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.