Fuck New Year

I miss my mum. She hated it too.

Cheesemas

 I worry about people.

Specifically the people who can’t enjoy Cheesemas.

The period between Christmas and New Year, where there’s no pressure. You don’t have to DO anything. I know that many people go to work but the principal is true even there. All you have to do this week is survive. If you can manage to stay off tomorrow’s dead people list then anything else can wait until the new year. 

When I was a child this was the period of the big jigsaw puzzle. Because the dining table wasn’t needed it was the perfect opportunity. You’d wander past with your plate of cheese, handful of Twiglets and a toffee penny from the Quality Street tub in your back pocket and slide a few pieces in. Nothing too strenuous. No expectations.

How come there are people in the world who can’t enjoy that?

I didn’t know those people existed until the invention of Twitter. I thought everyone was revelling in the no pressure season. Long walks, short walks, stops at coffee shops, grazing food and drink all day, sleeping more, reading, drawing, writing, listening to music, watching old films, a spot of shopping but only if you fancy it.

It’s an introvert’s paradise.

Just over 50% of the population are introverts. It should be a happy time and even extroverts benefit from a little down-time and if not they have other extroverts to do people-y things with. Things with no demands. A hassle free life.

Over on Twitter are the people who hate Cheesemas. Unless someone is telling them what to do and placing loads of demands on them they are bored and fractious. They pick fights and call each other names. I know they do that all the time but because the rest of us are blissfully full of cheese we stop in, look, raise an eyebrow and slide another jigsaw piece in before grabbing the salt and vinegar Pringles (we know they’re disgusting but it’s part of the ritual), rather than playing the game and getting all het up about it.

So, there they all are. The Glinners, the John Cleeses, the Julia Hartley-Brewers and the Andrew Tates. Shouting into the void. Surprisingly, Piers seems to love Cheesemas. 

You might have missed it  beacuse you were passing the fridge or had your nose in a book but one of the Cheesemas haters just shot himself in the foot and it was glorious.

Andrew Tate, self confessed kick-boxing bad boy “I don’t believe in rape I just think I should be free to do what I want.” and TikTok shit-stirrer, decided to pick a fight with Greta Thunberg. 

Greta loves Cheesemas (it’s probably vegan cheese but it still counts - nut roast lasts for weeks) but she happened to be between romantic comedy films and wrote a short sassy reply. Others who were passing because colouring for adults had got too difficult or the Baileys glass was empty noticed, had a chuckle and told their friends. The Romanian police looked up from their samale with extra sauerkraut and noticed a pizza box.

“Quick! He’s in the country. We can finally arrest the twit for sex trafficking.”

And so they did.

Honestly, Cheesemas is the best time of year. If you don’t enjoy it then I worry about you, you could end up in a Romanian prison.

Christmas Highlights

Can you even call yourself a woman if you don’t bullet journal your Christmas?

 Today marks the end of the tits and teeth Christmas. When I was younger it would be Christmas highlight day. School church service (always booked on my day off) followed by a drink and a mince pie on my own with a book in a coffee shop before going to the hairdresser. It was always a challenge not to nod off in the chair. Then I would go home a watch a Muppet Christmas Carol while making lists. Now that I have natural white streaks I can just get on with the process of catching up on the things that have kept other women awake for months.

I need to make lists. And check them twice. Presents, food, shopping, baking, cleaning, decorating, wrapping. This one day causes so much stress and women measure their value by its success or failure. There are TikToks to watch on how to cut carrots into Christmas tree shapes. The cupboards need to be stocked with food no one is allowed to eat because ‘it’s for Christmas’. First, though, those cupboards need cleaning. So much needs cleaning. I can’t invite people into the house with dirty skirting boards. Put the Christmas soap in the downstairs loo. The shower! Oh my God! The shower! Christmas will be ruined if it’s not draining properly. 

It’s true. There’s  a lot to do in four days. I really should get on with it but it can wait, right? Half a day of rest. I know most of you have been doing this stuff for ages but please tell me it can wait another day. Yes. That’s it I’ve decided . As long as there are enough roast potatoes everything will be fine and I promise not to punch anyone who asks me if I’m ready for Christmas. I’ve got 4 days, so I’m going to have my Christmas Highlights day without visiting the hairdresser.

Your part in the Nativity….

 It’s that time of year where creative writers are allowed to write in newspapers. Serious news publications are stuffed to the stockings with articles that claim to predict your child’s future from the part they had in the school nativity play.

Roughly, it will go like this:

Mary & Joseph - not as good as you’d expect. Often a non speaking role; nice to look at but maybe not all that bright. However, they will do well in life if they keep their looks; always promoted above their abilities.

Kings - the wise men of the class. Can be relied upon to come in on time and say difficult words. The tax accountants of the future.

The star - overly dramatic but not annoying. To be found on cruise ships in her twenties and teaching in a primary school once she has children.

Photo of a fantastic Christmas card I received one year

Shepherds - this is the role the papers will convince you that you don’t want your children to have. Always late, forgetting their lines with a tea towel on their head. Future Amazon delivery drivers.

Donkey - what more do they need to say? The description is in the title. This child is a donkey and will grow up to be a donkey.

Inn keepers - children who can say ‘No’ loud and proud. These little creatures are no push over and will grow up to be whatever they want. These are the ones to watch.

Angels  - loud out of tune singers with a strong opinion of themselves. These will be the women to avoid at the school gate.

Farmyard animals - these are the stinky non-verbal kids. Despair now if your child is the Ox. You must be a terrible parent. There is no hope for your child, they’ll be lucky to even get a job.

Narrator - this child loves words and is a great reader. You can guarantee that the person writing the article was a narrator and is still a little miffed that they weren’t Mary or Joseph. Being a good reader should have got them a better paid job than this!

We all love it when the story fits the archetype.

So, when you read these articles you cast your mind back to your primary school days you think of the one King you know who is now a tax accountant and it confirms the stereotyping that we enjoy but you don’t think about all the children who didn’t have their lives defined by a play.

I watched the Harry and Meghan documentary last week and realised that they are a problem because they are refusing the archetype. In our fairy stories the brother of the future King is supposed to want to usurp his sibling and take the crown. His wife has to play the part of the evil Queen, pushing him in that direction. They want no part of it. This documentary is their way of showing that they are just quite boring people). Obviously, you won’t want to believe that. You’ll prefer the Daily Mail’s version, where everyone is cross with them for trying to bring down the royal family because this fits the archetype.

However, sometimes the donkey is just a child who is prepared to wear the costume and say hee-haw. Chill out parents. It is possible to break the archetype, not fit the story and just be boring. Most people’s lives would make a very tedious book or film.

Terracotta Camels

 I had the hump.

‘What do you mean it’s time to go out? I’ve only just got in and I’ve got humps to knit.’

It was the golf club Christmas Quiz, where, hilariously the pot luck round was followed by the general knowledge round and every history question set after 1945 was followed by the quizmaster saying, ‘you’ll remember that.’ I wasn’t good company because all I could think about was my humps.

The life of a primary school music teacher at Christmas is weird. I’ll admit that I am my own worst enemy. It isn’t necessary to make a 3 humped camel costume for one song in one performance but when the song is such a genius play on words that you don’t want the audience to miss, it’s unavoidable. Godfrey Humps. I have been excitedly talking about this fab song and how I want the choir to perform it at the choral society concert for a week now (which might not seem long to you but as every day seems to have 3 performances - it is actually a lifetime).

The Long Suffering Husband has listened patiently. Or so I thought.

However.

Every time I mentioned needing to work on the camel costume he said, ‘What camel?’ And I would tell him the story again.

I appreciate that it’s hard to keep up. So many concerts. So many camels. 

But.

When we were due to go to the quiz and I got the hump about my half finished humps I said, ‘I’m not telling you again.’

‘But I’ve forgotten,’ he said, ‘I have a memory problem.’

He doesn’t. 

He has the best memory of anyone I know.

He has poor listening skills.

In the 80s there was an advert for something I can’t remember where the girlfriend was talking and when she asked her partner a question he panicked and said ‘terracotta.’ Although we can’t remember what the advert was for, the LSH told our quiz partners that I was in a bad mood because of the terracotta camels. 

It’s striking to me

 It’s striking to me that the world is currently a little odd.

News reports tell of people in highly qualified skilled jobs in service industries not having enough money to buy food.

Local newspapers are running campaigns to set up warm spaces people can go to for free, rather than heating their own home.

Children are dying of Strep A infections because GP surgeries are too busy to see all the worried well. 

Yet, everyone seems surprised that people are prepared to go on strike to demand more money. It’s as though people are meant to look at their bosses in their big heated houses and check out their Instagram page of meals they’ve had out this week and say, ‘There’s no money. How dare I ask?’

Of course people are prepared to strike when things are difficult for them. This is when they do; when losing a week’s money is bad but they can’t afford food anyway, so really, what have they got to lose?

That’s nothing, though. 

The really weird thing is that I was just involved in a school nativity where nothing went wrong. Yes, you heard that. NOTHING. No camels having a poo on the stage. No crying angels. No scenery falling down. No out of time singing (well a tiny bit but they’re 5!). No shepherds’ punch ups. The worst that happened was that one of the sound system speakers was a bit quiet. The audience were good too. Even the sheep got a laugh for his baaa. 

Now, I don’t want to worry you but this is concerning. You might be worried about the polar ice cap melting or whether you will get to see Great Aunt Maud, what with the rail strikes and all that but a perfect nativity is unprecedented. It’s like lightning striking in the same place 5 times.

Denkmals und Bildhauerkunst

 In the middle of Vienna, in a cobbled side lane, behind the Hof, is Judenplatz. It’s a place you stumble upon by accident and wonder why it’s not a compulsory part of a visit to Vienna. The restaurants are good. Mostly, though, it’s the powerful memorial, erected by the Jewish museum  and designed by British artist Rachel Whiteread, that you should go and see. A concrete chamber made as an inverted library of 65,000 books, whose titles you can’t see; 65,000 Austrian Jewish people whose stories will never be written because they were murdered in the name of purifying Germany on the whim of an Austrian man who decided that everything was the fault of some immigrants. The stark contrast between the concrete block and the cobbled streets and baroque architecture

surrounding it takes your breath away.

On this visit, we didn’t find it by accident, instead choosing to routemarch our friends to it after watching a protest march and looking at a defaced statue that has been turned into a modern art structure.

Last time we visited Vienna there was an election going on. It was the start of rise of the right wing parties. Press were everywhere because it looked like, in Austria of all places, Naziism was starting again. They didn’t win the election but the movement had begun. 

We were crossing the road to Dr Karl Lueger Platz just a a noisy protest came through. Stop. I love a protest. 

I wouldn’t join but I love watching the people in them. The mixture of exhaustion and pride on their faces, always feeling that they are doing something special, making a difference, changing lives. Maybe they are. Who knows! God. I hope not. We were all impressed with the cowbells but the signs were terrifying. (I translated them as we sat in a wonderful restaurant eating Tafelspitz).

Close the borders

Repatriation now!

How dumb to use aggressive propaganda still to stop our pastures due to lockdown when further immigration is allowed.

Enough with masks - 3G - Gene injection - or merit - Santa animals - illegals- mass migration. (There might have been spelling mistakes in that one)

Free speech

Austria out of the Eu

Peace with Russia 

Quite depressing. History repeats. Suddenly, none of us are feeling hopeful about the future and we are worried about those Santa animals because no one wants the reindeer to take over.

After they passed and we crossed the road we found Leuger’s Denkmal: A statue of the burgermeister of Vienna between 1897 and 1910. It had been defaced. Black paint. Shame. A small stubby penis painted with spray paint. The city has embraced this vandalism and erected a modern piece of artwork over the top (neon pieces of plastic), including a QR code, highlighting the crimes of this man, who had used Jewish immigrants to make the city great.

Yes, the Christmas markets are great with lights, festive smells from Gluwein and wurstal stands, music everywhere but Vienna is so much more.

Vienna Waits

 Yes. That’s right, you are in for a JuliaofallTrades travel blog.

I left the country.

 Anxiety. It’s still a bit of a bugger and so I would like to apologise to anyone I snapped at on Friday. The weirdest thing happened, though. I got off the tube and emerged, blinking into the daylight and felt calm. Home. 

What? It’s not my home. I have been to Vienna once before and my sense of direction and aptitude for remembering have declined since then but deja vu is strong in this city.

We came with friends for the Christmas markets. There are nine of them in Vienna and from what I’ve seen so far they are crowded but good. If you want to eat bratwurst and drink Gluwein then Austria is the place to come. 

If you are reading for travel tips then here is my first: Avoid the biggest market, at City Hall square, just as it gets dark. Too crowded. Push. Shove. Panic. 

My second tip: Eat before you get to the point where you are going to kill someone. I saw sausage rage in the queues. 

We only intended to pop out for a quick bite to eat but, as usual, we walked. My friend, who has a heel injury, is probably going to regret this trip with us.

Lights twinkled, people shoved but by about 7 the crowds disappeared enough for locals to walk their dogs and I relaxed enough to notice the music. A trombone quartet. People carrying instruments in expensive hard cases. A harpist by the Christmas tree.

Travel tip 3: You probably don’t need the photo of the Christmas tree from underneath. You are likely to fall over and your friends will leave you to panic in the crush.

Music is everywhere in Vienna. You can barely move without tripping over Mozart’s balls. 

We are in a very nice hotel, with helpful staff, high ceilings, Austrian-style duvet per person (no fighting for the covers in Austria) and a shower cubicle in the middle of the room (bit weird but there’s a curtain) and it has its own opera singing spirit. 

The Long Suffering Husband was also awake by 6am, when the opera singing started. It was a  tuneful, rich and melodious baritone. 

“Can you hear that?” I asked, never fully trusting my senses.

“Yes. It’s outside,” he said, “Go to the window and look if you want.”

I couldn’t see anything. I opened the window to hear better and abruptly, mid-phrase, the aria ended. 

“That’s weird. Maybe it was a ghost,” the LSH suggested.

Trust Vienna to have opera singing spectres.

Elves and Old Ladies

 When I was a child, old ladies were grumpy. They’d snarl at children on buses, snap at young mothers to keep their babies quiet and stand on their doorsteps with crossed arms and disapproving frowns. Their blue and pink candy floss perms were the only cheerful parts of them. The reason that the Jenny Joseph poem hit home to us schoolgirls is that we were determined not to be ‘one of those’ when we grew up. Instead, we would wear purple, run our stick along railings and eat a pound of sausages in one go. 

Now, old ladies are grumpy. They wear purple, eat too many sausages so that they burp, fart and swear in public. Think Miriam Margoles. And they are bigoted. They have their views and nothing is changing them. 

Therefore, it is no surprise that a woman in the Royal household in her 80s would double down when questioning a dark-skinned woman where she was from. It makes for a fantastic news story. It’s good to draw attention to how annoying this must be and how it is racist because someone whose parents came from Holland (for example) would never be asked where they were from, however, we shouldn’t be surprised. It’s what old ladies do.

There are a lot of reasons for women to be grumpy and with age the grounds for crabbiness mount up.

A piece of technology I was using in class didn’t work because I had failed to ‘publish’ the class list that had taken me three days to upload. The children were very judgemental about my lack of computing skills, which is quite unfair as they managed to get us locked out of the site because they couldn’t spell their own names.

“It’s just that computers move so fast. They didn’t have computers when I was at school.”

They were shocked, so I told them about Oswald, a new exciting class computer that looked like an egg, was wheeled in on a trolley and could tell you if you’d added things up correctly, that arrived when I was in the top junior class (year 6 in their numbers).

“How old are you?”

I’m never worried about this question but I thought they needed to work for the answer so I gave them my birth year. Oh, who am I kidding? I gave them my birth year because I can never remember how old I am. I used to say 42 but that seems like too big a lie these days.

I was a little shocked to discover that I’m 96 though.

“Hmmm. I don’t think I’d be here if I was 96,” I said.

“No. You’d be on the couch.”

On the couch, being crotchety.

I can already feel the waspishness stinging at the thought of the elves. I hate the elves. Stop the elves.

“It wasn’t like that in my day. Encouraging such bad behaviour. Whatever happened to being on the nice list?”

Maybe I am 96 and it’s time to retire and sit on the couch.

In all honesty, though, I am probably just a little jealous of these young mums with energy and creativity to make a new scene every night. How they manage is beyond my comprehension. Sometimes the tooth fairy forgot to come to our house.

Tits and Teeth Christmas

 November flies by in a flurry of stress and anticipatory anxiety. Diaries are filled, pages turned and as more people ask, “Could you just,” there is a  sense that there won’t even be time to breathe in December. Add to that the fact that my musicians are children, post-lockdown bugs are wreaking havoc on unpractised immune systems and people seem to have forgotten how to be nice and you are in twitchy-eye territory.

Then, before you know it, it’s the end of the month. Frosty breath. You’ve made the Christmas pud, done the first three concerts and had a mince pie. The Christmas jumpers come out of storage, you keep a set of sleigh bells in your handbag (just in case) and the weather gets colder and crisper. Hoops appear in the school hall. 

I don’t know if hoops are a universal primary school marker of Christmas but when I walked into the hall this morning and saw displays of tinsel clad PE hoops, masquerading as festive mobiles of children’s artwork, hanging from the ceiling the anxiety lifted and I blurted out, “Ooh, Christmas has started! Hoops! I’ve had a mince pie and I’m three concerts in.”

My colleague raised an eyebrow.

“Not for me. Not until December the first!”

That was when I explained the two Christmases of a musician. My Christmas- the one with family, tree decorating, present buying, wrapping and icing a Christmas cake with carols from Kings on the radio - starts when things calm down a bit, somewhere around the 17th. Until then, it’s the Tits and Teeth Christmas. Plaster on the smile and just keep going until it’s all done.

I have musician friends who hate Christmas. All that sticking your chest out and toothy grins spoil their family festivities.  Weirdly, I’m not one of them. In my years as a non-musician it was the Tits and Teeth Christmas I missed. My own Christmas was somehow poorer for not falling into it in an exhausted heap.

There is something to be said for pretending to have a great time. Fake it ‘till you make it. It works for over hyped religious festivals as well as general life.

Welcome to December. The month of teaching children who have legitimately had chocolate for breakfast.

Willy and Fanny

*warning - contains copious amounts of swearing*

 I haven’t written a blog since the new Prime Minister took over because it’s all too depressing. Maybe it’s just my usual November blues, which happens because I’m overwhelmed with what is coming up (never talk to a musician in November about whether they are excited for Christmas) but I suspect it’s more to do with people I like to call Willy and Fanny (or variations of those names)

Proportionally, I would say that there are more Willies than Fannies. 

I’m talking about those entitled people who believe that the sun, moon, stars and everyone else revolves around them. We have all come up against someone who is so obsessed with their own orbit they forget that you are a human being too. Those are the people I name. It helps me to shout a variation of Willy or Fanny and attach it to a perfectly ordinary object when I am alone, after I have been affected by one of these creatures. Lately, my life has been made just a little more uncomfortable by people like this.

This is a technique I learnt from Twitter, where obscenity used to be compulsorily. Now, the platform has been bought by a Willy. It seems highly appropriate that Twatter is now run by someone who build his own phallic spaceship and sends everyone running for the hills. 

A government that has been in power too long, run out of ideas, mismanaged a pandemic, crashed the economy and stirred up racism in an attempt to understand migration, is, obviously, completely staffed by Willies and Fannies. 

We have reached the state where there’s no one left, so they have to give jobs to those who have previously resigned for wrongdoing. None of them are making any sense at all.

This makes the Willy who had to resign but missed out on the handshake determined to make us love him some other way. I know that everyone is particularly cross with this particular Willy for spoiling their favourite show. I, however, think it’s a Machiavellian move of genius proportions. I don’t watch I’m a Celebrity. It’s not for me. I like nice things and absolutely hate it when people get pleasure out of other’s misfortune. Schadenfraude just makes me uncomfortable but I know that it’s very popular. So, on he goes, gets to publicly lie and be questioned by other celebrities who are also there to lie so that we will love them and the public watch in their thousands. Then they can phone in to make him eat snake anus (do snakes have anuses?). When he does so without complaint and with what seems like genuine warmth and humour then we will love him again and he will be the next Prime Minister. The answer, obviously, would be to not watch it (there are several good books I can recommend instead) but I know that you are not going to do that. You are going to watch, vote, tell everyone else. You will rant on social media, the regulated media will report your fury (because reporting what other people say is allowed), more people will watch and he will emerge as a shiny new Willy; polished and covered in glitter.

There’s nothing I can do to stop you.

Except I will gift you a list of words that you could shout at the telly instead.

Cocktrumpet, cuntpuffin, sinkdick, gophergonad, piepussy, forkpenis, blanketknob, bilbyhole, handcock.

“You absolute hand cock!”

Although, now that I’ve given you the secret you can make up your own and feel lalochezia, which the book I’m currently reading (Susie Dent’s Emotional Dictionary) says is the relief felt at swearing. 

Go on. Get a dose of lalochezia. 

Podium Pete

 Every morning Pete arrives at the gates that block the public from the street where he works. He’s been there so often that every Police officer on duty knows his name. His reputation proceeds him, as does his nickname and this morning an officer he has never seen before touches his hat, winks and says, “Morning pee pee,” as he opens the gate.

Pete shuffles through, sighing deeply. He does wish they wouldn’t call him that.as it makes him sound incontinent, which given his advancing years and growing prostate might not be entirely inaccurate but he knows that it’s just the initials of his nickname.

“Busy day for you, mate.”

The copper is still trying to make conversation. Pete isn’t feeling particularly chatty today. Some days he loves nothing better than to stop and discuss his treasures but as the lad had said today was going to be a busy day. Again. Another busy day. So soon after the last one. 

The faint smell of beeswax polish follows him into the building and all the way down into the basement where he spends his days with his precious collection. He moves between the 245 pieces of unique furniture in his care, stroking and naming each one. He pats a light oak one with a twisted base that reminds him of a Jenga game.

“Sorry Bessie. Last time out for you, old girl. I know, I know, it’s not surprising, given what’s happened but it is a shame. You really are a beauty.”

Pete spends a little extra time waxing and polishing before two boys in black jeans and T-shirts come to take her outside. Pete suspects they spend too much time in the gym, looking at themselves and other pretty boys in the mirror.

He wanders around, muttering to himself, trying to make the right choice. 

“Too dark, Bert. Too fussy, Herbert. Too tall, Brenda.”

He stops before a sleek beechwood specimen, with square bevelled edges and says, “Oh Alan, you’ll be perfect.”

The muscled lads bring Bessie back and take Alan and Pete talks in a soft calming voice to the returning movable, tending to the piece with polish and cloth until Alan is also returned to him.

“Let’s hope you’re not needed too often, Al,” Pete says dipping his cloth into a special pot of ting oil and beginning to work in small circles over the item of furniture.

When he leaves, Pete notices that the officer on duty is Rosie. She’s one of his favourites; always happy to chat and often tells him how his tips have saved her coffee table from coffee rings (a cool iron and tissue paper) , red wine (salt) and nail polish(hairspray). He does wonder how she can be so clumsy. 

“Hey Pete. You’re famous. It’s all over Twitter. With so many changes of Prime Minister. They’ve finally noticed Podium Pete. Obviously not as famous as ‘hot podium guy’ but your work has been noticed.

“You do know, it’s a lectern, don’t you Rosie?”

“Oh I know, a podium is something you stand on. Rishi could do with one, don’t you think?”

“I was just checking, you know, because you do call me Podium Pete.”

“Yeah, right, I know. But Peter, Keeper of the Lecterns  is such a mouthful .”

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, alive or dead is pure co-incidence.

(Is that OK, Pete?)

Family

 ‘Boris has pulled out.’

The push news notification came through on the nation’s collective phones and the world spun a little on it’s axis as everyone made the same, slightly rude, joke at the same time. At least he won’t be making any more family, they thought.

We were back from a family wedding and I was pinned to the sofa by the dog, who had decided that I was never leaving him again. I was thinking about what a lovely weekend we had and pondering the nature of families.

Before we went, I was worried. We have been terrible family. The Long Suffering Husband and his sister only stay in touch with occasional emails, that, as far as I am aware, talk about cars and holidays. We worked out that it had been 13 years since we saw the boys and here we were, being invited to the wedding. 

I had imagined the conversation.

“But we never see them?”

“It’s my brother!”

“Weddings are expensive.”

“I know but he’s my brother. It’s how it’s done. Weddings and funerals.”

I felt guilty.

Guilty for all the years I hadn’t made more of an effort to be a family. I hadn’t even sent birthday cards, even though both boy’s birthdates are etched into my memory, as though from acid on glass. We discussed whether it was the right thing to go. Would a polite refusal be better? Cheaper for the bride and groom, certainly but heartbreaking for the LSH’s sister.

I grew up with enormous extended family, that we stayed in touch with. We didn’t see all of my Dad’s as much; a couple of siblings were in New Zealand, another in Suffolk (which seemed just as far) and there was a generational age gap between my Dad and his oldest brother. We still all saw each other at weddings and funerals, though and with such a large family, there were lots of those. 

The LSH didn’t have that relationship with his extended family, even though it was also large. He was the last of the cousins to be born, just as most of the cousins were having children. He might have been to weddings and funerals but he doesn’t remember them. In fact, for a man who seems to remember everything now, his early memory is shocking. 

I had just started dating the LSH when the boys were born and never really became Aunty. I used to (and still do) sign the cards (that I buy, write and send) the from (uncle) LSH and Julia. 

I felt guilty about that too. I remember, as a child, feeling the pressure of family to be overwhelming. The duty and responsibility all tied up with a constant need to be sociable. I found family parties awkward and draining. You weren’t allowed to read your book and then there was all that kissing! Maybe I kept the LSH’s family apart on purpose. 

But the need for familial connection is strong and so we went to the wedding. Of course we did. And it was beautiful. And heartwarming. It was everything weddings are supposed to be. We sat with the bride’s grandad who greeted the LSH, with, “ I thought you were dead.” before keeping us all thoroughly entertained and drinking us under the table. 

We spent time reminiscing; always a balm for the soul. Watercress soup at Christmas, shared holidays for the LSH and his sister, memories of the groom’s grandparents. The deceased grandparents are always at the weddings of their grandchildren, which is pleasing to know.

These conversations with my nephews (look, I said it) were like talking to my own children and made me vow to allow them to know each other.

“Let’s not leave it so long, next time,” we all say, air kissing and hugging as we leave.

I’d like to think that I’ll be better but the list of people I should stay in touch with seems to be growing almost as fast as the list of books I want to read and although it’s an outrageous admission, I think the books might win. If you are reading this and think you might be on the other list, then you almost certainly are and my books and I would like to apologise. 

Living through history is tiring

 Liz left. The lettuce claimed it had won and for her 44 days in office, where she did nothing because the Queen died, then crashed the economy and hid under her desk,  she now receives £115,000 a year public duty payment for the rest of her life. That is extra to anything she earns as an ordinary MP. Whether you care about pork markets or not, that.is.a.disgrace!

This, ‘feel sorry for Maggie Thatcher’ payment feels so wrong now.

Except that it’s not a payment but a maximum amount that can be claimed in expenses for setting up and running an office to continue the work that you might be asked to do as an ex-prime minister but let’s not let the truth spoil our fun. 

The situation is so bonkers that Question Time moved to a Panorama slot, rather than the drift-off-on-the-sofa slot. It’s all people wanted to talk about. Another distraction from the real problems happening right now. Post Brexit, post pandemic, cost of living crisis, War in Ukraine, half the world covered in flood water or baked dry. Nobody can think about any of these things because we are stuck in some kind of endless horror film loop. “Thank God! The grown ups are in charge. Wow! Those grown ups are childish. They must go. Thank God! The grown ups are in charge.”

While the Conservative party choose a new leader, who instantly becomes Prime Minister, nothing happens, except more childish squabbling. 

The Question Time audience were almost unanimous.

WE NEED A GENERAL ELECTION

It was a tough message.

What they said to the Conservatives was, ‘ We want you out’ - NOW!

Because they don’t even care who they elect as their next leader. People are so fed up they just want/need to vote for someone else. They’d actually prefer the Conservatives not to be on the ballot paper, distracting them with their promises that turn out to be lies. 

It won’t/ can’t work like that. We are in for a pause of at least six months while campaigning happens. Norfolk just fell into the sea. Don’t worry, that was Liz Truss’ constituency it won’t be missed. 

Meanwhile, it is rumoured that Boris Johnson is going to stand for PM again. The judgement hasn’t actually been finalised about whether he lied to parliament so he could be re-instated and immediately sacked when they conclude their investigation. I’ve never understood the appeal of a boy like Boris, hitting their classmates, turning their big blue eyes to innocent mode, tossing their blond locks and always just about getting away with it. Even less comprehensible is the fact that everyone wants to be their friend, despite the risk of frequent bruising. People will argue it’s fear that makes them want to keep the enemy close but with Boris types the affection always seems genuine. People surely can’t have forgotten that he started all this with his lies about partygate and mishandling of a sexual abuse investigation? It was a whole year ago but no one has that short a memory, surely?

Whatever happens next, the turmoil is far from over. I’m expecting that the Daily Star journalist has a radish lined up for Rishi, a pineapple for Penny, a bean for Ben, a brussel sprout for Boris, a kiwi for Kemi and, just in case, a melon for Michael. 

My daughter has finally made a full and frank apology. All of this is her fault. As a child she kept saying that she would like to live through History. I warned her to be careful what she wished for and reminded her of the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” She was adamant, though, and insisted on wanting to record it. Yesterday, though, she texted to apologise. 

It’s a fracking disaster

 It was fun at the beginning. 

Watching a political party, you are ideologically at odds with, implode was fun at first. Now, even the hardy journalists who love this sort of thing are finding it so hard to watch they are focusing on a lettuce.

Yesterday Home Secretary, the poisonous Suella Braveman resigned, saying it was because she made a mistake. The Daily Mail has reported that this resignation followed a 90 minute shouting match.

A conservative back bench MP of 17 years standing was interviewed live, shaking with fury said, “I think it’s a shambles and a disgrace. It’s utterly appalling.”

And the thing that made him so furious?

A vote on fracking.

A fracking distraction to the real issue of climate change. Jacob Rees-Mogg decided to allow the North of the country to be plunged into years of earthquakes to extract gas that we shouldn’t be using. He wants this because he doesn’t want to believe in climate change. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care how much he destabilises the country because he knows how to use this to make a lot of money.

Most of the conservative government disagree. They have been elected on promises to protect the environment. Labour, cleverly, put forward a motion to ban fracking. The government can’t be seen to lose when they have a large majority, so they make it a three line whip and suggest it’s a vote of confidence. No one has confidence. Even the lettuce is scared (the lettuce in the Daily Star journalist’s bedroom, which he is suggesting will last longer than Liz Truss). But they forget to tell everyone, or nobody believes it and the government nearly loses the vote (which they should have because it was the right thing) which makes them look weak against Labour. It believed that even the Prime Minister didn’t vote against the motion to ban fracking but that is probably irrelevant because they are calling her PINO (Pm in name only). Then they say that there wasn’t a three line whip and the chief whip and deputy chief whip resign. Then they unresign and they say that there was and all the MPs who voted against or abstained will be disciplined. 

Meanwhile, inflation has gone into double figures (the first time since the eighties), more people are using food banks……

“Can we just turn the News off?” the Long Suffering Husband asks. It’s all very depressing.

It’s not just depressing it’s a fracking disaster and it’s not fun to watch anymore.

Menopause Day

 Yesterday was World Menopause Day.

Now, I’m going to say something unpopular.

Menopause is great.

It’s not just great, it’s bloody fantastic. I use the word bloody on purpose because bloody is less a feature of your life.

I was lucky enough to go through menopause at the normal time, meaning that my fertile period had been effectively utilised. As transitions go, it wasn’t the easiest but the other side is fantastic. The problem with menopause being at the normal time is that it comes with a whole load of other transitions. Life changes for mothers and people with parents at around the age of 50 in more ways than is actually comfortable. 

But the benefits.

Not only can I now wear white trousers without suddenly looking like the Japanese flag but my mood is more my own. If I’m grumpy now, it’s because I’m grumpy rather than a sudden dip in progesterone. Obviously, I’m more irritable than I’d like because I’m getting older and my patience for things has worn out. My joints ache and my eyesight has got worse but doing all this without the monthly hormone party and anaemia inducing blood loss is something that should be celebrated. And while we’re at it let’s mention that cramping pain that had you doubled over every month, pretending everything was fine - gone!

Soon, a new celebrity will take over from Davina McCall, pronouncing that no one talks about menopause. She will be incandescent and say all the things that all the celebs have said before. Meanwhile, Davina will be having a great life in her white trousers, forgetting to mention how bloody fantastic the other side is.

Cock-eyed Hell

 Can someone just switch everything off and back on again? Maybe the three pin reset (as my Dad used to call it) would work. It just feels like everything is broken.

Whether you like Liz Truss or not (clue: no one likes Liz Truss) it has to be agreed that her premiership is nothing short of a disaster. I don’t see how anyone’s mental health could survive what she is going through. When your friends stand up and say, “She is not under a desk,” you know you’re screwed. Looking like a hostage with wide blinking eyes she showed the BBC political reporter some paintings and said ‘deliver’ more often than the Post Office. The attempt to look calm and in control failed. It failed so badly that when the beeb went onto the street for vox pops someone said, “What the cock-eyed hell is going on?” The markets are temporarily calmed as a misogynist in a shiny suit appears to take over and people comment that a ‘grown up’ is in charge. Remember though, that this grown up couldn’t work a hand bell and was a fierce advocate for austerity.

The last thing we need now is even less spending on public services.

I made a visit to a GP surgery yesterday - a very rare event and although I was just accompanying someone I came away deeply fearful for anyone who works in the NHS right now. The system has broken and it is people who are taking the brunt of the anger. Receptionists with tears in their eyes as they tell people that they are not allowed to give them an appointment, pharmacists with a sudden seven-fold increase in their work, doctors who look so ill themselves they can barely stand upright. And anything these people miss or don’t have time for can lead to a death.

Post pandemic, how can the government’s answer be to cut the funding? It’s not even as though the defence budget could take a temporary hit. There’s a war between Russia and Ukraine that we are supporting. What about education, or social care or the environment? Nope. These are all broken too. 

Especially the environment. 

Acorns are falling off trees without their hats. I don’t know if this is significant but it feels like a worry. When I looked up into my favourite oak tree and saw the hats still on the tree I said to myself, “What the cock-eyed hell is this?”

It’s my birthday

 It’s my birthday and so I’m going to treat myself by writing a blog about innuendo.

I love to laugh. The quirky, the misheard and the misunderstood are my favourite things. Although we have been married a long time, the Long Suffering Husband can still buy the best birthday card. 

The great thing about enjoying smuttiness is that because my Friday afternoons are spent working with year 6 children my week nearly always ends with an ‘only here’ moment.

There are a small group of boys who are obsessed with sausages. They work ‘sausage’ into almost every answer they give me. It started with the register. I asked them to answer with their favourite food and for some reason all the year 6 boys enjoy a sausage. I didn’t laugh but the corners of my eyes might have twitched.

The week after I asked them to answer with their favourite fruit. This prompted a bittersweet memory of my dad. One of his many (unexplainable) catchphrases was, “Sausages are my favourite fruit.” When he said it, though, it was never followed by sniggering and side-eye checking for approval from the other boys in the room. 

The week after, they were bolder and asked if the question could be “What’s your favourite sausage?” I suppose I should have shut it down there but I wanted to see. I knew that none of them would be brave enough to name their own sausage.

“My favourite sausage is the one I keep in my trousers, Miss.”

It is what they are doing though. Extra long, big, fat and  juicy are frequently mentioned. 

This week I decided that the ring leader could choose and ask the question. It can be interesting for them to see how it feels. I was wondering if he would try to take a serious register but he went for chaos.

“Do you like sausages?” he asked.

Most of the girls picked up the cue and quietly  answered “No”. The boys revelled in their answer, “Why wouldn’t I? What’s not to like about a sausage?”

One girl though, loudly and proudly, made me want to laugh.

“I only like German sausages!” she announced.

I vowed to shut down the sausage talk because it’s embarrassing the girls and the boys don’t really realise what they are saying.

For the rest of the music lesson we were using straws to act as double reeds to make a pavane with a recorder tune over the top. It was complicated composing that required an understanding of rhythm notation, pulse, pitch and texture. It also took the technical skill of being able to play the recorder and get a sound from the double reed straw. 

Double reed straws cause a lot of excitement. Two classes had tried them the week before (the classes who hadn’t wasted a lot of time on sausages). One boy had got it really quickly and asked to go to the toilet. 

“But Miss, he’s already been to the toilet,” the other’s complained when I said he could go.

I thought but luckily didn’t say, “I know but he wants to go and blow his thing in private.” He did but not how I made it sound in my head. So I just shrugged.

“He probably needs a poo,” they told me.

Too much information.

This week when I gave out the straws one of the sausage boys said, “Oh good, we get the blow jobs this week.”

If it hadn’t been a sausage boy I would have assumed it was a slip of the tongue (so to speak) but he was obviously asked to leave the room until I had finished the input.

When I went to speak to him he was shamefaced. 

“Just. Not. Appropriate.” I said.

“I don’t know what it means,” he said.

“Whether that’s true or not, you can come back in but don’t say it again.”

He didn’t take the opportunity to draw a line under it. 

“People in the playground last week said that they were called a blow job.”

“Well, they’re not,” I said, thinking, “Oh great! What did children tell their parents I’d given out last week?”

I’m the first Prime Minister

 You watched the news. You saw the speech. You know the world we are living in.

Please congratulate me, for I am the first Prime Minister.

What?

How dare you challenge me. I am. I’m the first Prime Minister. I am because I say I am. Didn’t you hear me? I’ll repeat it three times in a row and then you’ll have to believe me. 

The ones that went before me? Theresa May, Gordon Brown and let’s not even talk about James Callaghan. No one wants to remember old prime ministers. It’s me. Me, me, me.

I’m the only Prime Minister.

This could be as true as anything else you see on the news or read in the newspapers (or their social media feeds) because it seems we have got to a place where reporting what someone says without correcting factual inaccuracies is the done thing. There’s just not enough characters for truth. So here we are and I’m the Prime Minister, which is a bugger because I’ve got quite a busy day already.

I do not accept the premise of your question

 Whenever our new Prime Minister doesn’t want to answer a question (which is often) she says, “I do not accept the premise of the question.” It’s odd because sometimes the question has no premise. It’s just a question.

Do you like conkers?

No premise. The answer is yes. If you say no then you are just a weirdo.

Why do you feel the need to fill your pockets with them?

Again, no premise but a difficult question to answer. Why we become magpies for these shiny brown nuts is something I will never understand. It’s not even as though they are food but something about their round brown smoothness, when secretly rubbed with a thumb is soothing.

This week on Twitter I have seen people posting that they find it hard to resist the urge to pick them up and stuff them in their pockets. ‘Why resist?’ I wonder. 

When the vicar left his coat behind at school, the office suggested that I check the pockets for conkers and acorns to prove that the cost belonged to an adult and not a child.

Apparently, you are supposed to grow out of this sort of collecting. I haven’t and I can’t entirely blame the dog.

Why, as an adult, do you feel the need to fill your pockets with natures treasures?

I do not accept the premise of the question. An adult? Me?  Phew! That got me out of answering the difficult question. 

Creative Thinking

 I went for a job in an advertising agency once. In the interview they asked me to come up with as many uses for toilet toll as I could think of. It was the most fun interview I’ve ever had. If a huge picture hadn’t fallen off the wall, smashing glass all over the table, I would have probably still been talking about toilet roll now. It’s a very versatile thing. I can’t remember why but I didn’t get the job but was quite relieved, as I thought the picture thing was a sign. I do recall them saying, “You are obviously a creative thinker,” in their feedback, which didn’t sound like a compliment. 

This type of thinking is very useful for teachers. It means you can teach about oboe reeds by making them from plastic straws (sorry parents). 

This creativity also makes it very difficult for me to throw things away. Everything has several uses and if it has outlived its current one then surely it can be used for something else. This might be seen as a good thing to save the planet but it doesn’t half clutter up the place. 

Our little orchestra has some instruments that are beyond repair. I gave a snapped in half clarinet to a man who makes lamps but the two brass instruments have started to rot. The French horn actually has something called red rot, which sounds gross. Having run out of ideas I thought about throwing them away because they are taking up cupboard (and brain) space but I thought I’d check what everyone else thought. Never ask a bunch of creative thinkers for permission to throw something away.

“Are you sure the lamp man wouldn’t want them?”

“That would polish up.”

Maybe we could summon a genie, I thought.

“Put them on Facebook. Someone might turn them into a garden sculpture or something.”

I was skeptical. 

“No, really. I would. If I had the time.”

Obviously no one has time. 

“A garden planter?”

I suggested planting up the trumpet and shoving it in the ground by dad's rose or at the cemetery next to mum’s grave. A fitting tribute.

“Oh yes! Do it!”

I was joking.

However, if you are a creative thinking with time let me know and you can have two rotting brass instruments.

Masters of chaos

“Oh no,” you think, “She’s going to write about the government again. Maybe she started to watch the Kenneth Branagh portrayal of Boris Johnson.”

I have started to watch it and it is jaw-droppingly terrifying but I’m not talking about the governments. It’s kids.

Children create chaos. 

It is completely exhausting to work with children and every year, the older you get, the more tired you feel. And their chaos never happens at the same time.  Playing whack-a-mole with 30 small people all day is just tiring.

But they are funny. Their chaos and unpredictability is what makes them endearing.

It was my playground duty and there is nothing better than seeing children bomb around a playground. It seems unstructured but there are very clear rules to this unregulated group behaviours. There are the girls who do handstands by the wall: The naughty kids all congregate around the shed: The goody-two-shoes hang around the adventure playground near where the teachers usually stand, in the hope of being chosen to get the bell: The same children are always hanging upside down from the rope ladder. It just looks like chaos but if you are observant you can spot the patterns.

There are always a group of children who prefer adult company and will stand happily chatting to the teacher on duty. There is always one who tries to trick them by tapping them on the back and running away. However, even these children are creators of chaos. 

As I was chatting I put my hand in my pocket and found the things I had asked the dog to ‘drop’ on that morning’s walk. He likes to pick things up, as he goes and not everything is appropriate. There were a couple of rosehips, a conker, a teasel (ooh that’s spiky) and several acorns. I showed the mini adults and they all ran off, which was quite surprising. Maybe collecting nature’s treasures in your pocket was too childish a thing for them to associate with, I thought. I was wrong. They soon ran back clutching fistfuls of acorns. 

When I got home last night, my pockets felt much heavier than normal. Inside where many more acorns than I had before (and a twix wrapper). It seems as though surreptitiously posting acorns into my coat pocket has become the new tap the teacher on the back game.

I write this as a warning and an apology to my colleagues. Just as I appear to have trained my dog to pick up inappropriate things so that he can drop them and collect a treat, I have accidentally invented a new playground game. 

Sleepless in Trickledown

 Last Saturday morning I started to write a blog. I didn’t publish it because I couldn’t believe what I had written. I’d started to write to talk about how the world is affecting the one night a week when I sleep well and I was going to write about lying in the dark and how it feels to wonder if you will ever sleep again but reading it back I didn’t need any more. I should have just published. 

This is what I wrote:

Normally on a Friday night I sleep.

Not only do I sleep but I sleep well. I’m exhausted because I don’t sleep for the rest of the week and I’ve had a busy but satisfying day. Don’t ever tell me that getting 30 ten and eleven year olds to play recorders together isn’t both exhausting and satisfying. I’ve ended my week in the best way possible with the best people, making music that really does sound nice,  waving my arms and telling jokes that only they laugh at. Then I come home, flop on the sofa, dog on lap and watch Gardener’s World. Who could fail to sleep after that?

Last night, though, it was spoilt by the News.

The Long Suffering Husband said, “Do you mind if I put the News on?I want to hear about the budget announcements.”

I didn’t mind. I like the news and I’ve been a bit out of the loop. All news stopped when the Queen died. Except it didn’t stop. It was walled  up behind the dam and so this week’s deluge has been overwhelming. I played ostrich and pretended not to look.

I sat. My jaw slackened. My face mirrored that of the BBC political editor as he interviewed Kwasi Kwarteng about the plans. Chris Mason went from shocked to confused to covering his mouth to stop himself asking what planet the Chancellor was living on.

“I don’t understand,” I complained to the LSH. “They had no money, there’s been a pandemic that cost a fortune, a war that’s costing squillions, they’re bailing everyone out with their fuel bills because they don’t want to ask the energy companies to spend their profits but they can give everyone a tax cut. How?”

Maybe they’ve found Theresa May’s fabled magic money tree?

We will all have a little more money in our pockets but the risk is that it bankrupts the country, at a time when borrowing is at an all time high. It’s not even as though they’ll have anything to show for it. No new hospitals. No increase in public housing stock. Schools won’t be able to buy more PrittSticks (other glue may be available). But we will all feel better. I’m guessing that the idea is that with more money we will feel happier, like the conservatives again and spend thereby boosting the economy.

I can’t imagine anyone will think this is a good idea.

It turns out that I was right. No one thinks it’s a good idea. The news, however, hasn’t got any less stressful for an over thinker. Even the IMF thinks Kwarteng is on something. City bankers are worrying about the future cost of their huge mortgages. Schools are sacking TAs left right and centre. Strikes are planned for the winter. Russia are blowing up gas pipelines and pretending it was an accident and NASA are blowing up things in space by crashing into them just to make sure they can. It’s storm season, with Fiona and Ian already proving the climate change has been tough in the giants too. Meanwhile, the health service is still buckling, food banks are receiving less donations (because trickle down turns out not to be very effective at all) and Chanel 4 have launched a tv programme to find the next Prime Minister, with David Cameron choosing. 

Honestly, there’s nothing to see here. I wonder why I can’t sleep!

Name that tune

 The dog and I are watching the funeral. We’ve downloaded the order of service and practised the hymns. Luckily they have printed the sheet music with each hymn, so I won’t accidentally be singing the version of The Lord’s My Shepherd from the Vicar of Dibley. 

We’ve watched the pipe bands, drum and trumpets, with perfectly timed marching and tried to guess the tune.

Now, the church is filling up. Boris and Carrie, Theresa and Phil, and Dave and Sam have just taken their seats. Tony and Cherie, John and Norma (I’ve missed Norma). The Long Suffering Husband has just asked if it’s only the living ex-prime ministers and I know you shouldn’t laugh at funerals but wouldn’t it be great if they wheeled out Thatcher?

It’s another queue. A queue of people in expensive shoes with good posture.

Now we are watching the worst bit for a family at a funeral. There you are, in the car, having a polo sucking competition and it stops and you know you have to get out and face everyone. 

The gun carriage is about to be loaded with the coffin and the sailors (more reliable than horses) are getting ready to pull it along. The tenor bell of Big Ben sounds again and we wonder how close to 96 we are.

The orb, sceptre and crown are balance on top of the coffin and we are collectively think, “Don’t drop it lads!” The LSH wonders if under the flag the Queen has chosen a modern cardboard coffin decorated with corgis.

It is quite a sight. Very moving.

The choir sing the sentences as the coffin moves through the church. If you are a practised choral singer you’ll hear the words.

“And though after my skin worms destroy this body”

Funerals never get less gruesome. 

I do love a funeral. There is some comfort in thinking that the bidding prayer is the same for everyone. And now I am singing. That’s a cracking hymn: great choice. It’s never easy to choose. At least the organist is playing the same tune (which isn’t something that happened at my mum’s funeral).

‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’. How obsessed we are with immortality?  Thanks be to God. 

The choir sings a beautiful piece newly composed by Judith Weir and I think about how those boys don’t even know the pressure they are under.

In Liz Truss’ father’s house there are many mansions. I’m glad we’re not hearing about Stanley Johnson’s house. 

Now for mine and the Queen’s favourite hymn. 

Justin Welby says some more personal details. These are the best bits. The moment when you find out how well the vicar knew the person. Only the family ever knows if they get it right. 

 Parry. 

“What did you say?” The LSH asked, “Oh, Parry, Hubert.” The caption came up. 

It’s quite beautiful.

It’s a long service. It’s a Scottish minister now. A woman. A black woman im glad they let women into the church; they’re doing a good job at prayers.

 I love that it’s a team effort. 

What is a precentor? 

I check the dictionary : The person who leads the congregation in singing but the choir launch into Vaughn Williams.

Love Divine, All Loves Excelling. Another fabulous hymn.

The commendation followed  by a stirring new composition. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Nothing. Alleluia 

A blessing. The same for all of us.

Last Post. Tough gig. No one wants to crack that note. 

That’s powerful. All those images of a minute’s silence, not fully observed in our house because of sniffing as we have colds.

National Anthem. Get the pronouns right. Tears are pricking at the King’s eyes and he holds it together until the piper starts and the camera moves away. 

Sleep, dearie sleep - into the distance. Nice touch.

Bach on the organ with the right notes - never easy - opps I might have spoken too soon. 

There is a little fussing as the non-royal royals are removed and the coffin bearers return before going out into the sunshine, hat feathers blowing in the wind. 

The bands strike up Beethoven funeral March a the gun carriage moves through the streets of London. The TV tries to turn itself off and the dog surrenders to snoring. I watch, trying to identify all the funeral March composers that blend seamlessly from one to another: Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Chopin. 

If you were interested, you will have watched it for yourself. Whatever you got out of it I hope you are as relaxed as the dog or at least have cheese for lunch.

Last Day

 It’s the last day of the queue and I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s been a soothing balm. There’ll never be telly like it again.

It relaxes the dog so much he can sleep during the day, which is unheard of for my ADHD puppy. 

The met office have even listed The Queue as a weather destination. 

The Queue has become the go-to destination of 2022. It’s the thing we’ve trained for our whole lives.

I hear the Long Suffering Husband chuckle as he comes down the stairs.

“You’re watching it again?” He asks, “Does anything ever change?”

The people.

The people change. They’re wearing scarves now.

But my favourite thing is the near-silence. A sliding foot gait, a squeaky shoe, or a particularly asthmatic breather can be heard. Babies cry or happily gurgle and children say, “Mummy?” But mostly there’s nothing. It’s the perfect walking into assembly line. 

Almost silence until the Queen knocks on the coffin and they change the guard. (I know it’s the guard at the top of the stone steps bashing a sword on the floor but I’m not always watching and so that’s what I imagine) Shiny shoes tap and march into position while everyone holds their breath.  Some of those guards are pretty old and I suspect they are very glad to go to the jubilee committee room for a cup of tea and a custard cream. 

Tomorrow, the queue stops and the coffin is removed at 6.30 am to be funeralised (if people can say coronated then I’m happy to make up words too). The man on the radio just told me that events like these will be given lots of impromata (I’m obviously not the only one making up words). I know it won’t be as exciting as the queue but the dog and I will be watching.

Differing Opinions

 I would like to live in a world where differing opinions float free; where people can say, “Gosh, that’s not how I feel but OK.” I hope I’m not alone.

It will be interesting to see how history writes the current outpouring of grief for the Queen. Will it be written that everyone went into mourning, painted their railings black, and queued for days to pay their respects? Almost certainly (except the railings thing because that was Queen Victoria) because it’s true, lots of people have but it’s not everyone. 

Some people are indifferent or even bemused by these displays of grief for someone they didn’t actually know. 

In school I broke up an emerging fight between two boys. They were standing in a line (we practise queuing in school but call it lining up) subtly punching each other’s legs with their fists. After I separated them, I asked the first what was going on.

“He *sob* he said that he didn’t care that the Queen died.”

An interesting discussion followed about different beliefs and respecting other’s opinions with both boys. 

The few protesters with pieces of paper that say, “Not my King!” have had their views highlighted by police officers arresting them and arguments are starting to appear about the role of the monarchy. Radio 4 programmes debate the moral maze of whether it is permissible to question the role of the monarchy before the last one is buried.

I very much doubt if anything much will change because we love it. We fall for the pomp; unquestionably grieving in public for a monarch more deeply than we do our own parents. 

It’s not just because the Queen was a sweet little old lady either. Historical footage shows queues to see King George VI coffin lying in state on the catafalque (I learnt a new word!) stretching just as far, with people looking just the same only with hats.

I am slightly obsessed with watching the queue. I’m not watching it to mock or to join with the grieving but because it is all human life: Silent people: Soldiers that appear to be playing chess every twenty minutes: Some famous people going in the fast-pass lane, while others queue with the public.

I expect that there is quite a party atmosphere in the queue outside. The change into somber shuffling must be quite a shock.

I’ve been writing this blog for a few days (because going back to school has been much harder this year) and when I started writing I was going to make a joke about it being the queue EII but other people have done that now on Twitter and I will look as though I’m not original. The other 3am thought I had (along with a question about who pays the heating bill for all the Royal properties, especially those that are lived in by the unknown or unloved Royals) was that queue is the perfect word. The only letter that is needed is Q but all these superfluous vowels line up behind it.

There has been drama in the queue too: A fainting: A man arrested for charging at the coffin: Liz Truss making it look like a scene out of Harry Potter.

As people are so different, it makes sense that there will be many different opinions. I hope there’s room for them all. 

Men and their poles

 I’m wondering if I live in the only town to proclaim the new King twice.

Yesterday was the second day of Heritage weekend, which was advised to go ahead, despite the death of the Queen and I was on duty at the Moot Hall, originally built by Robert D’Arcy in the middle of his Manor House as an erection to the importance of his manhood (my interpretation) but transferred to public ownership after the rest of the house fell into disrepair. We had been asked to wear black, as a sign of respect, which as a musician, used to hiding at the back of the stage was possible in a very casual way.

The Moot Hall balcony was used to deliver all public announcements in the town from  the mid 1600s. People gathered below and election results were read out, or new monarchs proclaimed. There was no rolling news news or social media in easy to digest moving pictures with sound. In 1881, railings were added to make it safer for the dignitaries. I suspect that the mayor at the time (Fitch) was scared of heights. The idea that this tradition of proclaiming the King has to continue in a digital age almost seems farcical but who am I to change tradition?

In Maldon we have the Town Council (that contains the Mayor) and the District Council. The Town Council owns the Moot Hall and although it is run by a trust for charitable, historical educational purposes, they can still use it as a public building. The District Council have a modern building in a car park away from the high street. The two councils don’t get on, despite many councillors serving for both. 

When I arrived I was briefed about the Mayor’s visit at 3pm to read the proclamation and advised about the flag. Over the previous few days the flag had ‘been up and down that pole more often than a tart’s knickers,’ we were told. There are complicated rules around flags and poles that old men think they know and get very aggressive about. They really get in your face as they shout, “The flag should be at half mast.” And refuse to believe you when you say that it is flying high because of the proclamation. You can really smell their lunch and it’s amazing how many of them had corned beef sandwiches! The manager of the Moot Hall had just followed the orders given to her but there had been a confusion early on because day one turned out to be day zero because the Queen had died in Scotland. After about four of these encounters I turned to a colleague and said, “What is it with these men and their poles?”

The District Council had their own proclamation at 2pm. The Mayor wasn’t invited. Rumours started to spread that it hadn’t gone well and people at the Moot Hall were delighted. Schadenfreude abounded.

The mayor arrived and I suggested that we might need to find him a step (so that he could be seen over the jubilee flowers that had turned into triffids). He gave me a side-eye look, his wife laughed and patted him on the head and one of the councillors took a sharp intake of breath and said, “I can’t believe you said that to the Mayor.” It turned out that nobody could be seen over the flowers, steps were provided and I was forgiven.

The proclamation was given and from my vantage point it felt very much as though I was part of history, in the making and somehow linked to all the histories that had gone before. 

The mayor left. The flag was lowered and old men continued to get cross about whether it was too low or not low enough. 

“I’m sure it’s just a matter of perspective,” I told one man, spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth (he had enjoyed piccalilli in his lunchtime sandwich), “Some poles just look bigger from different angles.”

That diffused the situation enough for him to show me a photo of him with his 21 year old Polish fiancé. Not creepy at all. What is it with these men and their poles?

Carolean Age

 The new King’s mother died.

She was 96, so it shouldn’t have been a shock but it always is. Grief is a bugger. It sends you a bit doolally for a while.

He and the rest of her family have to share their grief with the whole country because she was mother/grandmother to us all. We all have stories and memories and even people who didn’t like her or want a monarchy feel as though they owned her.  

Before my dad died I was really worried about how I would feel sharing my grief with so many people that loved him. Although it wasn’t on the Queen’s level of popularity there was an outpouring of love for him that was, in fact, a comfort. Occasionally, though, it got too much. 

The death of your second parent is particularly hard. No matter how old you are you suddenly feel cut adrift, lonely and vulnerable. Some ugly minion in the back of your head points out that you are probably next and your natural fear response to death kicks in.

This is a time when most people need a couple of weeks sick leave but the new King has to prove he is up to the biggest job of his life. I hope people will be kind but I doubt it.

Before this happened, I was planning to sing God Save the King with a class who are studying Tudors. It is perfect example of a Galliard a nice hook into the topic about a King, where the children are always amazed that the pronouns can change so easily. I might not. It might be too soon.

I laid awake, worrying about the children and how they will be. I had stared at the telly for too many hours last night, unable to look away, feeling shock and grief and think many kids, too small to fully comprehend, will have done the same. The Long Suffering Husband had an equally disturbed night as he checked the tee times for the golf game at Wentworth he was due to watch tomorrow before bed to discover it had been cancelled as a mark of respect. I can’t help thinking that primary schools are in for a difficult day.

While I was awake I pondered the question: If we have just left the second Elizabethan age what is the third King Charles age called?

Charliean 

Charlesean 

Chasian 

Nope. 

Carolean 

It’s Latin for Charles apparently. 

My daughter always wanted to live through interesting History.  I hope the Carolean age isn’t too interesting and that people give him a bit of a break for a while. 

My grandfather, as a Grenadier Guard, dressed in full regimental uniform complete with bearskin hat was on duty outside Buckingham Palace when the notice of Princess Elizabeth’s birth was put on the gates. Little did he know then that she would become Queen and be the longest serving monarch. My daughter spent much of her early journalistic career following her around Windsor. Everyone will have something that makes them smile. My favourite moment was when she saw cows at the Windsor Horse show.

The most googled question today is: Will schools be closed after the Queen’s death? The answer is NO, so I’d better stop waffling and get to work.