8.56

 The Long Suffering Husband was getting on my nerves yesterday. He’d done nothing wrong but he was just always there. Everything he said wound me up. I could hear him thinking. He chewed too loudly. He breathed too much. I wasn’t sure I was going to get through it without a murder charge. 

It’s funny how, in all this time of being forced to exclusively see only each other we had been fine with it but now that there’s a prospect of seeing other people it’s getting a bit tiresome.

I suggested that I was going to my daughter’s garden to do a bit of gardening for her.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, “I could cut the grass.”

It would have been mean if I’d have said that he couldn’t. He hasn’t seen anyone either. So he came with me and my daughter could tell. I suspect she asked both of us privately if the other was causing irritation. I know she asked me.

Every time one of us got a bit snappy with the other she said, “Eight fifty six!”

This morning the LSH has left the house on his own for the first time since before Christmas. There has been some trepidation and planning over the event for days. Bags have been packed and re-packed, sun cream and hats have been checked. The hedgehog wheels have been replaced. Balls have been washed. He had a fretful night’s sleep, dreaming about being buried in sand or drowning in water and losing the Masters but he’s done it. He left the house. His tee off time, an oddly specific 8.56am.

Fresh Air

 It’s the end of the Zombie apocalypse. Boris said. He’s added ‘fresh air’ to his ‘hands, face, space’ jingle and we all need to be very thankful that he’s done such a good job in getting the sun to shine on the first day we can leave the house.

I know I’m cynical but what happened to the daily exercise? Were people really staying indoors? If they were then I think we’ve got bigger problems on the horizon than anyone can imagine.

It was the sun that gave everyone hope. This happens each Spring. It’s always happened. The Christian festival of Easter is about hope and new life.  Persian New year starts at the spring equinox where people eat a lot and jump over fires to celebrate re-birth. Passover celebrates the end of a pandemic remembering those that were spared, looking forward with hope to new freedoms. In Japan they go around picnicking under trees and cooing at the cherry blossom.

This year the beginning of Spring has felt so much more important because our normal freedoms have been curtailed for so long. We’ve spent a year being terrified. It’s only right that we want to hope that it’s all over.

When I went out for my walk I noticed so many more people. It really did feel like the end of the zombie wars. People were out and about, blinking into the sunlight. You could smell barbecue lighter fluid on the wind and hear faint laughter tinkling from gardens. The town notice boards gave the only clue that the world had stopped by being full of posters for Christmas events that, in the end, never happened.

It was such a lovely day that there were even geckos sunning themselves on the path and there were butterflies everywhere. ( Is it too early for butterflies?)

It might take me longer than others to get used to the world as it will become again. My life didn’t change too much. I walked and read and thought and wrote. I probably won’t see many more people even now that I can. I won’t be hugging or licking anyone even when I’m vaccinated. (Actually, what is it with all these people who say they are going to start licking? No. It’s disgusting. No licking!) These things didn’t come naturally to me before and I’ve quite liked the excuse not to touch anyone.  Other people will fall back into it, possibly even before they should. 

Yesterday I watched two people in the High Street who obviously hadn’t seen each other for months. She was a fitness queen; sweaty in Lycra and he was an old man; grubby,  in egg stained jogging bottoms who had forgotten how to present himself to leave the house. 

“How are you? Keeping alright?” she said, flinging her sweaty arms round his neck and planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek in response to his step forward with outstretched arms. 

I gasped out loud and hoped the ground would swallow me up when they looked at me.

He explained, “All jabbed up here love,” and winked. 

I think my shock came more from the realisation that people will want to touch me soon and there is no way of avoiding the future but I’m not going to dwell on that. Instead I’ll just keep enjoying the fresh air.

It's her - she did it.

 I used to enjoy the days when everyone in the family sat down to watch the same show. These days TV watching can feel both lonely and super connected and it’s weird. 

You’re all watching Line of Duty, right? The whole world is. Except the Long Suffering Husband who, for reasons I can’t fathom, prefers his entertainment not to feature too much real life death. He’s okay with Zombies and war but the Sunday night obsession with working out how a body died is not his thing. Therefore, we sit in different rooms of the house and I have no one to discuss it with. Except that there is always Twitter. If it wasn’t for Twitter I might never have realised that the ‘jizz’ (CHIS) wasn’t a piece of forensic evidence.

When we were growing up, telly watching was more of a social event. We all gasped as we watched Roots together, being enlightened after being hooked from the start as Kunte Kinte was held aloft by his father. We cried as we followed the attempts of the women in the Tenko concentration camp’s attempts to survive. We watched all the soaps and took part in all the quiz shows. We could collectively sing almost any theme tune. 

My obsession with finding out about the dead body started early with Quincy and then later Morse. My dad had less patience for TV watching than the rest of us, although he absolutely loved Morse and there was one story where he kept shouting at the TV. 

“It’s her. It’s Heather Haversham. She did it.”

We all shushed him. We knew he was being purposely obtuse. Heather Haversham was a character in Brookside played by Amanda Burton, who happened to be in this Morse story. You could tell from the twinkle in his eye that he was enjoying winding us up more than he was the programme.

Last night, watching Line of Duty, I realised that I have turned into my dad.

“Don’t trust her,” I shouted at no one, “She’s not a policewoman, she’s a vet and if she hadn’t left Rex like that he wouldn’t now be looking for his further field.”

Anneika Rose also played Anisha in the Archers

It probably wasn't as much fun, as my dad had with the Morse episode.   I could have taken to Twitter to share my findings with other Archers/Line of Duty fans but I suspect they would be a small bunch.  Also, what fun would it have been if they couldn't see the smile playing around my eyes so that they knew I was winding them up?

MMC

 There’s a new abbreviation in town. The MMC. I’m not talking about the Maldon Moaning Club, even though I could probably be a founding member but the Model Music Curriculum. 

There has been a lot of discussion of this document on social media. Musicians have had a bit of a laugh about the actual rhythm of fish and chips (three crotchets or dotted crotchet, quaver,  crotchet or two quavers and a crotchet.) They’ve also got cross about the term decrescendo, when we all know it’s diminuendo. Then the general public have focussed more on the suggested listening and singing repertoire. For many it’s the first time they’ve heard of the genre art-pop and certainly had no idea that Kate Bush is it’s queen. 

I’ve read and digested it now and my thoughts, for what it’s worth, are, as usual, somewhere in the middle.

It is just a model. It’s not compulsory. It’s to help people who don’t know what to do. Any good music teacher has been doing these things. Any non-specialist in Essex who has been following the Charanga music programme provided by the local hub has been doing these things. Very few schools will have had an hour of music a week (even ours has had that ideal scuppered by a pandemic and a need to teach in bubbles). 

Why is it that music is the only subject to need a draft curriculum?

You don’t get a bunch of artists sitting round, led by Grayson Perry, Damien Hurst and Tracey Emin suggesting a consultation because 5 year olds aren’t being taught that they must not draw their legs coming straight out of their heads. You don’t have Wayne Sleep and Darcy Bussell insisting that the polka is taught in year 3 and not before. Even Seb Coe refrains from meddling in the sport that’s taught in school and Seb Coe likes to meddle (he always liked to medal too). 

I think there are a few reasons.

1. Music is a subject that lots of teachers don’t feel comfortable teaching at primary level and so in a busy week it’s the first subject to get dropped. This means that there are less children to take it at senior level, which means it’s the first subject schools with limited budgets remove from the option choices. 

2. Music in schools has a weird funding system where much of the money goes to the music hubs. This model makes their funding dependent on helping schools deliver a music curriculum, rather than just using the money to provide extra curricular opportunities for children already involved in music. This is probably a good thing but still schools that don’t actively seek out the support of the hub will lose out on that funding.

3. We are at a crisis point.

Musicians have done this to themselves. They’ve made their subject an elite sport and forgotten that to get the elite you first need sport for all.

I worry that this model curriculum has just fanned that fire. 

The suggested listening genres are at least broader than they have ever been before but there are still people insisting that it’s not ‘proper music’ if you’re not going into orgasmic raptures over the Bach Motets. Government ministers who grew up with opera on the radio in the background tell stories about how listening to the Mozart Horn Concerto in assembly changed their life and then extrapolate that all children need the same experience. There is an assumption that Mozart is good and grime is bad. 

We all have music in us.

I left that sentence in a paragraph on its own because it’s so important. Music is important to humans. We all sing, tap, speak rhythmically. We all make music. We all listen to music and experience it in our own unique way. Many of our popular musicians come out of art school because that it’s the only place that teaches people to find what is in them.

I have made music popular in the school I work in by acknowledging that all music is good. It doesn’t matter if you sing out of tune at first. You’ll get better. It doesn’t matter if you only listen to Take That out of choice because if I keep showing you other bits of music then you might find something else you like and if you show me things you like I might find something new as well. We can’t know every piece ever composed or played. It doesn’t matter if you compose a piece of music by tapping a triangle, squeaking on a recorder or playing a violin like Itzak Perlman. Keep doing it and your experience will grow. I have encouraged children and adults to share their music at whatever level it’s at. 

Most of all, music has to be fun. You have to teach it as if it is a joy. Once children want to do it then you can start adding things that will make them better at it. If a teacher who only ever listens to  rock music is forced to only teach sea shanties then it won’t be a joy for anyone. 

I realise that my little effort isn’t enough to stop the crisis but I would like to encourage you if you are a primary school teacher to share the joy you get from music with your pupils. It doesn’t matter if you’ve changed Happy Birthday from a piece with 3 beats in a bar to one with 4 by adding some claps (although I was very pleased that the children I teach noticed that had happened). It doesn’t matter if you sing out of tune. It doesn’t matter if you only like punk (although you might want to scan it for swear words before you share it). It doesn’t matter if you tap out the rhythm of dance monkey on the desk or use a full drum kit. Something is better than nothing. I think that’s the place we need to start from right now and once we’ve got the kids hooked then we can try to make it better. I worry that this model curriculum is like talking about improving children’s writing by explaining fronted adverbials before they’ve even read a book or been given a pencil and piece of paper. 

Amazon is trolling me

 I understand that Amazon has been brilliant. We couldn’t have survived lockdown without it. We’ve given it all our business, let it persuade us that this is the way to shop in future. It has enabled us to keep spending, keep the economy ticking over and without it the government would have never managed a year of lockdown. 

I know that it works by following your viewing patterns. 

“Because you thought about buying running shoes and didn’t maybe you’d like to consider a catering sized box of creme eggs instead.”

“Because you looked at an office chair and didn’t buy it, we suggest you’d like an orthopaedic neck pillow .”

“Because you brought an embroidery kit we think you should get a life.”

Sometimes I’ll get a suggestion based on something the Long Suffering Husband has looked at that I don’t understand, like, “You looked at a sand wedge, maybe you’d like to upgrade to a toastie maker,” or, “I can see you are looking at pipes, let me suggest you buy a full plumbing kit.”

I don’t mind this, usually but just lately Amazon has taken it one step further. 

It’s true, I don’t sleep. It’s true, I think too much. However, I have not looked at products to address the issue.

This morning my email inbox was filled with suggestions from Amazon around these themes. They also resent this suggestion, which I have ignored three times already.

I mean, it’s just rude, isn’t it?

Flags

 I was going to stop worrying about things that were out of my control and don’t directly affect me. It was the Long Suffering Husband’s suggestion to make my life a little happier. He’s a wise man. I mean what does it matter if the earth pulses every 26 seconds and no one knows why? 

However, this flag thing is bizarre.

I like a flag. It was my first little nerdy obsession when I was a kid. I learnt all the flags of all the countries. Maybe I was a little but Autistic or maybe there wasn’t much good telly. Lebanon was my favourite because it had a tree on it.

 Anyway, I think flags are brilliant. They are simple symbols that flutter in the breeze, bothering  no one. 

Why then, do I feel so uncomfortable about the proclamation from culture Secretary that all government buildings must display the UK flag, every day? What does it matter? No one looks up anyway. Government ministers have been getting a little creepy with their flag obsession lately. It’s getting to the point where I expect Geri Halliwell’s dress will become ministerial uniform. I’d noticed it happening and was quietly chuckling to myself but all of a sudden I don’t feel like laughing. For some reason, the diktat feels sinister. Maybe it’s the idea that a flag is culture at a time when real culture (the arts) is being suppressed as something virus spreadingly dangerous. Maybe it’s the sheer numbers of flags that will now have to be flown. After all, I’m not sure where ‘government building’ ends. Is it anything the government funds, or part funds? Schools, hospitals? 

I think my real discomfort comes because it brings to mind Nazi Germany and that worries me.

I shouldn’t worry. It will be fine.

This morning’s worry has reminded me of a conversation I overheard between two teenage boys.

“There’s no such thing as Nazi’s any more.”

“Yeah, there is,”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“Well, you’d find them if you went to Nazi Germany.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d see them in Nazi Germany. You’re right.”

“Is that somewhere you’d like to go?”

“Yeah. One day.”

I’m still hoping Dr Naomi Wolf (PhD in dubious history) is right and the vaccine will give us time travelling superpowers. One day.

One Year

 Anniversaries are hard. If you are struggling this week then it’s because of that. Anniversaries of loss are very difficult. 

We spend our whole lives marking the progress of each year. Birthdays, wedding anniversaries, the birth of a new year are all to be celebrated but when the thing that happened on this date is a loss then the desire to mark the date isn’t any less strong but it is inappropriate to celebrate. It doesn’t stop us though. We think and mull over our grief and have a few rubbish days.

The photo on my phone from a year ago

It’s been a year since Boris Johnson appeared on the TV, scared the bejesus out of us and ordered us to stay at home. It’s been a year when many people died. It’s been a difficult year for most people. At that time 335 people had died and even with the restrictions that we have lived by we are now nearing the 150,000 death mark. Mathematical forecasters feel their prediction that it would have been 500,000 is left unchecked are vindicated. Focusing solely on deaths doesn’t even begin to take into account the full toll of the pandemic. The severe restrictions have damaged mental well being and the economy and several people are taking longer to recover from the illness than we would expect. 

Boris says we should mark the day in whatever way seems appropriate. He’s thinking of keeping silent for one whole minute, which will be W relief to all of us. London is going to light up the town yellow, like an enormous pus-filled city. Even our little historic town hall will be lit up. I find it ironic that the lights will be turned on above the embroidered lightbulbs that have been placed around town to inform people about Earth Hour on Sunday, when environmental campaigners want us to take action to prevent the even bigger disaster heading our way but I understand that people need to mark this day.

In celebration of the year (and inspired by the lightbulbs) I took up embroidery. 

It was a kit but the words are my own.

The voices in my head

 The novel I'm reading at the moment  (Anxious People by Fredrik Backman) has the most wonderful dedication.  

"This book is dedicated to the voices in my head, the most remarkable of friends.

And to my wife who lives with us."

How perfect is that? 

The main voice in my head at the moment is Emily.  Almost everything that happens in my actual life she has to comment on.  I wouldn't mind but mostly she's rather dull. 

I've been thinking a lot about vaccinations.  I mean, obviously.  It's all anyone is talking about.  I did, briefly wonder, if it would still work if you didn't post your picture on social media but that's a risk I'm prepared to take.  Everywhere you walk people are discussing when and where they were vaccinated and the side effects they are getting.  It seems that the percentage of people suffering from mild temporary side effects is a lot higher than the 10% of the clinical trial.

In this country there is very little vaccine hesitancy; compulsory vaccination isn't necessary because the uptake is large enough to provide herd immunity.  The uptake might even be large enough to eliminate the virus, which would be a completely amazing achievement.   However, this is unlikely to happen quickly.  Vaccination against smallpox began in the 1840s ended in 1948 and in 1978 the World Health organisation declared that the disease had been eradicated.  This could make you a little concerned but  no vaccine has ever been developed for SARS and there haven't been any cases since 2004, so who knows what this one will do?  

Emily, the voice in my head, has stuff to say about vaccination.  She lived through a time when smallpox vaccination had been compulsory.  She had been in the poor house, where those who couldn't afford to pay for the doctor to vaccinate took their children. She tells me that some people were too proud to do that and preferred to take the risk of a fine (1/- and 2/6 costs). She lived at a time when anti-vaccination arguments started to spread. People were sceptical about the government and doctors were often not to be trusted.  Many doctors were unqualified and the side effects from smallpox vaccine were huge and common.  It also started to become known that better sanitation was more effective at preventing smallpox spread than vaccination and some people felt that by keeping vaccination compulsory, governments could avoid their moral duty to spend money to provide proper sewage systems.  

I had been thinking that the reaction to people who refuse the vaccine on Twitter was less than kind. I know it's funny when people suggest that a vaccine is mind control or filled with nano-bots that will link you to a 5G mast but the people who post these things are scared.  Their fear is out of proportion.  They are easy to laugh at but I can't help thinking that this unkindness isn't going to help them change their minds.  

Emily always gets involved when I start to think of kindness.  It's her thing. It's all she ever wanted, was a bit of kindness.  

She says that people weren't kind about vaccination in her day, either.  People laughed then too.  The conscience clause was added to the British Vaccination Act in 1893, (after she had gone to Broadmoor) which allowed people to opt out.  They had to apply to the court for a certificate but weirdly this act increased uptake of the vaccine.  "People just don't like being forced into things," Emily says. She directs me to a newspaper article to read more.

Cartoon showing people growing cows after smallpox vaccination

From the Essex Herald 28th December 1885 - Arguments against vaccination.

"A lady complained that since her daughter was vaccinated, she coughed like a cow and grew hairy all over."

Emily laughed as I read it.

"Was it because it was made from cow pox?" I asked her.

"Probably," she said, "They used baby cows to make it.  Lots of people didn't think it was right."

"Oh, I can understand that," I told her.

"But children did get coughs after and some were quite sick. Lots had horrible eczema and some died," she added.

"It's complicated, isn't it?"

She agreed. Then I read her Naomi Wolf's tweet.

"Terrifying.  Also confirms/explains the conversation I overheard in a restaurant in Manhattan 2 years ago in which an Apple employee was boasting about attending a top secret demo: they had a new tech to deliver vaccines w nanopatticles (sic) thaat let you travel back in time. Not kidding."

"Does that mean you can come and see me?" she asked, wide-eyed. "I'd like you to visit.  I think we've become friends."

The new normal isn’t normal

 I’ve been struggling to get my head around the new normal. I don’t want a new normal. I want the old normal. The new normal isn’t normal and I’m feeling quite toddlerish about it. See, if you say normal often enough it isn’t normal, it’s odd.

Over the last year, so many of us have adapted and cobbled something together to keep things going. I’ve taught flute lessons on Zoom, where the pupil is upside down, refuses to come on camera, the sound has disappeared, and I’ve just not been able to write on their book.

“That’s an A,” I say, “write it underneath.”

But they can’t find a pencil or because of the time lag they write it under the wrong note.

How can you teach a sound based lesson when you can’t play together or actually properly hear each other? The answer is that you can’t but we have. People ave been doing so many things that aren’t really working for them but they’ve done them happily without complaining because it’s a global pandemic.

Some employers will try to take advantage of that. They might close offices and put everyone on a permanent working from home contract (think of the savings), they might expect that the things you’ve been doing to help out are things you’d be happy to carry on with. (This is unlikely to happen to me, as a child in my RE lesson said, “We’re all going to go home and have nightmares now.”). They might expect you to keep a distance and never talk to your colleagues again.

I don’t want to wear a mask at the theatre or be misted with disinfectant on entry. I don’t want the new normal.

Sometimes when I’m teaching on Zoom it freezes. Who would have guessed that shouting “You’ve frozen,” into the void would be an every day occurrence we would all accept? 

Personally, I’ve struggled with motivation towards the new normal. I haven’t been one of those musicians flooding YouTube with my songs or organising or joining virtual choirs. I haven’t had virtual parties with my friends or joined online escape rooms. If I can’t do it normally, then it turns out I’m not interested and I’d much rather read a book, which is possible to do without any adaptation in behaviour. Maybe it’s because I’m old. Maybe it’s because I’ve been through some stuff before all this struck. Maybe it’s just because. However, whatever the reason, I feel like I’ve really lost my mojo. I’m like the frozen Zoom screen.

Sometimes when a virtual flute lesson unfreezes all the notes play in quick succession, making for a hilarious rendition of whatever piece has been played. If you’ve never heard Old Macdonald (with random B flats) at top speed then......well, then you’re lucky.

I worry that if the word ever does go back to normal normal, rather than the new normal then I will be like the frozen zoom screen and try to catch up on everything at once and that would not only be not normal but it would be exhausting.

I know I’ve said normal too many times. Apologies. You shouldn’t have to read this rubbish. 

Men aren’t maltesers

 I am going to stop writing about the great Men vs Women Wars of 2021 soon but I just have one more thing I have to say. Men aren’t maltesers.

Women are terrifying each other and what started out as a worthwhile protest has now backfired. 

I see young women sharing on social media that they are now not able to go out at night, that they can’t walk their dog or walk home from a friends house and this is all the fault of men.  This worries me.

Even Caitlin Moran, All hail, high priestess of all feminists has even said that she has to cut her work day short to exercise and that she’s jealous of her husband because he can run after 6pm.

Women are placing a curfew on themselves and each other. 

Even if it was men’s behaviour that is causing this then that’s another reason to walk at night.  It would be wrong to let them win. This whole thing shouldn’t be about protecting women but should be directed at preventing and catching the men who behave in this horrible violent way.

This isn’t new. As someone who walks everywhere and loves walking at night I am often confronted with a suck of the teeth and a suggestion that my husband should come and collect me. I could be putting myself at risk but so far the odds have been in my favour. The worst that has happened is that I once walked into a bollard when someone beeped their car horn at me. I have been occasionally frightened but that fear has been in my head, caused by blowing leaves, a creaky gate or an innocent person also taking a nighttime walk. It might not be new but it is getting out of control. 

Someone posted a very interesting statement about maltesers to explain the not all men thing.

There is a point to this explanation. It’s about risk. As humans, we navigate risk all the time. 

When I read it, my initial answer was, “Of course not, who in their right mind would take that risk?”

But it might depend on how hungry you were or how much you wanted a Malteser. It might depend on how big a box of Maltesers it was. Two in a box of 20 would feel like a bigger risk than 10 in a box of 100.

But men aren’t maltesers. They are not a sweet treat that can easily be avoided or swapped for one of the many other chocolate based products around. They are air. They are everywhere.The human race needs both male and female to survive. Women have to (and mostly want to) navigate a world that has men in.

If you were told that there had been a gas leak somewhere but no one knew where you wouldn’t accept the suggestion that the solution would be to stop breathing. You would expect someone to look for that gas leak. They might suggest you stay at home until they find it but if the leak is in your home (as most violence towards women is) then would you really be expected to stop breathing

Let’s not limit our lives any more than we need to. It’s all about proportionate risk.

If you know men who are making someone unsafe then report them. Stop them. Insist that something is done. Campaign for a better criminal justice system or programmes to prevent the abuser early. Put pressure on Parliament to make laws that make things better. They need to focus on preventing crimes and not protecting women. Write letters, lobby your MP, yarn bomb the town (I think that’s still allowed). Maybe, don’t gather because they have just passed a Bill against protest that a dictatorship would be proud of but there’s a fine line between lobbying and protesting, so get that pressure on.

Give up maltesers if you want but don’t stop breathing. 

Nuance

 I know I’ve written about nuance before. It’s getting tedious now. Old ranting woman, repeating herself over and over. Last time I wrote about it was in the post-Christmas cheese fest, when people were angry because home schooling was about to become a thing again. There had been a programme on the radio about the death of nuance and I couldn’t stop thinking about the word, repeating it over and over until it didn’t sound real at all.

Today, the thing that has prompted the title is the Great Women vs Men war of 2021, prompted by the death of Sarah Everard. 

I might be the only one thinking this (because my brain works too fast) but it’s enough now. Let her rest in peace. Let her family grieve, as best they can. Stop hi-jacking it for your own entertainment. 

The Long Suffering Husband and I are over our disagreement that I wrote about yesterday and although I regret not being able to discuss the situation at the time and discover we were mostly in agreement I do not regret calling him out on his sweeping generalisation of feminists.

There is nothing that, as my son would say, ‘butters my giblets’ more than sweeping generalisations. I hate it when the nuance and therefore truth and complexity of a situation is lost. 

There is a conversation to be had about toxic masculinity, which hurts all of society. There’s a conversation to be had about the criminal justice system (particularly it’s woeful underfunding, which can lead to a delay of years before a sexual assault or domestic violence case is brought before the court). There’s a conversation to be had about proportionate policing at peaceful demonstrations. There’s a conversation to be had about the politicising of the police force so they are ordered to protect statues and lock up the people Priti Patel has made it clear she finds dreadful. There’s a conversation to be had about lazy journalism and the proper use of grammar. There’s a conversation to be had about useful fear and paralysing fear and how we negotiate the world that contains dangers.

Once you forget that in any situation, or organisation there are individuals then you’ve lost the nuance. As soon as you lump together all men, all feminists, all politicians, all the press, all teachers, all police then the nuance and truth is lost.

Groupthink can become a problem but it’s rare. Groupthink is where mistakes are made because a group of individuals stop thinking for themselves and act as one hive mind. They stop challenging each other, they stop recognising the faults and they back each other up regardless. This hasn’t happened with men. They are not all agreeing with each other on this. It hasn’t happened with feminists, or the police, or the press. There is not some Machiavellian overlord controlling the thoughts and feeling of every person in these groups and some of the individuals in them will make mistakes. Mistakes make us human. 

It’s time to take a breath and calm down. Due to the pandemic and its restrictions we have been forced to live in a state of heightened fear. There is unused adrenaline rushing around our bodies. Let’s all go for a run, do some yoga or eat chocolate, rather than use that fear to fight each other.

A nice calming sunset to calm everyone down. Breathe!

Look what you made us do.

 On Saturday, the Long Suffering Husband and I had a rare argument.  It was a disagreement of such magnitude that I'm still not sure I've forgiven him now.  It was also rather embarrassing because you don't expect to find yourself on a footpath angrily shouting at someone you love.  

We were walking the dog.  These are the times when I try to start a conversation.  When you are spending all your time with someone there can be a tendency to run out of things to say.  If I left him to start the conversation then we would only talk about food.

"What do you fancy for dinner?" he would ask and the conversation would be doomed from then on because I haven't really fancied eating anything for the last three years. 

So I try to find some little thing in the news to discuss.  

"What do you think about the police turning down this Clapham Common vigil?" I asaked him.

Now, you have to remember this was early on Saturday morning. Before.

He didn't know anything about it, so I started to explain.

"There's a group called Reclaim the Night.  A feminist group, who.."

"Want to lock men up?" he interrupted.

That was it.  I was furious.  Not from being interrupted.  I'm used to that.  It's not all men but I find that men often feel their voice is most important and rarely listen to the end of a sentence before adding their views.  

It was the misogyny of it.

It's not all men.

The LSH isn't one of those. He doesn't believe women deserve to be attacked on the streets but he clearly does believe that any woman who wants to protest their lot, hold a peaceful vigil, have pockets in their coats to spread sedition are man hating harridans who should probably be stopped.  

 "And that's the effing problem," I shouted at him.  (I did say 'effing' - we were in public!) "Why would you think that? If you think all women hate men then we will never get any equality.  We're not against you, we just want to be able to walk in a park at night without it being our fault if someone attacks us.  We'd quite like you to stop thinking we are your enemy.  If even you think that then there's no hope.  We will always be enemies."

He smirked.

"Carry on then. Who are Reclaim the Night?"

But I was too furious.  The conversation was over.  I couldn't bring myself to talk civilly to him.  

"It was just three words."  "It was a joke."

I knew he wouldn't back down.  I knew that he would never admit that those three words were a problem.  Saying it was a joke was a stupid defence that enabled him to not have to admit to any wrongdoing.  

I wanted to have a conversation about whether the Met Police were setting themselves up for a whole heap of trouble by refusing the vigil.  I thought they should have worked with the organisers to make it a Covid safe protest.  I mean if football supporters in Glasgow can rampage the streets without any arrests then surely a few women sitting in a park at night and lighting candles could be accommodated?  I realised that these were difficult policing decisions.  The Covid laws must be very difficult to enforce but to not allow this when it had been a Met Police Officer that committed the crime seemed like they were picking the wrong side.

I had the conversation later, with my son, who didn't make any jokes.  It's not all men.  Some of the younger ones have been brought up to ignore the social conditioning.  

Watching it unravel was the most depressing thing I've ever seen.  The LSH is still thinking that the police did the right thing.  He thinks that they can't start making separate Covid rules just for women (Ranger fans are fine but not women).  Unfortunately, my anger has backed him into a corner and he can't back down.  He doesn't see a police response to a peaceful protest that was out of proportion and I have to take some of the blame for that.  I pushed him into not being able to back down without losing face.  The police statement was similar.  "Look what you made us do," it said.  "You uppity women.  Be quiet.  Stop making a fuss or we'll have to give you a slap!"

It's all too depressing.

Mother’s Day

 Some people are going to find today difficult.

There will be people with dead, estranged or useless mothers. There will be mothers with children in the same categories and women who have never been mothers. This year, Mother’s Day feels difficult for a lot of people. It is reminding people that it has been a year since they were last able to legally hug their mother. 

If you find this Mother’s Day difficult then I hope you can make the best of it but if it is too tough then remember that it is just one day and tomorrow all the Mothers will go back to being unappreciated.

I will be spending the rest of my Mother’s Day writing about a woman who drowned her child in a pond and wondering what the third Sunday in Lent brought her. I doubt she got to enjoy Simnel cake.

I will also remember my brilliant mother and think about my lovely sister and be grateful for the time we had.

Bogeymen

 Yesterday, I wrote about bully boys (another one resigned this morning - dreadful human being Ian Murray, was called out by Victoria Derbyshire and has now walked or been pushed out of his pram) and today I’m forced to write about their older brothers - the bogeymen.

Fungus - the only nice bogeyman

I’ve been angry for days. Quietly seething about something that I was noticing. 

A few days ago my daughter asked, “What is it about Sarah? It’s huge. Everyone is sharing it!”

I suggested that it was because it didn’t look like your standard missing person case. She wasn’t suicidal and was expected home. 

“We could be looking at another Suzy Lamplugh or there could be another ‘ripper’ ,” I suggested.

She was less than convinced. As a newspaper editor she spends her life trying to get people to engage in the stories that matter. The stories that will make a difference to people’s lives. Missing people stories only do well if the person is a young pretty blond woman. No one cares about the forgetful grandad who has tried to mow the carpet and then disappeared to find his childhood home, which was knocked down and turned into flats years ago. No one cares about the 14 year old black boy who was stolen by a gang to run county lines. No one cares about the Muslim girl that is in hiding from her family because she fell in love with the wrong boy. No one cares about the woman who has been really annoying since her husband moved in with a younger woman. No one cares about the drunk who hasn’t been home in a week. Unless it plays into our favourite narrative of pretty virginal Princess possibly abducted by a bogeyman then we aren’t interested.

As the police started to look for Sarah they issued a warning to all women in the area. 

“ Don’t go out alone,” they said, “The bogeyman is out there. It’s now your responsibility. We’ve told you. If you go missing now, it’s your fault.”

I hate this. Why? Why, does it have to be a woman’s responsibility to avoid the nutters? It should be society’s responsibility to stop the creeps and murderers.

We tell children about the bogeyman, to frighten them. It helps adults maintain control. 

“Don’t go off without me or the bogeyman will get you.”

Adult men grow out of this fear but once a woman reaches adolescence the bogeyman becomes ever more real and present. And women reinforce the idea to each other. 

Now that they’ve arrested someone for Sarah’s murder, women are all over social media telling other women how scared they need to be. We still don’t know about this murderer. We don’t know that he was a stranger to her. He could have been an ex-boyfriend, a neighbour or an uncle. We don’t know if this is a case of our worst fear coming true. We only know that a woman was killed too soon and her family must be in terrible pain.

None of what we don’t know, or even respect for what we do know (her family’s pain) will stop us from repeating the narrative.

What was she thinking? Walking home alone at night? Probably drunk? What was she wearing? You can never be too careful. There are men out there on every corner, in every bush, waiting to jump out and rape you. 

It’s a story we tell each other, again and again. It helps us feel less scared. Women know that men are stronger. We know that we are vulnerable and so to counteract that we tell ourselves stories about how we can stay safe.

The problem is that it’s a lie. There’s nothing we can do. If a man decides to rape and or kill a woman then no amount of care about what you wear, where or when you walk, how many self defence classes you’ve done will stop that happening. It’s dumb luck. Bad luck. 

Every woman has been taught, by society, that if something bad happens to them then they are partly culpable. This doesn’t happen to men. Men are killed out on the streets. They are attacked, beaten up, stabbed while walking home from the pub on a regular basis (more often than women are raped by strangers). No one suggests to men that they shouldn’t walk home from the pub in case some idiot wants to fight them. No one suggests that it was because the were wearing a hat in a particular way that angers attackers. It is just accepted that they were unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one’s fault, except the idiot that was out for a fight.

The obvious difference is the idea that a man could protect himself against an attacker and a woman couldn’t. Again, it’s a lie. But it’s a lie that society is happy with because it fits with our favourite stories. 

Social media is full of angry women. They are listing the reasons that men are bad. They are listing all the things women do to protect themselves. 

I wish it wasn’t like this.

I wish I could say that I’ve never walked in fear or that a man has never been creepy, threatening or inappropriate but I can’t. Like most women I have had frightening encounters with creepy men and also been frightened by perfectly innocent men acting normally. The problem with telling us that we need to protect ourselves is that we don’t know who we need to fear. 

My mum was part of an art group. These intelligent, creative, deeply thinking women met once a week and painted together while discussing every topic imaginable. One day when I was a teenager they were discussing the Yorkshire Ripper case. I could taste the fear. It was like the sourest of lemon sherbets sucking at your tongue.

“You don’t walk home through the park on your own, do you?” They asked, sucking their teeth at my admission.

“You should take self defence classes,” they told me before being sidetracked about how they wouldn’t mind if Brian from the Judo school cornered them in a dark alley.

It was during this conversation that someone showed me how to hold my door key between my knuckles when walking, so that I could permanently damage any future attacker.

I took them at their word. Of course I was going to be attacked. Of course it would be my fault if I had walked in the dark, aroused a man’s ardour and not been holding my key properly.

They were trying to help but making the bogeyman real keeps women trapped as children. It stops us living our whole lives and that is a tragedy.

Bully Boys

 Have you ever noticed how fragile a bully boy actually is? 

In primary school, we had separate boys and girls playgrounds because boys were too fragile for skipping and standing on your hands in a skirt to show the world you knickers. In theory, this should have reduced the interactions between us. It should have confirmed that we were different species and that we had nothing in common. However, all it did was create unofficial no-man’s land in the spaces between, where girls and boys discovered that they had more in common than was popular at the time. The boys were treated as special. They went out first and were generally taught that they were better. There was one boy called Ian who took his role of being the best very seriously. Because he wasn’t actually very good at anything he worked on his own superior status by bringing others down.

Sometime towards the end of our final year a new girl joined. She was an Amazonian woman. She had at least four inches on the tallest boy, could run faster than anyone, was smart (she literally could recite her nine times tables standing on her head) and had a strange accent. Susannah’s parents had moved around a lot. Her dad had been responsible for pipes or something all over the world. They had just returned from a 5 year stint in America and so her vowels were strange and exotic in comparison to our flat estuary diphthongs. This should have made her a target for Ian but he knew she was way out of his league, so he avoided her and continued to pick on Michael, who everyone said should go to a special school because he hardly spoke but who was just traumatised from being the first person to find his dad hanging in the garage. Susannah didn’t know about Michael but she wasn’t prepared to let a bully make her feel uncomfortable. The rest of us girls stood in no man’s land watching Ian’s verbal cruelty move towards gentle pushes and we knew where this was heading. We knew Michael would say nothing and stand still,  taking it until he finally flipped and launched himself at Ian, taking a bite of whatever bit of flesh his mouth made contact with first. We knew that it would be Michael that would be in trouble with more whispers about special school. Ian would wait with wide-eyed innocence and be rewarded for his bravery. To be fair to us, Susannah hadn’t been conditioned to the situation, as we had. We had got used to it gradually but her new fresh wide brown eyes were shocked. She marched straight into the boys playground and told Michael to step away. She offered herself in place.

“If you wanna pick on somebody honey, then try me,” she drawled.

Ian cried. He just stood there and blubbed. Big fat tears rolled down his face and a teacher came running onto the playground to find out why their golden boy was making such a racket.

“Susannah!” the teacher shouted, “What are you doing on the boys playground?”

“Sorry Miss, I didn’t mean to break the rules,” she said, looking back at us and rolling her eyes, promising to fight that battle another day, “But Ian was being really horrible to Michael and I just wanted to tell him to stop.” 

She didn’t hold back either. She gave the teacher a full verbatim recount of everything Ian had said. 

The teacher was shocked. Ian was still making the sound of a birthing whale and Michael was sitting against the fence making a daisy chain. She asked Ian if it was true but all he could manage through the sobs was, “She...she....she,,,,”

“What did she do to you Ian?” 

The teacher put her hand on his back and his sobs went from birthing whale to boiled alive lobster.

She asked his friends to dish the dirt on Susannah but what could they say? She hadn’t done anything, except offer herself up as an alternative sacrifice. 

I was thinking about that incident when the fall out from Harry and Meghan’s interview happened. The bully boys have been called out. They may try to defend themselves, still not seeing that they’ve done anything wrong (See the society of editor’s letter, written by a former boss of my daughter who has a history of defending bullies) or, like Piers Morgan, throw their toys out of the pram and sob uncontrollably, while the rest of us look on, ashamed at our own complicity at letting this go on for so long.

Susannah didn’t stay long but this incident and her long dark shiny plait left a lasting impression on me. 

A big day with many truths

 We all watched the interview. Or we didn’t and still had opinions about it. It would have been hard to watch and not feel sad. Trapped. Trapped by duty. Trapped by expectation. Trapped by wealth. Trapped by birth. And here I am, caring and making it all worse. I will read the stories, listen to the analysis, causing more to be said and written. The Royal family will try to maintain their stiff upper lip attitude to it all and say nothing but that won’t work. Throw us some scraps or we will make it up. 

It was a jaw dropping interview that could signal the end of the monarchy but maybe not because it’s complicated. 

All the way through I kept thinking about how there are always many truths to a story and one person’s truth doesn’t make another’s a lie. 

Yesterday was the first day back at school for many children. I was driving back from the garden centre at home time and noted  how most children looked really happy. Their little faces were bright with enthusiasm as they talked their parents through their day. The older children, walking home with friends, were all smiling. The truth is that they had a good day. The truth is that their parents missed them. The truth is that their parents were glad to have a little time to themselves and the truth is that those same happy kids might be tired and grumpy at the thought of doing it all again today. There are so many truths.

The new Lady Gaga pink and green Oreo biscuits look awful but I still want to try them. There are many truths.

Does anyone know where I can get these disgusting looking biscuits from?

Too many dates

 I woke up this morning and thought, “8th of March? That date means something.”

I wasn’t sure what. Was is a birthday? An anniversary? Had I forgotten the day the Long Suffering Husband’s budgie died? Sometimes, there are too many dates to remember. I used to have this feeling occasionally as a child. I clearly remember one 22nd of February when I was in school, trying to work out why that date was important. Although it isn’t a date I needed to remember for any reason that I’m aware of, that feeling that it is somehow important has stayed with me.

This morning, I feel the same way about the 8th of March.

Maybe it’s because it has been talked about for so long as the return to school date. Good luck to everyone doing that today but as I don’t work on Monday it’s not me.

Maybe it’s because it’s International Women’s Day but that’s unlikely because I treat it very much like I do world book day. Every day is book day.

Maybe it’s because the Harry and Meghan interview with Oprah is about to drop. However, I am going to pretend I’m not in the slightest bit interested because that’s what you are supposed to do. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait. I loved the Crown, why would the real life version be any less entertaining? I have a lot of thoughts about the monarchy and they are not particularly coherent but I can’t deny it’s entertainment I’m looking forward to.

Maybe it’s just the day my contact lenses need changing.

Whatever the 8th of March brings I hope it’s not just a nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something.

Pay Rise

 With jaw dropping insensitivity, the government announced that NHS staff will get a 1% pay rise and all other public sector workers will get nothing. This, during a time when many public sector workers are on their knees, dealing with a mismanaged pandemic. Doctors and nurses are losing their lives to treat people with an illness they wouldn’t have if the government had closed the borders. Police are having to issue fines to people who sit down when they are outside and have to deal with a criminal underclass who have added spitting to arsenal of ways they can kill a police officer. Teachers have been asked to both work in school (for key worker and vulnerable children) and support children working at home. The bin collectors have touched a trillion bins at a time when we were all warned that surfaces could kill us.  The worst thing about this announcement is that it comes as some of the government’s other spending is revealed. £200,000 was given to the Prime Minister’s wife to help with the designer refurb of their flat and £2.6 million was spent of revamping number 9 Downing Street, as a media centre, for US style media Q&A sessions. 

I know those figures are no where near what would be required to give public sector staff the pay increases they deserve but it hints at a spending priority that most of us would disagree with. There aren’t many people who would decorate a kitchen when they knew there was a leaky pip that could burst at any moment.

If the government had announced that they were going to have a proper review of the NHS and make sure it was effectively funded, alongside an announcement of a 1% pay increase, that might be a different story.  If they looked at why nurses are working 12/16 or even 24 hour shifts and did whatever was needed to stop that (for the safety of everyone). If they made sure each NHS trust had the PPE equipment it needed plus an ability to get more quickly and easily. If they provided more training and committed to employing more staff. If they looked into improving the health outcomes of the poorest in society.  If. 

There were no ifs, though. None of the problems that have caused this virus to rip through our country in a way that’s more devastating way than almost anywhere else have been addressed. 

I can’t be the only one that thinks percentage pay rises are part of the problem, either. 

When I was little my Dad taught me a very valuable lesson about percentages. He asked me to help him with something. I think it was decorating. Being a stroppy mare, I huffed and said, “Only if you pay me more than you did last time.”

I saw the smile play around the corners of his eyes but ignored it.

“A percentage increase?” he asked. “I’ll give you an extra 5%.”

“Ten percent!” I countered 

“Done!”

I was so pleased with myself; thrilled with my negotiating skills until I realised that he hadn’t paid me anything before.

“Ten percent of nothing is still nothing!” he laughed.

Percentage pay rises make the problems worse. A care assistant earning £8an hour will get an extra £13 a month. Their bills will go up by the percentage of inflation. The chief executive of the NHS by contrast will find an extra £166 in his monthly pay packet. If they both spent £100 on their weekly shop then that extra 80p (if inflation stays as it is) hardly makes a dent in the £166 but is a huge proportion of the £13. 

Clearly, I don’t have any solutions to this because I’m just a primary school music teacher who thinks too much but if all this doesn’t make you feel a little bit uncomfortable then you probably aren’t paying attention.

Here, have a rainbow, or the clap but proper funding? Forget it!

Fabulous Friday - a wish for parents

 Have a fabulous Friday. This is the last Friday of homeschooling. Hopefully for ever. You made it. You kept your children educated, didn’t kill anyone, kept your job and your sanity.  

“Woah!” you say, “Let’s not go that far!”

But you did it. You survived and on Monday you get to hand them over to someone else for six hours a day. 

I’m not even going to entertain the idea that the government have made another mistake. They’ve got over 90% uptake of the vaccine so far and therefore it doesn’t matter if it’s too early, the NHS surely can’t collapse before we have herd immunity now. 

Many children, parents and teachers are looking forward to getting back to school. It won’t be normal but it will be something.

I keep thinking that what it will be is noisy. Do you remember how loud it is with 30 people in one room? No. Me neither and so today I am going to make the most of the fabulous quiet. Parents, however, are going to get some of their peace back.

In primary schools, before the culture of ‘every second counts’ took over, Friday afternoon was Golden Time, where the children got to choose. They could play with Lego or draw or even write on the teacher’s board and teachers could crack on with a bit of marking, while keeping one eye out for the occasional fight that would break out over the gold crayon. Many of the parents I have been speaking to have earned a Friday afternoon Golden Time and I hope they enjoy every second of this fabulous Friday.

Book Day

 It’s book day. What? Just one day for books? Impossible! Every day is book day. Wouldn’t it be nice if on book day all we had to do was read books?

That’s all I have to say on the matter.

Budget Day

 I used to enjoy budget day. It was on a Tuesday and it would be a little piece of political drama that could be followed on the radio. 

Now, there’s too much news, the drama has gone because a journalist who can’t keep secrets has tittle tattled on Twitter and it’s on Wednesday. 

I am concerned about where Matt Hancock is going to go when Rishi Sunak has to use his little red box. I imagine him sitting inside, feeling quite sick as Rishi swings it around, happily, announcing an extension to the furlough scheme until 2939, More Eat Out to Help Out, a new ‘Shop until you drop’ scheme and an announcement that the arts will be fine (probably). The chancellor might give it an extra hard swing, as he warns that all this spending will have to be paid back, as he gleefully looks at the opposition bench, so they know he has left them a stick the conservatives can beat them with, causing tiny Matt to vomit over the papers that are left.

Violet Speedwell and the plant of destiny

 I didn’t write my blog yesterday because I second guessed myself. I had doubts. I was going to write an advert for the government. It would have gone something like this:

MISSING

Wanted in connection with a rampaging virus.

Person with a Brazilian. If you had a test and didn’t fill in the form please call the hotline, so we can all avoid a close shave.

I didn’t write it yesterday because I thought I was being silly but then the government held a briefing that said that almost word for word. It was also filled with some good news and for the first time Penfold looked quite positive. He seemed to be suggesting that the vaccination programme was looking to be so successful even Hat Mancock couldn’t fuck it up now.

“What has this got to do with Violet Speedwell?” you ask.

Absolutely nothing. I just had to get it out of my head first.

Violet Speedwell is a character in Tracy Chevalier’s novel, A Single Thread. It’s about the needlepoint cushions in Winchester Cathedral and is an absolutely beautiful book, if you are looking for a World Book Day suggestion. Since I read the book, I’ve had a desire to have a go at embroidery. Good books do that. They make you want to try the things the author has written about so passionately. They also allow you to travel, which is very useful in these ‘stay at home’ times. 

Now that the Long Suffering Husband has got to the screw sorting stage of lockdown I thought I might need something to entertain me. I’ve never embroidered before. My mum liked it and therefore I decided that it would be something I wouldn’t be any good at. It’s funny how we do that; how we decide by comparing ourselves to others without even trying. 

I began, half heartedly, thinking about wild flowers as I stitched. Then I looked at Twitter and someone I know had posted a picture of a wild flower, for identification. I love how you can do that. Twitter has become the place I can go to say, “What’s that?” “Why?” and “How does that work?” It was a small blue flower that I know as birds eye. 

They looked like some of the little flowers on my embroidery kit. 

Other, wiser people than me replied with their proper name. They were Speedwells. Violet Speedwells. 

The yoga I did was all about destiny and the collective worship story was about three trees accepting their fate. (I will probably never come to terms with Christian delight at the torture of a young man but I got the metaphor).

So, if you want me. I’ll be sewing. Who am I to ignore my destiny?