Beware of falling squirrels

 Endings are hard. Us humans are not really designed to cope with endings. We think too much. The Long Suffering Husband used to have a motto: change is bad. Like Marvin the Paranoid Android he would walk around the house muttering this to himself and the rest of us would smile indulgently. I’ve noticed that since retirement he has completely reversed this philosophy and has become a thrill seeker, changing our walking route home from town without the slightest pre-planning. 

Endings in schools can be emotional affairs. The anticipatory grief of people leaving hangs in the air, while the pressure to get everything done is ever present. The end of every school year feels a little as though you know that you are dying. You have a need to get your affairs in order, clean your classroom, complete all the paperwork, shred enough paper to build nests for a million squirrels. If you are a music teacher then everything must be celebrated in song. You meet other music teachers who say, “It’s terrible. Worse than Christmas.”

Every performance triggers the stress response. Adrenaline and cortisol levels rising with each one, never quite having time to get back to normal. 

While it is all happening, I’m fine. And before you ask, that is perfectly fine. Really. I’m annoying: Hyper, loud, running around like a squirrel on acid but I’ve got this. I can do anything. Ask me! Honestly, I’ve got time for absolutely anything else you’d like to throw at me. I’m walking 8 miles a day, swimming 100 lengths. Sleep? Oh who needs more than a couple of hours a night? But I’m also perfectly calm, yogic breathing keeps me looking serene. 

The dog, however, suffers from 2nd hand anxiety. He gets twitchy, growls at ghosts and is on the lookout for squirrels falling from trees. 

This has happened. Once, when he was a puppy, on the path to Morrisons a squirrel did fall from a tree and land at his feet, so maybe I can forgive him his attitude on that path at the moment. He can sense a hyper-squirrel nearby (even though it’s me) and he’s waiting for the weird thing to happen. 

Yesterday morning, as he was scuttling sideways and growling at a leaf, a woman appeared. She was coughing.

“Elp,” she wheezed, “I’m choking on a cockle.”

She had tears in her eyes and her face was turning the colour of a Victoria plum. The dog growled at her, while I slapped her back.  Between us, we helped and she didn’t die but instead waved a fishy pot under my nose. 

“Cockles!” she told me, “I grabbed a pot from Morrisons for me protein.”

She didn’t wait for a response but bounced off like Tigger in leggings.

The dog looked at me. ‘That was weird,’ he said with his eyes. ‘I told you a squirrel could fall from a tree.’

Take it with a pinch of salt path

 Writers lie. It’s what we do; take a nugget of truth, bend it, stretch it and mould it into a slightly different shape. A published writer has spent so long honing that new shape into a marketable product that they barely recognise the original truth. Most, get away with it and others make a fat cheque (a phrase I’ve borrowed from Richard Osman who said how similar it sounds to fact check).

About 7 years ago a book came out that people of my class and generation loved. It was a true ‘pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ book with a little nature writing. It had a beautiful cover by Angela Harding (who is an amazing illustrator). It was one of those word of mouth runaway successes that publishers get very excited about. The author was probably paid a tiny advance and when middle England started passing onto their book club friends it eared out quickly. Have you read…? Everyone was asking. Such an uplifting story.

Like all bookworms, I couldn’t resist. As I was also attempting to walk away my problems it appealed but only a little. Writers may lie but they give themselves away too and I did not like the author. I took offence at a sense of entitlement that ran through, camping wherever she liked upset me for reasons I can’t explain. I don’t think I ever believed they were truly homeless or that this walk wasn’t only a lifestyle choice. I could be re-painting my feelings based on the latest revelations but as I haven’t read any more of her next books or even picked one up and flipped past the cover I suspect not. 

The story has been made into a film, which I told the Long Suffering Husband not to bother seeing and the author and her healthy looking husband, who 18 years ago was diagnosed with a terminal degenerative illness have been making me twitch as they appeared on every TV sofa. 

It was only a matter of time before public opinion shifted. There had been rumours for a while that she hadn’t been pleasant to work with and expected a lot from others for nothing in return. So, it was no surprise when the Observer published an article exposing the truth; that this was not a wholly accurate true story. 

People who believed every word are feeling stupid and people who have been trying to walk away their health problems are disillusioned. And I’m cynical. 

The publishers could have known all along and allowed (encouraged) the release of the story. They can get their money back (she will have signed a contract that promises that it’s a true story) and all the people who have never heard of it will want to read it. 

It’s not the best of its type. But don’t  buy the book (unless it’s from the charity shop), even if you have severe FOMO. Take the walk and maybe stay in hotels. Read nature writers like James Caton and Melissa Harrison but if you do read it, take it with a huge pinch of salt. 

Weird elbows, purple feet and overwhelm

 We are lurching towards the end of the school year, the end is in sight but for the music teacher this is the crazy time, especially in a primary school, where whispering day has just happened. Whispering day is when staff are told individually what they are doing next year and emotions run high, which is terrible for a busy empath. Although the music teacher is personally exempt from these conversations (who else would want to listen to 30 recorders at once?) other people’s feeling are disquieting. It’s a period of concerts, shows, exams and emotions. And, boy, a mix of emotions come from the children too. Change can be difficult.  

This year, I’ve added ‘mother of the bride era’ into the mix and the result hasn’t been pretty. Wedding dress shopping is a weird thing for someone who detests shopping, hates feeling trapped and is always terrified of saying the wrong thing. This is extreme shopping; a dangerous sport that requires a hard hat and a harness. Your small uncomfortable pack arrives at the door at a pre-determined time, presses the buzzer and you are whisked inside, door locked behind you, or ushered down into the basement. To relax you into captivity they offer Prosecco and heart-shaped jelly beans. Then your baby disappears behind a curtain and comes out in a white Princess dress. Should you have read less ‘happily ever after’ stories? A prickle of loss runs through you before you remind yourself that she lives round the corner, is already living with her Prince and the dress will change absolutely nothing. 

‘You look good in anything,’ you say, ‘You could wear a bin bag.’

Although, instinctively, you know you’ve said the wrong thing, you repeat this for every dress. It’s your baby. No mother thinks their baby looks anything but perfect. You refrain from asking if it has pockets. Of course it doesn’t! 

Then she steps out in tears. She’s found the one and you are speechless. You don’t say bin bag and everyone is happy. All in all, it was a much less painful experience than you had expected but you do feel odd. An awkward moment occurs where you both turn into huggy people for two seconds but end up bumping heads and resolve never to repeat that or talk about it ever again (sorry). 

The next day you have a weird urge to lock yourself in a darkened room and rock but you can’t. You are a music teacher and you have two enormous concerts coming up. 

From the outside, I may have appeared calm, except to the Long Suffering Husband who suffered more than usual, but I had reached my limit.

“I can’t do this. It’s too much!” I wailed at the LSH, throwing the music that I’d just printed upside down across the room.

Now, that the concerts are over and they were fine, (That’s really fine and well received, not perfectly fine, said with an eye roll.) I can reflect on a bonkers week with a smile. 

The point I went from overwhelm to swan happened because of a bird and two children. It was Wednesday; the day of the first concert. I had woken up with a familiar tightness in my chest and a sensation that my head might explode before I took my next breath. I selected a ‘Yoga for when you are spiralling video’ and pretzeled myself into a zen-like state (zen enough to get dressed for work). I took my coffee into the garden and noticed a female blackbird sitting at the bottom of the pleached beech hedge, pipping furiously. My garden is messy, which makes it wonderfully overwhelming for wildlife. Her beak was full of dead daffodil leaves I hadn’t found time to remove. Soft, browning fronds weighed her down but she couldn’t bear to put her prize down. Eventually, her partner hopped down from the tree and pipped back at her. The language was terrible. His foul words of encouragement seemed to help as she managed to summon all her strength to fly, still with all of the nesting material and without any help.

A line from a song in the school play popped into my head, ‘Ah-ha, metaphors, that’s something we’ve learnt,’ and I thought that if Mrs Blackbird can do it, then so can I.

In school, children noticed my change of attitude and took it as an opportunity to say whatever they liked. 

‘Why are your feet purple?’

I uncrossed my legs

‘They’re back to normal. Phew! Why did they do that? It’s not right? Are you sure you’re OK?’

Not questions I could answer. 

‘Oh god! They’ve gone again! Look!’

I don’t have the nicest feet and it was a little uncomfortable to have 30 smallish people prodding at them but I lacked the energy or will to stop them. 

In the next class, the children were feeling end of termish themselves. It’s a touchy class. They like a hug, leaning into you, stroking your legs when you’re not looking and it gets worse when they are tired. 

‘Why are your elbows all spongy?”

I didn’t know they were. Bony would be a more usual description.

‘Err. Weird. Feel.’ 

Laughter erupted around the room as a few brave souls stepped up to test the boy’s theory. Before I knew it I was surrounded by small fingers trying to wobble my elbow skin. It has left me strangely paranoid and wanting to ask my trusted friends to touch my elbows but that would be even weirder.

It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously when you work in a school.

Now the two big stressful things are over I wonder if I can maintain energy until the end. My brain is telling me I’m done but there are still two weeks to go. Will my purple feet and spongy elbows cope without the overwhelm. Maybe I’ll take a tip from Mrs Blackbird who is now in her beautiful nest, pipping out orders. 

3am thinking

 I’m not alone. Billions of women are awake at 3am - thinking. These are not useful thoughts. They are pointless considerations. Sleep is the time when your brain goes into filing clerk mode but at my age the filing cabinet is a bashed-up, green, metal affair, with sticky drawers and some sections so full there is no room to cram another piece of information.

This is when your brain wakes you up.

“Excuse me,” it says, feigning a politeness that quivers on the edge of irritation, “but where, the fuck, am I meant to put this?”

Bleary-eyed you consider the problem. Not least the one of your brain swearing at you in the middle of the night. 

“Well,” you tell it, “Maybe you could not put it anywhere. Just leave it. We all know it’s not important.”

Brain huffs. Brain thinks everything is important. You never know when you might need this again is its motto. Sometimes Brain wonders if it should turn the motto into Latin to give itself more gravitas, so that you take its 3am problems more seriously. Brain then wonders why it doesn’t know Latin. It swears at you again for not learning it when you were younger, before it begun to resemble Swiss cheese. 

After a merry-go-round of insults Brain finally comes back to the original problem and tells you, once again, that it is important and that you are getting no more sleep until you’ve decided where to put it. You get up. Brain is determined. 

After an hour, you and Brain are no further along. 

“Why don’t you blog?” Brain likes a blog, it sees it as an extension to the filing cabinet; a Big Yellow Box Company storage solution. You tell Brain that people will know that you have really lost the plot when they hear the problem. You remind Brain that not everything is important but Brain only swears at you in Latin and wonders where it learnt ‘filis canis’ before looping round the question of whether there are any better Latin insults than ‘son of a dog.’

The problem that Brain is struggling with is where to put something it overheard in the swimming pool. Really, it’s nothing. It is not the answer to the destruction of all humanity and although it’s a little odd and quite funny it really isn’t important.

The thing it heard?

A lad, probably in his early 20s, jumped in the pool and shouted, “Fuck me, that’s wet.”

Thank you Brain.

Psycho Pete

 Well played Robinsons Squash. Your advertisers are amazing. Everyone is talking about your drink. Parents are rushing out to fill their children with citric acid,  aspartame, saccharine, potassium sorbate, sodium metabisulphate, cellulose gum,  sucrose acetate isobuterate,  glycerol esters of wood resins and carotene colouring, so they can have a laugh around the kitchen table after a difficult day. Teachers are spitting feathers. At the end of a very long underfunded year, where behaviour is challenging (a teacher euphemism) and parental support is patchy this advert has jangled a few frayed nerves. 

If you want a product to be talked about there is nothing better than exploiting a division that already exists, especially if you can set two large vociferous groups against each other. The arguments will run and run.

You might expect me to be part of the loud teacher group, as my children are grown. I could add my voice to those calling for the advert to be banned, point out that a call home isn’t something to be laughed at. 

However, the advert did make me laugh.

I’m good at filling in the back story.

We all know that child. He’s Psycho Pete. He has squash in his water bottle and no matter how often you point out that a water bottle should only contain water he spills the  sweet sticky liquid on someone else’s work on a daily basis. You suspect it’s not quite the accident he claims but Pete is in it for the shits and giggles. 

The advert shows Psycho Pete’s mum at work when a call from school flashes up on her mobile screen. “He’s done what?” she asks. She is cross but unsurprised. She picks PP up and tells the teacher not to worry, that she would be having serious words with him. They go to the car in silence, she is fuming. They get out of the car, still fuming and silent. They sit at the kitchen table and she gets squash from the cupboard, pours them both a drink and they start to laugh. 

We don’t know if there was a conversation in the car and I’m assuming that the advertisers think that is where she told him off and, maybe found out it was a minor misdemeanour that was quite funny. Yes, even PP does things that are funny, although they do not end in a call home. 

In my head, though, the conversation went something like this.

PPM: I’m so embarrassed. I had to leave work again early. 

PP: It wasn’t my fault.

PPM: O-kaaay

PP: No. Matthew smells.

PPM: Right….

PP: I think he eats poo.

PPM: I’m sure…

PP: He leant over me and his breath. Poo. Stinky. Wow! And it wasn’t my fault. The scissors were in my hand.

PPM: But in his eye? Really Peety?

PM: He looked so funny. Running around, with the scissors sticking out, shouting, “Oh my eye!”

PPM: Your teacher is really cross. It’s embarrassing for me to keep getting calls. Why do you do this to me?

Obviously, that’s all the time there is for conversation because they don’t live far enough away from school to really justify using a car.

My admiration for the advertisers who have got people talking their client’s product is huge but I do wonder if it’s also a cautionary tale. Does squash turn children into feral beasts?

We were never surprised

Swearing is frowned upon if you are a teacher. You are not allowed to wander the corridors muttering fuck it under your breath. Your job is to shape small minds and managing the language they are allowed to use is another unpaid expectation. 

The teacher’s pay award is in the news again. The crazy situation, where a pay review body sets the rise and the government funds it, except they haven’t funded it fully for years now. This year, the body awarded 4% (not unreasonable when inflation is at 3.5% and there were years of pay freezes) and the government said they would only fund 2.8%. Teachers threatened to strike. Honestly, there aren’t many who wouldn’t give up a pay rise if they could have paper, pencils, whiteboards and pens, and glue sticks. This morning the government found a little extra down the back of the sofa and are now funding 3% and offering consultants to help schools make efficiency savings. More cuts. There are words for this we could teach children. 

Primary school teachers are often navigating the minefield of language.

Umm Miss she just said the C word. 

Which C word?

(Child looks at her foot, which she has lifted up to toe and is twisting awkwardly)

It’s OK. You can tell me you won’t be in trouble.

As a teacher, you hope it’s ‘Christmas’ - a banned word until December. 

It can be hard to keep a straight face when a four year old’s go-to phrase is Holy Crap. 

You tell them there are ‘home only’ words and that they are not Batman. 

The children are confused. I had a conversation with two thoughtful 6 year olds this week and it has made me think k about how much life has changed. 

C1: What the hell!

C2: Is that a swear?

Me: Yes, it is really. Not something we should say at school.

C1: (singing) What the hell just happened.

C2: It was our Eurovision song

Me: Yes, I know. When I was at school it would have been a very rude thing to say. You’d have been in a lot of trouble and it wouldn’t have been in a single like that. 

C2: Oh God!

Me: We weren’t allowed to say oh God, either. Blasphemy was swearing and you might have been sent to the headteacher.

C1: (with a furrowed brow) What did you say if you were surprised 

Me: Just Oh. Or Oh dearie me, what a surprise.

They went away giggling, practising their oh-dearie-mes.

After they left, I thought about it a little more. 

The truth is we were rarely surprised. The Seventies were boring, predictable and small. If you wanted to be surprised you needed to go to the library and work your way through the Encyclopaedia Britanica. You knew what day of the week it was by what you had for tea. Everyone watched the same TV. There was no need for extreme language.

If I were a child now, navigating this inherently surprising world I would be using all the words and some of my own. 

Annual European Cheese Fest

 It is about to begin. Excitement fizzed among my colleagues yesterday.

'I can't wait!' 'I'm so looking forward to it.' 

As I was leaving, several people said, 'Enjoy yourself tomorrow,' and for a brief moment I was confused.

'Where am I going?' I nearly said, thinking that I had plans to stay on the sofa for most of the day. Books have been stacking up, although I was going to walk to town to forage for cheese.

It was a lightbulb moment. Eurovision! My favourite day of the year and my enthusiasm, it seems, is infectious.

Although I haven't been blogging much (because I'm editing a long piece of work and have decided that I am a terrible writer) I have been persuaded that my unhinged stream of consciousness is something that my colleagues need in their life.

I will, as the evening goes on be adding my thoughts and no doubt will quote the UK entry several times.

WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

For now, I'll leave you with a photo of our cheese.

Oh oh. We've fallen off a bridge. What a way to start.

The trophy is in one piece - for now.

Last year's winner. Channelling Florence Foster Jenkins in one of those fur hats we all had in the Seventies with bobbles on string. Followed by drumming and the competitors' parade. It's like the Hunger Games - our tributes look smiley. Graham says that every dancer in Switzerland is there but I think lots of people dance. Drummers, however....

UNITED BY MUSIC (I like that slogan)

I like Hazel - the one who refuses to wear high heels and is named after a nut.

Why lay it out in 3 groups of nine if there are 26? There is a lively discussion here about how weird it looks and how could you set it out better. Don't tell us we don't know excitement when we see it.

NORWAY

Fire. Dance moves, Interesting outfits. Almost chainmail. I'll be my lighter. His accent is very good. We think he might have been on the Voice. No Way = Norway.

There's bopping in our living room. Well done Allesandro.

LUXEMBOURG

Haven't qualified for Eurovision for 100s of years

Poupee de song - Puppet on a string vibes. I like it when they feature old ladies. Dr Who vibes. Sandie shaw on the screen. I like the velvet suit dancers. Poopy is getting a laugh here. This has great Eurovision vibes. OUtfit change - dance. This is great. She has a cracking voice. It's going to be hard this year.

ESTONIA

Tommy Cash. Espresso Machhiato - an Italian cliche. We are all laughing. Real Eurovision vibes. We love the dancing. This is a dance I'd like to learn. He's making himself laugh. No Stresso. la la la la la la la la.  

ISRAEL

Controversial - not in Europe but a big consumer of European TV, so it counts. There are other controversies that are not for this blog but I expect there will be protests. I'm not a fan of a ballad in this competition. It's boring. Black dress, long nails, sparkly staircase.  We are all giving points to the boring staircase. Not for us

LITHUANIA

It's got instruments - we usually give extra marks for real instruments but has anyone else lost the will to live? Kurt Cobain has been reincarnated. Straight jackets. Is the song about suicide? Oh bless him. He really doesn't want to be there.

SPAIN

Graham says she's a pro = seems a bit mean. She begins fully dressed but don't worry that doesn't last for long - maybe she is that kind of pro. 

Nice hat. She looks a bit like Melania - is the president of the USA missing a wife. Her train was just the dancers. Everytime she walks she looks as though her knees are buckling from under her. Diva diva diva diva.

The long note was popular in the room. That was a good leap and catch. Hair twirling celebration. 

UKRAINE

They are still at war. They look like they've sent their angels that were killed in the war. Drummer in powder blue. Star Trek badges. David Bowie on the USS Enterprise. The blackouts are interesting. We need someone who cares please leave. You can't knock the sentiment but it felt like two songs. 

Whipping up the crowd before the UK

UK

I really  like these girls. Their harmonies are tight and they are usually confident and they've worked hard but I can't be impartial.

Clutch my pearls. Skirt whipping off. Disney princesses riding the chandelier. Ethel Merman. If there's one think I'm not so keen on it's the change of time.  It's giving me the goosebumps on the back of my neck. Go us!

Drinking for Terry. My first love was Terry Wogan I wrote to him every week.

AUSTRIA

Falsetto in a shipwreck. One of us likes it. Tempest vibes. Arty. These songs can win and then you wonder why. I don't like the strobing and I'd never manage in a dance club. It will do well but I don't like it. 

ICELAND

Don't call them Jedward. The French teacher at school did a Eurovision lesson and the kids loved it and were singing it all afternoon. The boat is funny. The staging is really good. The ending is great. We are discussing whether it's our favourite. 

LATVIA

Never never never never. Never never fish can speak. Water nymphs, kelpies. Axolotls. It's a belly dancing tune. Those harmonies have an Armed Man vibe. Tails. Now they look like monkeys. How long did you keep a sea monkey alive? That was the most distressed my children had ever been. Hypnotic. We are all in a trance now. 

NETHERLANDS

Claude. We think he looks familiar. C'est la vie. It goes up it goes down. La la la la. Violins. He's a good performer. I'm engaged. That staging is cute with the mirror. The tears at the end were a bit much.

FINLAND

It's nice to see girls who eat. and she has an eye roll to envy. Wunderbar - not. Although, it has just been read in our house as Wonderbra. That was a shot - Im not sure we needed to see her vulva. This large mic stand is the only one she didn't throw away. She's giving it everything. 

She's coming - ugh! 

Graham is being a bit nice. 

CDs - Hazel is funny. She's going to buy an old car to listen to them.

ITALY

Subtitles are part of this song. He's sitting on his foot. He should be careful when he stands up. I've done that and pins and needles won't be fun on stage. He looks like a frill-necked lizard. He's borrowed Queen Elizabeth the first's make up. Why is his friend not credited. 

POLAND

She's 52 - Really. But those snow boots are impressive. Moths have been at her outfit. She's 52?

Glass boxes, a flood. She's singing about savlon. Can someone check her knees. She's 52! 

A woman of many talents. Violently violining. She's 52. Mother of dragons. 

Remember to enjoy them when you are young (not your children, Your knees. Cartilage doesn't last forerver.) She's 52!

GERMANY

Girl in pants. Falalala Falalalala. It's balalala - Electric cello. Crashed his cello. Another girl in pants. 

Boring.

GREECE

A bridge - or is she standing on a table? Someone forgot to sew up her sleeves. Death eater. She's a very good singer. But it is boring. The birds and staging is interesting. Warbler. She looks like she needs a week.

Costume change gets extra points but a bit late.

ARMENIA

This is the Long Suffering Husband's kind of music. I'm a survivor staying aliver. I'm a survivior full of saliva. He has goat poo all over him. The LSH has a man crush. He's just said that goat man is very fit. 

Staying aliver is making me laugh. That's a long note. We have to rate the costume on the pattern of goat poo. 

SWITZERLAND

Anyone want fondue? There's something about the quality of her voice that makes me want to melt some cheese. 

It's very brave to just sing with a couple of hand gestures. Just as we were saying it wasn't going to score highly she got angry. 

MALTA

We are looking forward to this. Serving KANT - Graham said - they eat this up - LSH said, 'I beg your pardon.'

They told her that she couldn't mention the German philospher. She said that it means sing but we know.

This is catchy. She's lost her dress. We know where her Kant is. You can't argue with the power of judgement. 

PORTUGAL

Miserable displacement song. They are nerdy men. It's a pet hate of mine - musicians who bang their foot to keep time. Just count in your head man! Calling the 1970s can you come and get your song and give it to David Soul. 

DENMARK

 It takes a few people to get her dress off. This leotard and thigh length boots look is very popular this year. I expect it will do well. She's got a great voice. Those dancers are bendy. Epic voice. 

Made in Switzerland - Can that win?

SWEDEN

Sauna and a mighty fine sausage. Tiksy Toksy. I like this dancing. I could do this dancing. Sauna. It would have won Eurovision about 10 years ago but when you compare it to the vocal performances of other acts it doesn't stand a chance. It makes me laugh. I can't see the judges voting for it. 

FRANCE

How much sand do you think she has in her knickers at the end of the song? The LSH says it's cork. Another beautiful woman who looks like she eats. Eurovision is a great role model for women. This is a very French entry from France. She shouldn't have had that chicken curry. Its about her being stuck in an egg time because she hasn't got enough time with her mum. Her daughter appearing at the end made it sad. Maman.

SAN MARINO

DJ - he's 52! He's at Solva woolen mill. He looks 52. David looks really ugly when he's chewing gum. There's a lesson. Even the most beautiful man rendered in marble looks bad blowing bubbles. God - My parent;s were right. Tutta l'italia. It's pick on Italy year. We like the chap playing the ocean drum. Not a big finish - a fizzle fart. Masks. Can you imagine San Marino hosting?

ALBANIA

That's a very straight fringe. I bet she's hot in gloves. He is there to hit the box. What has the box ever done to him? We are all doing the dance. She's taken over the box hitting. She does it with more wiggle, while he does a gollum impression. Haaaah. It's very Albanian.

One of them will win. That's the way it works. I wonder if Celine Dion is in her home country? They must have tried to get her. 

And the votes from the AllTrades household are:

Me: 1. Malta 2. Iceland 3. UK

LSH: 1. Iceland 2. Luxembourg and Sweden 3. France and Austria

DD: 1. Sweden 2. Iceland 3. Estonia

FSIL; 1. Iceland 2. Denmark 3. Malta

DS: 1. Iceland 2. Sweden 3. Malta

But we are always wrong. 

Time for more cheese.

Cheese coma.

VOTES

Three countries in and no points for the UK. Austria is doing well. I'm not keeping up. 

Thank you Luxembourg They gave the UK 6 points. We are breathing again. France is getting some of the 12 points.

And San Marino  2 points.

Ukraine like us because we give them guns. I'm not against political voting now. They gave us 10 points.

7 points from Norway. Another 7 points from Austria. 

12 points from Italy. Always liked Italian mice.

Another 2 from the woman from Portugal in a rug.

4 points from Denmark

It's really close. The 12 points are all over the place.

'2. Thanks Ireland, we're supposed to be friends' My family need to read more history.

Poland gave us a point.

After the jury votes. Austria in lead, with Switzerland in 2nd and UK 10th. 

Jedward aren't going home with nul points

There is no keeping up with how they show us the public votes. 

Malta 8 points - What the hell just happened?

Zero points for UK - Really?

That poor Austrian boy needs a wee.

Phew. Austria! Now let him go to the loo.

It's a complicated competition.

Legend

 One of the tricky things about holidays and teaching in your home town is the fame. It can be hard to be famous and I do not envy film stars. 

It’s not the shouts of your name, as you walk home from school, or even being told in the swimming pool about a recorder a parent has finally bought the child that I mind. That’s my fault for wanting to walk to work. In term time I expect all of that. However, during holidays I want to hide. I am (as we are encouraged to say now) overstimulated and disregulated (which even my spell checker knows isn’t a real word). In other words, I’m a brat. Miserable, grumpy, full of cold and forcing a smile for even people I genuinely like is a challenge. 

I need my space. 

I seek out places where children are unlikely to be. The Moot Hall with my favourite ghost, the records office, with its damp smell of the past, supermarkets in other towns. The Long Suffering Husband would have liked to have gone away but we didn’t manage to arrange it and it doesn’t always work. There have been times when walking on my favourite secluded beach in Pembrokeshire I’ve heard my name shouted, only to look at an embarrassed family or a small child winding itself around a parent’s legs, deeply regretting their choice. 

Children rarely care that you are incognito. A different set of clothes, a hat and a pair of sunglasses are catnip to their sleuthing powers. 

This holiday has been particularly challenging. I’ve been more bratty, sorry, I mean disregulated, than usual and while I’ve changed my pink bobble hat, am wearing a different coat and sunglasses the children have a lot to say about my apparent existence outside of school.

At least six times, so far in this holiday, I’ve heard, “Mrs AllTrades!”

This has been followed with an explanation to the adult they are with.

“That’s Mrs AllTrades she picked up the dinosaur poo!”

This has led to some interesting conversations with shop workers.

“No, it wasn’t dinosaur poo,” I tell a woman at a till, who is simultaneously crossing her legs and wiping her eyes. “I think it was fox. You know how they gorge themselves on the food waste bin and get diarrhoea? Well, it was outside the school gate.”

“And you picked it up?” The woman says, slightly gagging at the thought.

“Yeah. It was huge. It filled 3 dog poo bags.”

“Oh my goodness. Are you the caretaker?”

“No, no but I have a dog and I had bags in my pocket.”

“That explains it, then,” the woman says, “Legend!”

I could die now. Then they might write on my gravestone how I was fearless in the face of dinosaur poo. 

Penguins

 I couldn’t let a blog slip by without mentioning the penguins.

In this crazy world, where I am able to waste inordinate amounts of time watching short videos, penguins are quite high on my list. Animals generally get my viewing time, as do swearing toddlers but penguins are some of my favourites. 

So, along with my obsession with the orange idiot that the Americans elected to run their country, I am now delighted. I’m here for the penguin content. Memes, reels and cartoons of penguins are everywhere and my lazy dopamine hit is joyous.

In the ‘Independence Day’ trade war the Trumpanzees chose a whole list of countries that would have tariffs. The president announced each item as though it were a game show, claiming that he was getting back the countries that had raped and pillaged their land. Russia wasn’t on the list but the islands of Heard and McDonald in Antarctica have a tariff of 10%. No human has visited the islands for over 10 years and so the world is wondering what the penguins have done to Trump and the reels and memes are fabulous.

The hill to die on

 Blogging has seemed pointless.

The world is going to hell in a handcart. 

The Trumpanzees have come up with a new catchy slogan for a global trade war. (Liberation Day)

Wars rage. Natural disasters happen daily. A foot appeared in the sea in Thailand during an earthquake. (A while ago I jokingly wrote about storms being angry giants). People stayed in their rooftop swimming pools while the earth shook and water splashed over the edge, only pausing to set their phone to selfie mode. 

Meanwhile, we are all being asked to do more with less. 

The solution, apparently, is AI. 

This is currently my hill. The one I’m going to die on. 

Like a dinosaur, refusing to grow longer arms and not stare, unblinkingly at the incoming comet, I absolutely refuse to believe that AI can write faster and better than my own brain. Intelligence is preferable and I can’t help thinking that if we don’t use it, we’ll lose it and some of us need the practice. 

In the future, people may agree with me. I was never convinced about Flora, stubbornly sticking with butter, despite the heart disease in my family because I wasn’t keen on artificial. I didn’t want to eat plastic, butter tastes better and the choir warm up Betty Botter just wouldn’t work if we were singing about partially hydrogenated sunflower oil spread. Recently, health researchers have started to agree with me, although they haven’t mentioned the song. 

My problem with AI writing is that it always sounds like an arrogant teenage boy.

“Errm, I think you’ll find that if you are, in fact, bitten by a squirrel, you will have to seek urgent medical attention.”

“Penguins do, indeed, have knees.”

I wonder if this is what people thought in the Industrial Revolution? 

I always get morbid around Easter, when I forget that it’s not all about chocolate start to consider the awful nature of human beings and people dying on hills. 

If it is all getting to you too then I’ll share a child’s drawing from many years ago. 

Before you get any ideas and run it through AI, where, no doubt, the big-headed teenage boy will give you an explanation of fellatio, it is a picture of Jesus getting his feet washed by Mary.

Caveman Brain

 My poor caveman brain is struggling at the moment. Logic should be able to defeat it but as far as it is concerned the evidence is stacking up. 

Whenever I leave the house at night, I walk out of the door, look up, and there, in the sky, are new orbs of light. Bright. Shining and scary. They are lined up in a row and my caveman brain is convinced they are a sign of impending doom. 

NASA takes better pictures than me

I started this blog a month ago and stopped writing because I knew I was being silly. Science. I told my brain that we knew what they were and even Facebook was more advanced than it was being.

However, my caveman brain hasn’t been soothed, even now, that they’ve gone away.  

“You can’t deny that something weird is happening,” it shouted as I switched off the news because the Long Suffering Husband was making sure his flat feet would still exempt him from a call up in the event of the impending war.

We discussed Trump’s behaviour towards Zelensky and I didn’t say that it was the strange alignment of planets and did my best to not stoke up any more fear.

The human need to pretend everything is ok is baffling. 

I do it too. I’m soothing the LSH, allowing him to believe that we aren’t on the brink of implosion. Telling him that it is fine if he doesn’t watch the news. Even stranger, though, are the American public, who still think that the man who is crashing their economy has their best interests at heart. 

I haven’t stopped watching. Even now that the planets have gone, I am still uneasy. 

I am careful about my sources, though. I didn’t trust the video that showed Trump opening the letter from the King to show a drawing in crayon signed sausage fingers. 

Yesterday, I fell down a little rabbit hole, going to original sources. I had seen a convincing reel showing Trump sign an order to ban men from wearing skinny jeans so I went to the congress website to check. I couldn’t find any evidence to back it up and so am able to laugh at its comedy value.

While I was there, however, I did find this.

Greenland, which is not for sale, is going to be bought by America and called Red, white and blue land. Comedy is dead. It’s over. Comedians, just give up trying to be funny. You can’t trump Trump.

Glory Hunting

 The Long Suffering Husband called me a glory hunter and it bothered me. He was actually joking but he made the joke in reference to something I had done that was a bit extra and could get me noticed.

 Palpitations. Hot and cold sweat. A migraine. 

Who me? No surely not. I’m humble. Never stick your head above the parapet it might get shot off. No one likes a bragger.

The phrase, itself, is so good, though. It rolls off the tongue, sits roundly in the mouth and says much with two small words. So my stupid brain has been repeating it like a song: An earworm. 

So, instead of tormenting myself I’m here to unpick it. Hello Blog.

Except that I can’t. The idea of publicly questioning my reluctance to be praised feels like seeking praise and so anything I write will end up being a worm that eats its own tail.

Instead I’m going to join the rest of the UK and talk about TV. The one programme that everyone is watching. A programme about a bunch of glory hunters playing the most middle class game of wink murder ever invented. The Traitors.

I was late to the party. Reality TV isn’t my thing. I don’t like watching people put in uncomfortable situations or being mean to each other. However, when my colleagues were talking about it and one explained it to me as wink-murder (a description that all teachers will understand and it’s true we would also watch a version of heads down thumbs up) I was there. I’m more of a binge watcher and wasn’t sure I could commit to 3 days a week but a weekend binge has changed my mind. The LSH and I actually stay in the same room to watch and we talk to each other. 

My thoughts so far.

1. Claudia Winkleman has amazing comic timing.

2. The format of the game shouldn’t work but it does.

3. Knowledge is power

4. People don’t trust nice people.

5. Linda, Linda, Linda.

The LSH and I talk about what we would do if we were a traitor or a faithful, as if we know but we don’t and we never will because televised glory hunting would bring us out in hives. Those contestants are braver people than we are. 

Thanks Facebook

 I thought it was a return to school, a lack of heating or generally getting older. I’ve been going round in circles for days, unable to settle to anything. Frankly, I thought I was going a bit mad. Then Facebook came to my rescue.

‘Happy Birthday, Linda’ writes Bill.

‘Best wishes,’ writes Alan

‘Conteatllions (sic) on your 80th’ writes Sade

Sade needs new glasses.

Is it my job to let these people know?

Meanwhile, I’ll continue to go round in circles and do a last minute lesson plan change to a lesson on opera in honour of what would have been my mum’s 80th birthday. I might even get a packet of olops 

And tomorrow I’ll be able to think again. 

Are you listening?

 1n 1999, just 4 months before the shiny bright new aluminium, as those of us who liked to play with words were calling it, I sat with my mum, having a coffee outside Costa (very continental) by the bridge at Chelmsford. These were days before computers had properly invaded our lives but we were all worried that the Y2K coding error would crash the world. 

‘People worry too much,’ mum said, lighting up a second cigarette. ‘They always do.’

‘But if they’ve not planned for a two-zero at the beginning of the date everything could go off line.’ I said, twiddling my hair around my finger. 

She humphed and changed the subject.

‘Sometimes it feels as though the universe is listening to you. Do you know what I mean?’

I didn’t but she went on to explain how you could be indecisive about something and all of a sudden the answer would be everywhere. 

‘You think the world is trying to tell you something?’ I laughed. 

For a non-religious, feet-on-the-ground, no-nonsense person my mum was remarkably superstitious. 

I have been thinking about that conversation a lot recently, especially as whenever I turn on the telly or walk into a room where it is on, a disembodied voice says, ‘Always keep away from children.’ I know it’s a washing powder advert but maybe the universe is sending a message or death isn’t as final as I thought a mum is having a laugh with me. 

Our conversation had continued, talking about computers and how they’d never be able to keep up because the world changes all the time. 

‘How would it know something had gone out of fashion?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, maybe if less people are searching for it?’

‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘You never see men with gardening tools strapped to the crossbar of their bike anymore, do you?’

I agreed but wasn’t sure I ever had.

‘They used to be everywhere. Old men, cycling to the allotment or off to do some odd jobs.’

There was nothing more to say.

‘Shall we go?’ I said, turning round to pick up my shopping. My breath caught in my throat, ‘Mum, look!’

She turned.

‘See, the world is listening!’

The breeze ruffled her hair as the man cycled past, hoe attached to the crossbar, watering can dangling from each handlebar. 

I wonder what she would have made of tech actually listening to you?  Would I have popped round to find her shouting, ‘Oi Alexa, play Etta James.’ or would she have been as reluctant as I am. 

I do not trust that Alexa. For one  she can never seem to hear me, even when I haven’t lost my voice. She’s always much more keen to do something once it has been repeated by a man. 

Over Christmas we went to two different houses where Alexa already had her feet under the table. On Boxing Day the pressure to take it in turns to shout at Alexa to choose the next ‘banging tune’ brought me out in a cold sweat. And on Christmas Eve she ignored the woman of the house, who wanted the lights on until a man said it. The Long Suffering Husband thought he’d have a chat with her and a laugh.

‘Alexa! Play AC/DC Highway to Hell!’

It wasn’t a highway to hell kind of evening until that point but Alexa was up for the challenge.

‘Playing Highway to Hell through Amazon music. You have been signed up for free trial then you will be charged 10.99 a month.’

Shock filled the room. The LSH laughed awkwardly. The woman of the house shouted at Alexa to stop. AC/DC filled the room. The man told her to stop and the music ceased. The man frantically tapped at his phone.’

‘I can’t do it from here. I’ll need to log onto the computer.’

Alexa was threatening to spoil the party. The LSH had broken out into a sweat. It was decided that people could worry about it at another time.

It must be hell going to parties if you are called Alexa.

A few days ago the LSH had a message to say that he could breathe easy. No one knew what Alexa had been playing at and there was no subscription to Amazon music. 

It’s enough for me that the other appliances are listening. 

I grew up in a house where the radio was on all the time. Background music or chat from the Archers and habits are hard to break. The dog likes Classic FM and we leave it on for him over night. Radio 3 started playing experimental birdsong at 3 am a year ago and so he went back to the tunes everyone knows.

The other morning the LSH was going through the shopping list just as Maggie from Solihull was making a request for her cat. The LSH said that he had already bought marmalade a second before Maggie told us the name of her cat - Marmalade.

‘That’s weird,’ we said together.

However, not as weird as the thing that has just happened. I suppose I should have expected it at some time because my washing machine does finish by playing a short excerpt of a famous piece of classical music. However, Schubert Lieders are definitely out of fashion and no one expects to hear a perfect duet of the trout on radio and washing machine. In fact, the likelihood of that happening is so remote I probably should buy a lottery ticket. 

While I’m gone I’ll leave you with this little rumour. Apparently, Samsung chose this tune for their end cycle sound because they test their machines by putting a trout through a normal cycle and if it comes out damaged then it doesn’t pass quality control. 

Jesus Christ

 ‘Where were you?

We were waiting for the 12 days of Cheesemas and Books-in day.  Maybe even some dry comments on spending time with relatives, the fact that jigsaw puzzles should be for life and not just for Christmas. 

But you were AWOL,’ you cry.

You wonder if I was having an amazing time. Maybe partying or travelling and too busy to bother with words in a blog. Maybe I was writing other things. A little part of you wondered if I was OK but you didn’t like to ask.

The truth is I have done nothing. Absolutely nada, nix, nil. Who wants to read about nothing? 

I fell into the Christmas holiday, exhausted and coughing. I put the decorations up and hung my sign.

Usually I hang the sign and say to myself, ‘This house believes in central heating.’

Not this year.

At the beginning of December we had our annual service and our tank was condemned. The Long Suffering Husband had only mentioned a noise from the timer when we first turn it on. The engineer changed the part and the noise got worse. Unbearably worse. The part he needed next was obsolete. The only solution: a new tank and for obvious reasons British Gas contract that out to Dynorod. The engineer left apologies and 2 blower heaters and a promise of a call from Dynorod in 4 hours. The tank was obviously out of stock and the factory shut down until after Christmas. 

My whole personality, through the festive period has been about keeping the house warm(ish). There are rooms we have shut up (my study - winging next term’s lessons) which give us a good insight into the outside temperature (always warmer). I think that I can’t go out because I have to put another log on the fire soon. The dog has thoroughly enjoyed being a breathing, heated blanket and worships at the alter of the blower. 

What do we believe in now, if it’s not central heating?

I confess that Santa will always be my man. The dog had me up 3 times in the night on Christmas Eve at half hourly intervals from midnight. Something had spooked him and he had to check the roofs. 

The LSH, on the other hand, is more of a Jesus Christ man. I’m assuming so because of the number of times he has mentioned him over the last few weeks. New Year’s Eve being one of them. There we were, reading in bed. Double duvets, bed socks and jumpers, reminiscing about the 1970s, when the clock ticked into the New Year.

‘Jesus Christ! Who are these animals? Happy New Year,’ he said.

I laughed but didn’t sit up in bed to watch the fireworks in case I got cold. 

‘It’s like a war zone. If they wake the dog up and I have to get out of bed ….Jesus Christ!’

It has, obviously, been perfectly fine. Just not something you would want to read about. 

The 6th of December - Epiphany. And my epiphany is I am going to be pretty grumpy (and possibly smelly) as I go back to real life with the promise that it ‘should’ all be fixed by the end of January.