Chelsea

 I had never been to the Chelsea Flower Show and it was on my bucket list. 

The idea of a bucket list is the epitome of everything I hate. I always get irrationally angry when I watch a film where someone is dying and they suddenly start to do all the things they didn’t do for the previous 70 years of their life. As if you’d have the energy. If you didn’t do them before then maybe there was a good reason. 

The Long Suffering Husband and I did make a FOMO list, though. I preferred to have a list of things I feared missing out on. Then my daughter has a list of thirty things she’s going to do before 30 and I thought that I could do 60 before 60 and give myself a few years. I am a shameless thief. 

I haven’t actually written the list yet but as we had tickets for Chelsea this year and had never been before I decided to put it at number one.

I am so glad I went. I absolutely loved it. Yes, it was crowded, there aren’t enough places to sit and if you are like me, you’ll come away feeling sad at the terribly uneven distribution of wealth in our country but….plants.

I like plants more than people.

You can also kill a plant without going to prison.

That’s not exactly true. People are great to watch. That was one of my favourite things. When people won prizes for their displays the ping of emotions rubbed off. It is the Oscars of the plant world without the speeches. Gardeners put on their best clothes, scrub the dirt from under their nails and have a grand day out. 

Even Monty Don was in a suit and tie, although he did still wear a scarf and as people kept saying, “Even in a suit, his trousers are too long. He should have got his mother to take them up for him.”

This year, the wild look was all the rage and the suffragette colours with a few dusky pinks or peaches were just my thing. Long toothed gardeners mimed spraying some of the show gardens with weed killer. However, my kind of messy gardening has suddenly become fashionable.

There was so much to love. Living walls, wild flower roofs (why isn’t it rooves?), terrariums, plants I’d never seen before (“You’ll see them all the time now,” the modest woman who had won her first gold medal said, “It’s what happens.”), sculptures, water features, nice hand cream in the toilets (more women’s than men’s!), women in floral dresses with pockets, information about bees, inspirational show gardens and they even had spaces in between showing what most people’s gardens actually look like.

Whakatauki

 I’m quoted on the Sing Up website as saying that it’s only because of their resources that I am able to be a music teacher or words to that effect. It’s true too. The amazing number of songs, suggestions of how to use them, the developing musicianship games are all perfect and stop me feeling like a) a fraud or b) irritated that the resources are boring/not developing enough musical skills. 

However, I think they may be out to get me.

 Lately, I’ve been a little tired and distracted. Spending your evenings in 1882 will do that to you. So, I haven’t always prepared as thoroughly as I might. I hear my dad’s voice ringing in my ears - 

“Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.”

That was one of the many proverbs that informed our lives. Proverbs and mantras rang through our household with a musical cadence that left us in no doubt how we should behave.

Every year SingUp commission a new song and encourage as many people around the world to sing it on one particular day. Our school loves this. We learn the song enthusiastically, singing it in the toilet or the playground. If you walk around you can hear snippets of the song in glorious primary school cannon. 

This year, they have commissioned three, all from  a different unheard world culture, with the idea that music can bring us together. The first song they released was called Blossom Up and it’s a beautiful song written by a New Zealander with Māori heritage. The overall message is about being yourself and includes a rap-type part in Māori language. Not easy. Luckily, Sing Up have provided a pronunciation video guide. The composer starts by explaining some pronunciation rules, like always roll your rs and never pronounce gs. He explained that the song includes a haka, which isn’t just the thing performed at the beginning of the rugby but actually just means chant. 

The chant in this song is ke-te ke-te te kā kā koe koe te tuī kū-kū te ke-re-rū so just do you.

It is a traditional Māori proverb that describes the way three different birds call but they are all beautiful. The meaning of the proverb is that you should be yourself. A bit like the Mama Cass proverb: make your own kinda music. 

Obviously, if you think this easy to say then you are a better person than me. I needed the guide.

It was all going well and I was thinking of showing it to the children then came the last Māori word. Although not in the song he decided to teach the pronunciation of the word for proverb.

Whakatauki.

That’s fine, except that it is pronounced far-ka-toe-key. In the video he repeats it over and over, breaking it down to the first two syllables. Then he speeds it up and says it at least 20 times. How many times can you do something unmentionable to a bird you’d usually eat at Christmas? 

I’ve always loved SingUp for their reliability but I do wonder if they are trying to get me sacked.

Mental Health Week

 I thought about writing about Mental Health Awareness week but instead I got stuck in a TikTok hole and discovered I have ADHD, anxiety, depression, am an introvert who reads too many books and an extravert who talks too much.

But if I hadn’t then I’d have missed all those small children swearing and cute animals. 

The Anniversary Effect

 I wasn’t going to write about this. I didn’t want to admit to it. I’m fine. Perfectly fine. There’s nothing to see here. But in the interests of being honest about mental health and what is normal and survivable and because I am genuinely fine I have changed my mind.

In trauma recovery there is a thing called the anniversary effect and it can completely knock you off your feet for a while. 

This isn’t a conscious remembering. It’s different, devastating and uncontrollable.

On the anniversary of my Dad’s death I might look at the calendar, check the sky for heart shaped clouds and have a moment of quiet remembering. It’s a good thing.

However, my Mum’s death is a traumatic event that happened to me and my brain approaches the anniversary in a different way. I hate that it does this. It makes it all about me and reminiscing is relegated to another day, another year, another lifetime. That causes guilt, which isn’t good for mental wellbeing either.

It starts about a week before. Sleep becomes more elusive. Eating is erratic. Emotionally I’m all mood swings and quivering anxiety. Focusing on anything is impossible. Lists, that have always been my friend, jump around the page and taunt me. I become a terrible teacher, a snappy housemate, a weepy wife. I say weepy but as I’m not really a crier this is what happened.

We were standing in the Long Suffering Husband’s shed. He’s finally finished it, except for the floor and getting the tools in. 

“It has only taken five years,” he says, “But I get there in the end.”

And tears appear in my eyes. A little sob escapes before I swallow it. 

He looks at me with tilted head and the look I hate. The one where I know he has seen that I’m not right, not myself and his face brims with concern. He steps forward to give me a hug and I cry. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks and I snap into anger, pull away, zip myself back up and say that I don’t know. And I don’t. Not then. I know that I’m not right, that I’ve been wobbly for a few days but I don’t know why. 

I have been putting things off. There’s an optician appointment to make, a birthday present voucher to use, which requires looking at a calendar and I realise that it is May and the anniversary effect is kicking in.

This is where my body mounts it’s own trauma response as a kind of memory party.

I’m assuming that anyone who has a trauma response has their own symptoms. Mine build. Difficulty sleeping turns to no sleep, first moving through panic waking, terrible dreams, unconsciously bruising myself at night and weird nighttime breathing. Not eating starts with a general nausea, an inability to swallow, stuffing comfort biscuits in to keep everything down then eventually vomiting for no particular reason. My contact lenses begin to hurt and my vision blurs to the point of everyone asking if I have new glasses. Constipation (too much information?) My brain decides it needs to focus on everything all at once and life becomes overwhelming as I develop a plan for world peace. I can’t look anyone in the eye. My palms are sweaty and my feet are cold. I want to run away but I don’t. I freeze. I go through life on automatic pilot, slowly, sadly, not fully engaging, wondering if I’m doing a good enough job of masking because if anyone notices and says anything I will run. I feel dirty. My hands get washed like I’m Lady Fucking Macbeth. 

The annoying thing is that I have been so much better lately. My broken brain has been healing.This PTSD has been EMDRed and yoga’d away. My walking, breathing, writing have all been slowly working their magic. So I was cross. 

Five years! I shouted into the void. 

Then, the day after the death-day anniversary my brain was light again. The fog had lifted and I was looking forward to things. And it is because of this lightness I decided to write this blog. 

The anniversary effect doesn’t cause a step backwards. It’s temporary and goes away again. It’s just your brain having a pity party. My brain has had to work very hard lately, so I can let it have a party once a year if it wants one. I’m not going to get stressed out by it.

If your brain is currently doing this then you have my sympathy because it’s not fun but you’ll get through it. 

Eurovision (Annual Live Blog)

It's that time of year again. This year, you are all excited because it is being held in the UK on behalf of Ukraine, who won last year on a sympathy vote.  They are likely to win on the same grounds again, so it won't matter if all their best singers are busy doing war things.

The UK entry this year is a great catchy tune, performed by a popular TikTocker (Billie Eilish style), who might struggle with her vocal.  Her name is Mae Muller.  

We are ready.

I have a UK cake, Ukraine Eurovision biscuits and plenty of cheese. My daughter is in charge of cocktails - douzepoints and bucks fizz.  

'We should get some Muller corners in homage to the UK entry,' I suggested to the Long Suffering Husband.  

He thought about it and replied, 'Fromage.'

Bring on the cheese.

We have our score card.

  

TV on in 10..9....8....7.....

Live from Liverpool. You'll never walk alone. 

Do do do do do do do, do do do do do do do do do do do do.

He gets everywhere that Andrew Lloyd Webber.  I like that pink hat. Transported and united by music. Love a good drum.  The family have named and dated their score sheets. How can they do it without prompting, yet no one I teach EVER names their work? Mel C. Graham Norton.  A song about Dodgeball while people come out with flags. Mel Gedroich (I can't spell that) is a complete innuendo queen. I'm looking forward to her commentary.

Graham and the three women who have been poured into dresses. Graham looks short.

Because of the war - take one drink.

History stuff.  Luxembourg want back in.  I told you it was cool.  We are all very excited.

We are just having a maths conversation about whether each countries votes are weighted per population. I think my brain is going to explode.  SHEFFIELD TOWN HALL!

Austria - Teya and Salea - Who the Hell is Edgar:

Once upon a a midnight dreary.  Poe, Poe, Poe, Poe, Edgar Allen Poe.  Great dance. Great Eurovision vibes.  Zero. 

Portugal m Mimicat Al Coracao

First I was afraid. No. First I had it coming. No.  It sounds like another song. There;s a lot of red tonight. Flamenco meets musical theatre. Why pink with red? Agressive clapping. 

Switzerland Remo Forrer Watergun

 The producers wanted a big ballad next. Where is the piano. Greatest Showman. Women on ribbons controlled by men. They've tied him up. I like this. It sounds familiar. Soldier's with waterguns sound like a good idea.

Poland Blanka Solo

The LSH likes this one.  I can't think why. Girls in pants. Woah, she's very flexible. This is a classic Eurovision song. Dance break. We are worried that she might pull something. She whipped it off! It does make you think of summer holidays.

(out) Standing in his own field joke - take another drink.

Servia Luke Black p Sarno Mi Se spava

Depressed teenage boy in his flower bed. Horrible flashing lights. This one is not for me. It's blue on too many levels. Hello! He's unplugged the monsters. Enemy defeted. 

France - La Zarra Evidemment

Very French. Look at the length of her legs. She's taller than Hannah Waddingham. Her nails! She's sinking. There's a little man underneath chopping bits off her legs. We have descended into a discussion about Russia and how politiacal this song contest is.  It all came from a joke that my daughter made that we all ignored.. We are all agreed that it wasn't the most depressing French entry.

Cyprus - Andrew Lambrou - Break a Broken Heart.

He looks like Andrew Lambert and he's from Australia. Subtitles: Wooooooooo!

Moustaches are back. He's made it rain. Oooooooh! You can break a broken heart. Is that a double negative?  The clouds are under the rain. I do love a shouty ballad. Fire now, sparks and lighting fart flames.  

Graham is just explaining that the fact that the jury voted last night. 

Spain - Blanca Palom Eaea

Moorish hand clapping. Her name means white dove, which should be peaceful but that's quite angry clapping.  There's so much red this year.  Flashing red lights. 

Even the dog is staying up.  It's way past his bedtime but he just got excited as we rushed to the loo while they were talking about junior Eurovision.

Am I right?

Drink to Sir Terry.

Sweden - Loreen - Tattoo 

 Euphoria was a banger, apparently. 

She's in a box. Blatent Abba tune. That's cheating. I wouldn't like to wipe my bum with those nails.  Gate pose - that's one of my yoga favourites. She's pushed the box up. Beige is the new red. I'm really angry. Why didn't I win last time? Laugh crying. Graham likes it. She's the one to beat but we all hated it here. Even being in pants didn't get the LSH's vote.  

Albania - Albina and Family - Duje

Albina from Albania. Call to prayer. Which way is East again? 

Her mum and dad look like they've rather be at home with their slippers on.  I like the vein diagrams. More red. Mum's farted. Now Dad. Boo yeah Boo yeah. 

Italy - Marco Mengoni - Due Vite

The wife of the mayor at a dinner dance. We think he might be a different type of Italian man. Nice voice. Good trampolining. Very toned arms. Tanned too. The LSH thinks he might be a member of Jumanji and only have two lives left.  We like this. 

Estonia - Alika Bridges.

Pianola. That's quite a posh pianola. It sings too. Is it haunted. I bet it's cross now that she is playing it with flat fingers. I like a trouser suit with a train. This is quite a nice song but I don't think anyone will remember it.

Finland - Kaarija - Cha Cha Cha

We are looking forward to this. 

We've heard this before. 

Bright green sleeve. In a box on a box. Cool shadows. All dancers in fuchsia on ribbons. Human centipede. Rylan's teeth. Full marks for Eurovision vibe. This is my first full marks for anything.

Czechia - Vesna - My sister's crown

Pink Pjs - 

I missed that one. The dog stole a chicken wing.

Political messaging - We stand for you

Australia - Voyager Promise

Moustaches are back.  He's taking his keyboard for a drive. We've all done that.  He's had half his head shaved.  Oh, Oh, ah, ah.  Real people playing real instruments. Animal on the drums and eighties banks of speakers, wind and a bit of thrash metal.  I don't think it will do very well because it is in the middle and forgettable.

Belgium - Gustaph - Because of you.

Boy George in pink pantaloons. Great graphics. Nice voice.  He could be a BV.  Here comes his pussy. Nice forward roll.

Skit in coming. Oh Graham. He's embarrassing himself. Applogies for that. 

Am I right - another drink.

Mel Polish milkmaid. We all want to see more of this. 

Armenia Brunette Future Lover

I hate it when they lie on the floor and sing. It's just lazy isn't it? Thigh length boots and .....actually I'm bored. Maybe I need a biscuit. Dance break. That's the best bit of the song isn't it?

Moldova - Pasha Parfeni  - Soarele Al Luna - 

Where is Moldova?  Maldova won our Youth Orchestra cometition. This is great. Flute playing dwarf. Horn hair. I might be tired. Sandy Shaw vibes. 

Ukraine 

Completely missed that. Dog needed a wee and to go to bed. Sympathy points 10

Norway Alessandra Queen of Kings

I came in at the end. Enjoyed a little bop round the living room and interrupted the LSHs scoring. I'm in trouble.

Germany - Lord of the Lost p Blood and Glitter

Man in pants. Very theatrical. Real instruments. Still lots of red. Great staging.  

Lithuania - Monika Linkyta - Stay

Stay with me in orange. Justin Trudo. Finally my heart is beating.  Who doesn't like the President of Canada. She needs a wee. She's been tangoed.

Israel Noa Kirel - Unicorn

One for the 5 year olds that like Bond films. Another box. She's forgotten her top. She's in batman's bra. Unicorns don't exist. She has the power of a unicorn. Gypsy fiddle. Cinnamon owl.  More points from the LSH. Dance break at the end for a vagina flash.

Slovenia Joker Out Carpe Diem

Those pink trousers look like they would be sweaty. Swarthy looks Pout to camera. Big in Slovenia. Meatballs with garlic. Points for real instruments. Pathetic moustache. 

Croatia Let 3 Mama Sao

Mel! I love Mel. YMCA. Nude singers. Promises.  We need an act like this. Macarena meets operatic Hitler. THIS IS EUROVISION. Here come the weapons. Pants and vests. You can't beat a pair of baggy white y-fronts. 

United Kingdom - Mae Muller - I wrote a song.

Crack the yoghurt out. Here we go. Bond vibe. Da da da da da. This staging makes her look small. 

It's a really catchy song. She loses out on our scoring because of a boring costume. She could have borrowed Alisha Dixon's 

Just adding up our scores.

The LSH top 3 : Austrialia (left field), Norway, Israel=Poland

Daughter top 3: Croatia, Poland, Belgium=Finland

Son top 3: Finland, Australia = Crotia, Germany

Man in hat: Finland, Croatia, Israel = Belgium

My top 3: Croatia,Belgium, Germany=Maldova=Italy

Sam Smith. Amazing. What a performer. What a nice man. What a performance. That's the winner. 

Tell it like it is Jan Leeming - they're all on something.  

Here we go Jury votes (top votes)

Ukraine - Sweden

Italy - Israel

Latvia - Estonia

Netherlands - Sweden

Malta - Sweden

Maldova - Sweden

Ireland - Sweden

San Marino - Italy

Azerbaijan - Israel

Austria - Italy

France - Israel

Finland - Sweden

Belgium - Austria

Germany - Sweden

WE DON'T GET THIS

Portugal - Australia

Croatia - Italy

Estonia - Sweden

Armenia - - Israel

Poland - Israel

Romania - Italy

Iceland - Australia

Serbia - Slovenia

Cyprus - Sweden

|Norway - Finland

Switzerland - Czechia

Australia - Belgium

Denmark - Sweden

Spain - Sweden

Israel - Sweden

Sweden - - Finland

Georgia - Belgium

Hannah is barely holding it together. 

Czechia - Ukraine

Slovenia - Italy

Greece - Belgium

Albania - Sweden

UK - (Catherine Tate’s boobs) - Sweden

National humour gap very much on display tonight.  We wonder if every other country is sitting at home wondering what drugs the UK is on, even though we love it. 

That Swedish woman isn't well is she?  Alisha Dixon is sticking very close. 

We are good to go.

This is the exciting bit.  

Ouch! that's awful for the hosting country. Second from last.

Ukraine sympathy vote.

Public preferred Finland even against an international superstar.  

Sweden won despite cheating by sending a zoned out superstar to sing an ABBA song so they host in an anniversary of ABBA year.  She clearly did have a good song and great vocal but it was boring. 

We were all quite disappointed with the result but agree that the show itself was amazingly bonkers.

Then came the news that Russia had bombed the Ukraine contestants’ home town minutes before they went on stage. That’s not war. It’s petty. It’s just a song competition and one that Russia isn’t welcome to play in until it grows up and stops killing people. 

Woolly brains and the DfE

 My brain has been a little wobbly for the last week. 

The anniversary effect.

But even so, I can still smell when something is off. And something seems to be rotten in the DfE. 

Yesterday, all primary school teachers seemed to agree that the numerical reasoning SATs paper was the hardest they’ve seen. Year 6 children were walking around school looking dazed and exhausted. I’m guessing it’s because the DfE can’t do numerical reasoning themselves.

They also chose that day to tweet: “The Office for Statistics Regulation has today acknowledged that we have been transparent in demonstrating that our teacher pay offer is fully-funded. The offer was fair, reasonable and recognised teachers hard work. Read more.”

I read more. https://osr.statisticsauthority.gov.uk/correspondence/ed-humpherson-to-graham-archer-schools-costs-funding/

I scratched my head.

I didn’t read it as a ringing endorsement. I read it as the opposite. I asked my statistical brained son to read it to make sure my woolly brain was working. He agreed. It sounded more like a chastisement rather than an endorsement. 

They said that it wasn’t in their remit to judge the affordability of the pay offer but that the DfE had been clear and published lots of data on their calculation (except for high needs funding, which they urge more transparency on) however their definition of ‘fully-funded’ is at a national level, rather than an individual school level. It said that the DfE has acknowledged this in a document but appeared to be questioning the use of the term fully-funded. It said that the documents state,  ‘The cost increases presented are averages across all schools in England and should not be read as pertaining to individual schools. All schools need to understand and plan for their own situation’.

The report concluded, “ We consider that the Department for Education has evidenced its claim that the offer is fully funded in line with its definition. However, we acknowledge that some users may interpret fully funded to refer to the individual school level. In the light of this difference of interpretation, it is important that the Department for Education continues to support understanding by being clear about its use of the term fully funded.”

It’s all very well being clear but if your definition doesn’t meet that of normal human experience then you are never going to win the argument. 

Numerical Reasoning SATs paper

Q1. School A needs £100 to fund its pay rises, school B needs £200, school C needs £300 and school D needs £400. The DfE calculates the total cost to be £1000 and shares that equally between the schools. How much does each school get and which schools will go bankrupt?

See, it’s not so hard is it? 

Anyway, wish me and my woolly brain luck today with the year six children. We will be trying to learn 11 songs when we probably all need to be rocking, quietly in a darkened room.

Musical Bullying

 As a teacher, you have to be aware of bullying. Stamp it out at all costs.

However…

What if it makes you proud?

Musical bullying is a unique thing that can happen just because musicians have their own language. A conductor could shout, “Please can the plucking strings just get it together,” and it sounds like bullying but is, in fact, a technical term. Violins, violas, cellos and double bases playing without their bows do have to work harder to play at the same time.

Today, though, it was the other way round. The fact that they knew musical language allowed the situation to occur.

Musicians use Italian words to describe things and they then abbreviate those words, sometimes to a single letter. For example, the words for loud and quiet are forte and piano, which actually translate as strong and soft. These are then abbreviated to f and p. The louder or quieter something is, the more fs or ps you use. Pianissimo (very soft) would be written as pp.

My Huff and Puff club were working on God Save the King today. Huff and Puff are the loud instruments. I have Clarinet, Saxophones, horn, trumpets and Euphonium. It was a lovely sunny lunchtime and so they had already negotiated a shorter session, promising to practise at home, however, they were still a little distracted.

“We are all the loud instruments aren’t we?”

“Yes. Yes you are,” I agreed.

“Which one of us is the loudest, do you think?”

Stupidly, I said I wasn’t sure, so they decided on a scientific experiment (and I wonder why I have a headache) 

Once they had all played as hard as they could - fortississimo (fff) they decided who was the quietest and pointed to that person saying, “You’re the pee-pee.” (pp pianissimo)

I know that behaviour is unacceptable but I was quite proud of their musical knowledge. 

Revolutionary Royalist

 The upcoming Kingy Thingy, otherwise known as KC3C is pushing my split personality buttons. 

I watch the news and it’s all about the coronation or how awful everything is for ordinary people and a song starts in the back of my head. ‘Do you hear the people sing?’

The King would like every primary school to have a packet of seeds to celebrate his crowning day. That’s nice, wild flowers are good, better than a silver coin.

 ‘But we need paper and glue sticks and there isn’t enough to pay the staff.’

‘Let them eat cake.’

29,000 Police Officers will be on duty to protect the King that day. Protests have been banned, which is a shame because I love a witty banner and a bonkers protest song as much as I love pomp, gold coaches and choral music.

I think it’s costing too much money, although no one has confirmed exactly how much, how it’s broken down and who is paying for what. 

The stories in the press are making me twitch. Placed to win us round: Isn’t Camilla amazing? The King is using a recycled throne. It makes me wonder what is wrong with Camilla and how much it is costing to re-upholster the throne.

I want to make quiche, sit around the telly and eat scones, watching a well choreographed ceremony. I love watching the soldiers in red uniforms and bearskin hats because it reminds me of my grandad and the sound of trumpets reminds me of my dad. But there is a nagging doubt that I’m encouraging something unnecessary.

But do I want the women, interviewed on radio 4 who’ve been camping out for the last three days, to lose out? ‘Oh, just leave us alone! Everyone needs a hobby,’ they said in frustration. No. I want to encourage these unique people to enjoy their best lives. I want people to dress their dogs up to celebrate. 

Today I will be teaching a song written for the Coronation and at least three children will tell me that their mum is called Abby. Not Westminster Abbey but just as they always wonder who Albert Hall was they can’t quite grasp that buildings with names aren’t people. 

I do worry, though, because the Third Carolean age could be revolutionary. King Charles’ don’t have the best track record in history. 

Blank Page

 I’ve forgotten how to write a blog every day. I was sitting here waiting for the muse to appear but she refused to show up. Every subject seemed wrong.

She thought about strikes, defective governments, Donald Trump on the golf course, wild garlic butter, the useless nature of May with its copious Bank Holidays, KC3C or the Kingy Thingy. She even wondered if she should confess to never having liked Diana anyway. No. Don’t! Strike that. Then she thought about a historical subject, maybe something from 1882 about the Berlin wool repository in the High Street - too niche. 

Maybe something on names? The demise of names like Acsah or the cyclical nature of the flower names. Flower names are seasonal and we are currently in the late summer of the naming season. Or I could tell you about how I always read the name Hugh as huge and go on to say that Maldon had an MP called Hugh Dick from 1827 to 1830. Don’t google Hugh Dick looking for a picture.

Here’s a picture of my dog having a wee in the bluebells instead.

Blank pages are quite dangerous, I’ve decided.