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. 

Oh so tired

 I forgot.

Small children are hard work.

That is all.

The new resident

 In America they get excited about a new president, in the UK we take the p off and TV and radio talk earnestly about the new resident of number 10.

The best kind of person to take the p is a very clever comedian, with nerves of steel and an intelligence that you can only admire to just reflect back what is happening and make us look into the political mirror and see the ugly truth. 

Joe Lycett, of buttering parsnips fame, is that person. 

When asked about the contest, he said, “Well, I think it’s been a great use of our resources. Great use of our media to have infighting in the party when there’s a cost of living crisis coming. I would just like to hear the truth.”

He then applauded Liz Truss wildly. 

“I loved it. Well done Liz.”

“I loved it. I thought she was very clear. She gave great clear answers. I know exactly what she’s up to and most people at home who are worried about their bills are going to…I’m not being sarcastic I’m…she was very clear what she said and you’re reasurred, I’m reassured, are you reassured?”

It worked as comedy because she hadn’t been clear.

Emily Thornbury said, “I’m trying not to smirk. It’s serious. What we all want to know is how we are going to pay our bills.”

“She’s going to sort it,” Joe told her emphatically.

“The haters will say that we’ve had twelve years of the party and we’re at the dregs of what’s available and Liz Truss is the backwash of the available MPs. I wouldn’t say that because I’m increasingly right wing but some people might say that.”

“As Liz said there, ‘it would be wrong to predict the future,’ even though loads of people have predicted that we are going to have real issues with paying our energy bills but erm I think she’s right to say ‘let’s just not predict and see what happens next week’. I think she did the right thing there.”

Genius. 

This isn’t much of a blog but I just wanted to write this masterclass in sarcasm and nerves of steel down.

I hope that the new resident doesn’t take the p too much because as thick-skinned as Liz Truss is she will need to win the public round if she wants to stay as Prime Minister for more than 5 minutes.