of the population bordered on madness.  

If you believe in signs then you would have came to the same conclusion that I did that this wasn't the industry for me.  Everything went wrong.  A big clock fell off the wall behind me, the fluorescent light above me exploded, there were several bomb alerts, a courier collapsed and had to be taken to hospital at the desk in front of me.  The partner had forgotten to tell me that his wife was the only person that shouldn't be told that he was at the Savoy and so he got caught out, when his companion answered the phone in his room. breathless and sweaty.  I even got stuck in the lift. I ended the week feeling exhausted from all the word excitement and decided that I wasn't pretty enough to work in advertising.

Except getting out of the lift in a powercut

  

Whatever you think about the government's plan to allow people to socialise at Christmas if they want to but to ask them to think about whether it's a good idea for their own circumstances (and this might be unpopular but I think it's the right thing) you may have missed that word nerdery has rubbed off on Chris Whitty.  I suppose it was inevitable.  The pleasure of finding the right words is catching; a drug that's safe.

"We're tantalisingly close to where the vaccine will protect anyone who could get into trouble over Christmas.......Keep it small....Keep it short.....Keep it local....And think about the most vulnerable.....Just because you can doesn't mean you should......You can drive at 70 miles an hour but in icy and wet driving conditions on a winding country road...you wouldn't....We are in icy conditions."

Then came the look.  The smirk.  Corners of the mouth turned up.  The eyes flashed wild.  That's it.  He's hooked.  Boris has infected JVT and now Whitty.  Even Hancock is trying but he's just odd and can't quite pull it off.  

Personal Responsibility

 The last thing I want to write about now is Coronavirus.

“Stop thinking about it,” the Long Suffering Husband said, “there are other things than Covid.”

Obviously, for me, that’s impossible. Not thinking is like not breathing but he has a point because the whole thing is hurting my head. 

Up until now,  I haven't really wanted to criticise the government.  It's been a tricky thing to manage and because it was so new, who really knew what was for the best? Except, now, it's not new, is it? There has been plenty of time to collect data that allows for proper management.  Test and Trace should have it's finger firmly on the pulse of how it is being caught and the places and circumstances in which it is spreading.  The government should have had a plan across all departments and set out the priorities.

However, they are still lurching from crisis to crisis.  Yesterday, Matt Hancock made a panicky announcement that he was putting London, most of Essex and parts of Hertfordshire into tier 3, two days before the review of the tiers was to happen.  This is because cases are rising faster than they've ever risen in these areas.  He also told us that this is because our world beating research has discovered that the virus has mutated and that it is the new strain that has been discovered in many of the cases in this area.  

Tier 3 means that pubs, restaurants and theatres have to close and you can't exercise indoors with other people unless it's swimming on a Thursday with someone who is called Fred but everything else stays open.  You can still go to Lakeside and stand outside Costa with your plastic take away cups but you can't sit inside. Shopping centres will still be open but there will be less space in them because the rest stop places will be closed.  Pubs will have to pour more beer down the drain and restaurants that have spent phenomenal amounts of money trying to comply with regulations to make their premises covid secure (even though there's no such thing) have to shut. Schools, however, are being threatened with legal action by the Department of Education if they close their doors and go to remote learning.  This would all be fine if the data showed that the spread is only in pubs, restaurants and the Royal Albert Hall but if it does then they haven't shown it to us.  Most of us, who have had the illness or know someone who has are fairly certain that it is spread in schools and offices.

There is no suggestion that the Christmas week off is going to be cancelled.  The government have said to the virus, "Look mate, it's Christmas.  Take a few days off.  We understand that you couldn't for Eid or any of the Jewish celebrations that we don't understand but you can't go killing Christians at Christmas." Up to three strains of the virus can meet in one house and it will be fine.  

Instead, they have started talking about personal responsibility.

***&%***£*****$%£@~~~~***####**&%*%£

Sorry about that.

Personal responsibility!

Oh yes, because that's how this works.  

The whole point was that to defeat this virus, protect the NHS and save lives we needed to take a collective responsibility.  It wasn't enough to say, "Well, I'm young fit and healthy so I can continue to live my life as normal."  That way the virus spread through the population too quickly and the small proportion of people who needed hospitalisation or were sick enough to die, did so all at once, which overwhelmed our already fragile health services.  

Also, people aren't very good at personal responsibility.  Look at Dominic Cummings, Kay Burley and the mayor who climbed up a ladder to kiss his mistress.  Even with laws to encourage a collective responsibility people can't quite do the right thing.  

The other fact is that people are very bad at knowing if they fall into a vulnerable category. It's human nature to think that we are invincible, which is why you see eighty year olds who can barely breathe get off the bus.

I'm hoping this switch isn't just because they are too busy sitting in a room shouting about fish but is actually based on some proper empirical evidence.  

When our school closed because of several covid cases I wondered about my responsibility.  Although I hadn't been identified as a primary contact of any of those cases, I had been in the same building, shared the ladies toilet, and even talked to them at a distance, so when I woke up with the end of term stuffy nose I panicked.  Should I stay inside?  Should I get a test? What was the right thing to do?  I didn't feel ill and there was occasional sneezing.  That's not a symptom, right?  

What did I do?

I took personal responsibility and worked my way through a party tube of Twiglets.  

Can I still taste them?  Yes.  That's fine then I can walk the dog.  What about now?  Yep, great go to the post office.  Now? Fabulous, drop Christmas cards through letterboxes.  

"Have you eaten all those Twiglets?" the LSH asked.

"Not quite but I'm just testing to see if my blocked nose is Covid."

"You could just stick one up each nostril," he suggested helpfully. That’s the kind of personal responsibility I’d like to see the government take. I’m sure the Brexit negotiations couldn’t go any worse if Boris walked in with a Twiglet shoved up each nostril.

The Million Songs of Christmas

 Most people can choose their favourite Christmas film but to pick just one song is impossible. The best Christmas films have several songs in them too, which most people wouldn’t even consider when choosing their favourite song. I would choose a Muppet Christmas Carol, as my go to seasonal film. It’s funny (light the lamp and not the rat), is based on literature (if are not a snob and include Dickens), is set in the 1800s (my current obsession), has a good message and double the Marleys. It also has thirteen cracking songs. 

Spotify lists nearly one million songs and if you’ve ever worked in a school, you will have come across more that aren’t listed, like the classic, Camel Funk (yes, someone was having a laugh, keeping hardworking music teachers working on singing diction, so a hall full of four year olds don’t swear).

If someone asked you to pick one favourite Christmas song, could you do it?

That’s what I asked my colleagues to do. Just one, so that we could have a teacher’s daily favourite sing a long, while we are remote learning. I was impressed with the speed of the initial reply from most but then they followed up with second, third and fourth choices.

“No! Wait! But what about all the Christmas carols? I’m going to miss belting out the chorus of O Come All Ye Faithful in church this year.”

“This is so difficult. I had a brilliant playlist sorted for the last week.”

“It’s not Christmas without dancing around the classroom to Dominic the Donkey.”

“Or the hippo song.”

Christmas songs are the best and are made even better because you can only listen to them 

for a month. If you haven’t started on your Christmas song playlist then you’d better get on with it. There’s only 456 hours (if you don’t sleep) to listen to all one million songs.  Even if you are dedicated, you’ll only get through a third of them but If you are like me I know you’ll accept the challenge.

The Cleaning Delusion

Life out of control? Not sure if you are coming or going? Fighting an invisible enemy you don’t understand? Being led by people who don’t listen to you or let you make your own decisions? Then, why not clean? It will give you a feeling of control that you just don’t have.

It would have been the perfect ad for women throughout history.

However, I would like to extend the suggestion to all you men out there. The Long Suffering Husband has discovered that there’s nothing more therapeutic than cleaning the grout on the bathroom tiles when the golf courses are closed and a pandemic is raging.

If you are stuck at home, self-isolating then cleaning could be your saviour. It will also help you think that you are killing invisible green spiky blobs. 

If I was stuck on my homework (A level years were particularly tricky and I think I was probably a cow) my mum would suggest a walk or cleaning the bathroom. She always said that it was better if it was really dirty because then you could see the difference but even if it wasn’t then just shining the taps to see yourself looking back at you gave you perspective. She was not only wise but she got housework done by a grumpy teenager, so she could carry on with reading or painting without being interrupted.

I’ve taken my own advice this morning and cleaned the kitchen with a Christmas scented spray and I was feeling much calmer. 

It is a delusion though. As soon as your back is turned someone starts making your clean space messy or dirty again. You feel yourself twitching, as someone opens a cupboard door and the cereal falls out. You tut at the dog, who you forgot to train to wipe his paws after he’s been in the garden for a wee. 

Still, all you have to do is breathe and remember how great a feeling of control you can get by doing it all again.

Zero Get Ups

 You read the headline, “School closes early for Christmas due to COVID”,” and you think something. You might read the whole article or you might stop there because, factually, it’s told you everything you need to know and you can make up the rest. Even if you read all the article it won’t tell you the whole story because it will just be facts and a quote from the headteacher, if they have given one. It won’t tell you how the teachers feel about the situation.

I can’t tell you how all teachers would feel because, guess what? Teachers are individuals with their own thoughts but I will share how I feel.

If I’m honest, my initial emotion was relief. With a couple of positive cases in school there was an atmosphere amongst staff that it was only a matter of time. Whilst I’m not particularly frightened of catching COVID the rules are that if you have symptoms then you have to isolate. Symptoms are those that are very common at this time of year and school was having to run with staffing levels that were about to not meet health and safety, complicated by the fact that staff couldn’t cross bubbles.

After relief, came a feeling of gratitude. I was grateful that my headteacher with public health and the county council had been brave enough to make the right decision and save Christmas. The threat of self isolating over Christmas was weighing heavily on many people’s minds. Even if you were only planning to stay in one family household, a turkey dinner would be a bit pants without the post-dinner walk.

Then I started to feel sad. 

Christmas week is my favourite time in school.  Children are excited. They perform a Christmas show, put glitter everywhere, watch a Christmas film, get to do their Christmas booklets (full of accidental learning: pencil technique, maths and word problems), sing Christmas carols and have a school Christmas dinner (Brussel sprouts for the adults only). There’s nothing like the wonder of Christmas through a child’s eyes to make you feel festive. 

It wasn’t just sadness. It felt like heartbreak. Am I grieving for all the children who won’t get their usual run up to Christmas? Probably.

The seven stages of grief are about to kick in. 

But there isn’t time for that because we have to (and want to) provide online learning. We will be making videos, posting suggestions of Christmas activities that children can do at home, without disturbing their parents work too much. We will be calling children who might struggle. We will deliver free school meal vouchers and festive hampers and we will feel guilty about not being in school, while we are doing all of this.

My colleague counts down the ‘get ups’ in the run up to Christmas. Usually, we are all exhausted ticking them off until we can have a lie in. This year, going from 7 get ups to zero, has made my eyes leak.

But I refuse to be cross or upset for any longer than necessary, so I will be playing the school Christmas Carol CD and putting my tree up today. Later on I will be hosting my orchestra Christmas party/quiz via Zoom and eating enough party food for everyone and look forward to times when life won’t be like this. 

Balancing

Are you feeling the same as me? There’s a sense that we are all balancing on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon. We’ve made it most of the way and we can see the other side. Someone has put the Christmas tree up on the side we are heading to, the sprouts are on the boil and the pigs are firmly wrapped in their blankets. However, one of those springtime winds that they warn hikers of has just got up and the tightrope is swaying wildly. We look for something to grab onto but all we can to is hold the tiny rope we are standing on. Will we make it to Christmas? 

Oh my goodness. I’ve caught the metaphor disease. Maybe I should get into politics.

Metaphors are good for when you are trying to explain the unexplainable to yourself. 

In school, one of our bubbles has popped. It’s been a shock. Somehow, we had been congratulating ourselves on our luck so far and then bang! The wheels came off the wagon, the cushion has fallen apart at the seems, everything’s a bit haywire, we’ve all come a cropper and it’s gone tits up. 

Except that this little shock is just that. We will get over it, just like every other school has done. One person testing positive for COVID, especially when they are not very ill is not the end of the world. We will cope. However, the first, so close to Christmas feels like a double shock. We are all holding our breath, waiting for  it to spread throughout the whole school but it probably won’t and we will all be fine and get on with it. 

The Brexit negotiations are in a similar state, except that we have to watch our Prime Minister clowning around in the photo opportunity. The likelihood of that one getting to the other side of the Grand Canyon is looking increasingly unlikely and I don’t want to watch anymore.

)

On a lighter note there is always the controversy over how Nigella Lawson says microwave (meecro wavé) and the ensuing treats on Twitter of the words people mispronounce on purpose in their families. In our house we say daddycado (avocado), wishdosher (tumble drier - it is in the hole where the dishwasher used to be) and  Lie- sester (Leicester), to name just a few. Weirdly, about 52% of people on Twitter don’t do this and thought Nigella needed to be taught how to correctly say the word. Luckily that’s not the same 52% who don’t enjoy my new favourite Twitter account @catshouldnt.

Life is about balance. If we all liked, worried or got angry about the same things then the world would definitely fall. I’m off to look at cats that are definitely not stuck and consider buying a microwave so that I can pronounce it like Nigella does, with a twinkle in my eye that half the population won’t notice.

Do read

 Yesterday a colleague shared a stupid Daily Mail article about teacher’s days off. Brilliantly, she corrected the facts, ie a non-pupil day isn’t a day off for teachers but I commented that she shouldn’t have shared the link. I think it came across as a bit blunt and judgemental and I’m sorry for that but I want to explain why I said it and how sad I am that I felt I had to say it.

Journalism has changed so much. I have been reading local newspapers from 1882 (Yes, I know, I’m obsessed) and the differences are amazing. Not just the content, which I’ll come to but punctuation. There were commas before and - always. Semicolons were more common than full stops. Road didn’t have a capital letter and was written High-road, which I think makes so much sense, as road isn’t a name but a descriptor. 

The content of newspapers in 1882 contained long, long articles that quoted every word said at a trial, including all the times that people repeated themselves. Occasionally, there was a story about nothing that might be interesting for history. There were lots of sports reports with flowery language and adverts for all sorts of cough potions. Coughing has always been a problem!

I show these to my daughter.

“You know why?” she says wistfully.

I do know. I’ve watched her work.

In 1882 and even in 1982 all a newspaper had to do you get enough revenue to continue was to sell a certain number of papers. It was the whole thing we bought. Also, they had no idea what we were reading.  They didn’t know that we spent 2 seconds looking at the sport report with flowery language and were actually only skimming it to find the result. In the 1980s sales of newspapers declined and newspapers had to be more creative to get people to buy. This is when they noticed the effectiveness of shock headline and Princess Diana. They noticed that inflammatory stories would get people to buy their paper and so they employed journalists (who are only writers looking for regular work) who were prepared to write rubbish that they knew would anger big sections of the population. Suggest the NHS is in danger, tell white people they are threatened by people of colour, suggest that powerful men are being superseded by women and imply that teachers are lazy. It’s all designed to get you to buy it. You aren’t necessarily meant to buy into it (so it can spectacularly backfire *whispers* Brexit) but you are meant to buy the paper to get cross about it.

Now, the newspapers make all of their money online. They don’t sell enough printed copies to justify printing them. In some instances,  printing actually makes a loss. 

I told you that I’ve watched my daughter work. This pandemic has completely opened my eyes to how it all works. As a content editor only a small fraction of her job is trying to catch the typos before they go out. Most of her time is spent looking at graphs. These are real time graphs that show exactly how many people look at each article and for how long. This is important for revenue. No advertiser wants their ad to pop up on a story about Doris from Bocking who tripped over a brussel sprout , while visiting the reindeer at the petting zoo because although it’s a cracking story that will be great to read in 100 years time, absolutely nobody is reading it now. We complain that we want to see more good news in the paper but we don’t read it. We engage with things that cause us conflict. Any writer will tell you that without conflict your story is boring. It’s why Cinderella never had a stepmother that loved her and treated her like her own daughter. It’s also why she had to lose her shoe and run away holding a pumpkin. As soon as there is no more conflict, the story stops. ‘And they lived happily ever after, the end.’

There is an online paper that only shares happy news but I think it’s struggling

You could get really angry with papers for using our own behaviour to give us more of what we are reading to keep their business alive or you could not read the articles that push your buttons and read more stories like this one.

https://www.essexlive.news/news/essex-news/harlow-mums-fight-zebra-crossing-4651635

Spend a long time on it. Allow local news to do what it should be doing - campaigning for its community. It’s what the journalists want to do, rather than writing about which supermarket has the best deal on a Terry’s chocolate oranges, although they do love the day when they can taste all the Christmas sandwiches and mince pies and I know that they are missing being in the office because eating twelve Christmas sandwiches in your beds-sit bedroom with a laptop balance on your knee can’t be any fun for anybody.

Don’t read

 It’s rare that I would be suggesting that you don’t read but today is not the day for it. Don’t read the papers or look at Twitter. Avoid looking at the write ups of the Brexit talks, don’t check the latest statistics on coronavirus. Don’t even get sucked into the fish puns. Trust me. This is a day for pulling your duvet back over your head and singing show tunes. 

Obviously, if you are like me, then the instruction not to read will be impossible. I once followed an unblocking creativity course (from a book) and it suggested that you had a week where you didn’t read anything. This was such a challenge for me that I found myself staring longingly at a cereal packet, desperate to know exactly where in Welwyn Garden City it was made and what RDA percentage of B vitamins were added. The point of the exercise was to get you to develop your own ideas rather than taking everyone else’s. In the end, I decided that, for me, it was better to read more and develop my own ideas from the balance of opinions. 

I wish I hadn’t done that today, so I’m off for an early morning swim. Pass the mind bleach.

Because that's how it's always been done

 We love tradition, don't we?  It gives us a sense that we are part of something bigger; a feeling that we are connected to everything that has gone before.  When someone asks why we are doing something a certain way, that seems totally stupid, we say, "Oh, I don't know, it's tradition isn't it?"  We think that because it's the way it has always been done then that's the best way.  

It could be true that our ancestors have tried all other ways and so there is no point us trying to find a better way.  However, some things have come to my attention this weekend that tradition can't defend.

I'm back in the pool and have noticed that I still try to count my lengths, despite wearing a SwimTag wristband and being very bad at counting because swimming becomes a moving meditation.

"One, two,,,,,,,,,,twelve,,,,,,Tuesday, Wednesday,,,,,,,Oh damn!"

Counting lengths while swimming is a tradition that can be stopped because we've found something better.

The Brexit talks are reaching their final deadline and it seems as though there wasn't an oven ready deal after all.  In fact, it looks like Boris, didn't even know what he wanted to cook, doesn't have any food in the cupboards and doesn't actually own an oven.  

"It's fine," political commentators tell us, "This is just the way things are done. An agreement will be reached at the eleventh hour."

The way it is done, apparently, it to arrogantly wave your demands around, keep everyone up all night for days on end and feed them Domino's pizza without giving them water until they give in.  It seems as though fish is the problem.  I don't want to talk about how stupid it is that that a country, where most of the population hate eating fish (unless it's unidentifiable, wrapped in batter, smothered in vinegar and served with chips), has given up their rights to be part of Euratom, the European, Europol, free movement and cheap mobile phone roaming for the right to catch more fish than we want to eat. That argument has been made and people who disagree with me will, rightly, point out that I lost.

However, it's a risky strategy isn't it?  How do you know that the people you are negotiating with are going to be more likely to give in when sleep deprived than you?  How do you know that they don't thrive on salty pizza?

We make all our most important decisions at the last minute and when most people are tired, and probably thirsty.  It's no wonder that government seems so hopeless.  Go to bed, get a good night's sleep and talk again after your porridge.  It would be so much more sensible.  It might be how it's always been done but what if there's a better way?

The other thing that came to my attention this weekend was the sacking of the Eton College teacher, Will Knowland.  It seems as though, despite bringing his school into disrepute and refusing to take down a YouTube lecture that makes it clear that Eton have been grooming their boys to be war loving, misogynists for years the Daily Mail and many of the boys he teaches have leaped to his defence, claiming that his free speech has been curtailed. Michael Gove's wife, Sarah Vine, self confessed feminist, writes about how she disagrees with most of what he said but it is wrong to stifle his freedom of speech. 

In truth, his freedom of speech is stronger than ever.  His freedom to teach has been stopped but even I  watched his lecture. I can absolutely see why he was sacked.  He's boring.  Old fashioned and wrong about many things.  His arguments about keeping men as the aggressive hunter gatherers, to be strong and competitive and to dominate women (because that's what women really want) are based on the concept of 'that's how it's always been done.'  He says that only men are equipped to protect and that it's all to do with biology.  Big shoulders equals in charge.  Big hips ready for impregnating. He demonstrates his points with clips from films. He uses films that glamorise war.  Weirdly, for an English teacher, he barely mentioned literature. The lecture takes dark turns in some places, like when he suggests rape is normal and shouldn't be stopped because there is more male on male rape in prison and when he concludes that feminists are pro incest and paedophilia. He has just managed to get his message across to many more people, rather than just the impressionable, unloved, boys that have been abandoned into his care by people who are hoping he will give them all the tools they need to run the country when they are done.  

Even Eton can see that just because that's the way it's always been done, it doesn't mean it should continue.  Come on government, it's time to buy a fitbit and have sensible negotiations.

Monolithic Age

 “So, what do we think about the monoliths?” I asked my family at the end of Jay’s quiz, hoping to start a discussion before we all went off to our separate rooms and I returned to 1882 to learn about horses and the hunt.

I caught the look they gave each other. It was a mix of confusion and worry that I had really truly lost it this time. I admit that the question came out of the blue but I wasn’t sure how anyone who follows the news could have missed it.

In case you are also looking to book me into the funny farm I’ll fill you in on this weird piece of news.

I first saw it in the Guardian at the end of November. A helicopter pilot had spotted a huge metal Toblerone  in a canyon in the Utah desert. 

It was the kind of story you could flick past. It might have been there all the time, Utah is big and weird anyway. Then, it disappeared. That’s fine, someone saw it on the news and stole it. Who wouldn’t want a huge metal monolith in their garden? Ed Milliband’s  was rather fond of the idea, maybe it was him.

Then another two appeared. One on a hillside in Romania and one in a Californian desert.

“Someone’s having a laugh, aren’t they?” my daughter said, factually, once they realised what I was talking about.

I think it’s a lot of trouble to go to for a joke but then I have words, which are definitely easier.

In the last Monolithic age (which I think should have been called the Mesolithic age but I grew up in the Seventies when education was from the mouth of a teacher in a floral skirt without access to the internet) they built Stonehenge, dragged women about by the hair and even though they could use a dinosaur to pull their car they still ran their bare feet along the ground. Oh wait! Have I just slipped into an episode of the Flintstones. I was going to say that the last Monolithic age saw the death of the woolly mammoth but clearly my education on ancient history is a bit lacking.

I have been wondering what history will make of these times. 

The New Monolithic Era, where aliens put big metal poles in various locations and took them away again, to give conspiracy theorists something else to think about other than Bill Gates making a virus so he could inject all the over 80s and people in care homes with a microchip to see what they are up to. 

I hope that someone is looking at the locations of the monoliths to see what three words they match with on the emergency services location finder tool. Whether it’s aliens or people having a jolly good laugh. I’d like to think that they haven’t missed an opportunity to send us a message.

Alien Postcard - Place is nice, people are weird, wish you were here

It’s a mystery

 It doesn’t take much for me to get invested in a puzzle or mystery. The unknown answers to questions I didn’t even know I had can keep me awake. Although many things can keep me awake there’s nothing like a good whodunnit.

A colleague has just completed a hard fought challenge to give up chocolate in November in aid of the Brompton hospital, who, I think it’s fair to say, saved her son’s life. We could all see how difficult this was for her. Chocolate, as an addiction, is one that is acceptable in society and almost impossible to live without. I think of it as an essential daily food group.

We were all thrilled for her. Life is tough at the moment and being able to think of someone else and do something that makes life even harder is a lovely thing.

The end of the challenge has, luckily, coincided with chocolate before breakfast month, so she is probably currently gorging on advent chocolate before having Nutella on toast or Coco Pops for breakfast.

One of the lovely things about our school is how much the staff like and support each other. 

Yesterday she got to her desk and there was a chocolate and a note. This hasn’t been the first and probably won’t be the last. I had considered leaving a Turkish Delight but then second guessed myself because it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. 

The thing about this chocolatey deposit, though, was that the note was anonymous. So, she posted a thanks on Facebook. This has caused a spate of guessing. Handwriting, it turns out, isn’t as unique as you might think and now I’m invested. I need to solve the puzzle.

The most amazing thing, though, is knowing that this is the kind of thing any member of staff could do and possibly has done. The cake, chocolate bar or knitted heart left on someone’s desk when someone is having a bad day or a tough time seems to be the kind of gentle support we go in for. I’m not bragging but don’t you wish you worked somewhere where you wouldn’t be able to guess who left chocolate or a piece of crochet on your desk?

‘Tis the season

 ‘Tis the season for whatever makes you happy.

For Matt Hancock and the government it’s waiting for Dawn to come over the hill with her Scotch eggs. There was a briefing where Hancock seemed to have caught the metaphor disease. Unfortunately, he’s terribly middle class and so he had no references to classical literature or landing his light aircraft at Biggin Hill to offer and so we got Dawn. I don’t know about you, but when he said we were waiting for Dawn to come over the horizon, I pictured a woman, with a thickened waist and grey hair, in a pinny, pushing a tea trolly and shouting, “Tea up, Matt!”

Today the second lockdown ends and for us, in Essex, we are back in tier two. Obviously, some of Essex is in tier two for the first time because of Essex’ two unitary authorities. The rest of Essex is a two tier authority. The rules on how to be in tier two have changed again, so if you weren’t confused before, you certainly will be now. There are only so many times you can say two without getting confused about which two you are talking about.

Yesterday, when we were supposedly in lockdown, the park was heaving with people meeting friends for coffee, shivering in the icy wind coming off the estuary. I’ve never known anyone to be there on a Tuesday at 11 in winter before. The snack cabin owners usually close up and pop off to the Caribbean from the end of September but these are strange times.

Now, in tier two, we are allowed to meet people outside. Under lockdown two we were meant to stay at home unless it was essential but we could meet a friend on a park bench. Now, we can meet 6 friends outside the pub but only if we have a substantial meal. This has led the country to start discussing how big a Scotch egg would need to be to count as a substantial meal. One MP thought it was, another said that you’d have to have chips. You can’t socialise with anyone outside your family indoors although you can have a business meeting in a restaurant and bizarrely, this time round, no established relationship canoodling is allowed. I’ve told the Long Suffering Husband. 

However, none of that matters because the world is full of twinkly lights, we get chocolate for breakfast and parents are stressing about the elf. I see that a lot of people my age have strong opinions on the elf. It’s funny how we don’t like tradition being changed.

“Ooh, we didn’t have that in my day!”

I hear my mother-in-law’s voice in my head.

I have two conflicting opinions on the elf. 

1. If it makes the parents and children happy then that is fabulous, funny and creative. I love seeing all the ideas on social media.

2. Those elves are really ugly.

I admire people who have the time and dedication for a passion, like the man who built a squirrel obstacle course. I’m sure if I tried to do it then it would be a half hearted attempt and I would have lazy elves that just stayed in bed with a sign that said, “Not today!”

I think the rule for this advent has to be, “Do whatever makes you happy and try not to catch or spread coronavirus.” 

I’m going to walk and take pictures. The dog is going to walk and wait for his daily chocolate. The LSH is going to walk and play golf (hooray, the courses are open again). My daughter is going to walk and talk.

I see a common theme here. Walking makes you happy. These may be challenging times but it is heartwarming to see so many people out and about enjoying a walk.

Elizabeth Gaskell

 How have I never read Elizabeth Gaskell? 

Is that some part of education that you miss out on if you’re not posh? You know, how Boris is always banging on about Virgil and Gove is obsessed with Henry James. The posh rulers of our country tend to enjoy their literature to be about a dim distant past. None of them get excited about the new James Pattison or Jojo Moyes, although Nicola Sturgeon does read everything.

I’ve stumbled upon Elizabeth Gaskell books as I try to get into the head of the women of 1882. I just discovered that my Emily did work for a little while after William left her, at Courtaulds as a silk winder in the factory that then became the Marconi building in Chelmsford. I wanted to know what that life was like and so found Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell.

 I know. She’s not really my Emily. She’s just a random woman who was briefly in the workhouse and committed a crime that saw her spend a couple of nights at the Moot Hall but she is mine. I’m passionate about understanding her. I’m equally disgusted with her and protective towards her. She could be my own daughter. I’ll forgive her anything because I love her but I can’t understand what she did. Emily’s own mother is equally a puzzle and her Aunts seem like amazing women. 

It is too easy, however, to think you know how they were thinking. You assume that they think like you. Maybe they do but maybe life was so different then that you can’t assume anything. History tends to write women out.

“Oh, of course,” people say to me, “A woman couldn’t live as a single mother without a man, the shame would have been too much.”

But, the censuses show plenty of women living with their children, as the head of the household, or living as unmarried mothers with their parents. I wanted to read women who were writing at the time. The Brontes give you an idea of the very wealthy but was anyone writing about women who made their own way in the world? 

It seems that person was Mrs Gaskell. She wrote Charlotte’s biography and wrote her novel Ruth after contacting Dickens to find out how she could help a woman that she had visited in prison. She wrote Cranford, which I remember being on TV and being a story  about frivolous, gossiping women, who really controlled the town, despite what the men thought. 

Thank goodness that I don’t have eleven Christmas concerts to organise this year. I have a lot of catch up reading to do. 

Mrs Gaskell, at 50, having a kip while reading the latest Henry James?