Stand by or stand up?

 I stopped blogging. I got inside my head, worried about what people would think about me, broke into a cold sweat imagining conversations people would be having about my tendency to overshare. I was also trying to be a little serious with ‘proper’ writing and feared a blog would hurt those chances. 

But.

The world.

I can’t say nothing.

In the end, I have decided to swallow the fear because you have to decide if you are going to stand by or stand up.

A few weeks ago, I watched the film, Nuremberg. It’s a stunning movie. I sat, silent, gripped. A film, based on a book that’s based on another book: 22 Cells by the Psychiatrist who was responsible for the mental health of the Nazis due to stand trial at Nuremberg. In the film, they alluded to the fact that the psychiatrist, Douglas M Kelly, was never the same, his book flopped and he suffered from life-ending depression. Five minutes after the film finished, my son and I looked at each other, blinking and said, “We have to read that book.” We did and I would recommend it if you want a view on what is happening in the world today. 

‘Oh come on,’ Mrs All Trades, I can hear you thinking,‘It’s not as bad as that.’ 

I don’t want to be a fear-monger but there are definitely parallels. 

Thinking about what could stop it and watching the ICE murders in America I came to a conclusion that only a small proportion of Germans were true Nazis and probably the same small proportion were activists, fighting for regime change. Most people, were, like me, in the middle. Us stodgy middlers think we have no influence but we do. We fall into one of two camps. Those that stand by and those that stand up. It’s subtle and you would think it makes little difference because both positions are inactive. 

If more Germans said, ‘Das ist nicht richtig!” then things might have been very different. From reading 22 Cells, I think this is the subtle shift that happened in the UK. 

When my children were born I decided they needed a family tree and discovered my husband had an uncle by marriage called Adolph. When I expressed surprise, my husband only ever known of him as Dolf, my mother-in-law told me that they had been Blackshirts and shrugged, as if were nothing. 

At that time, post-first world war, a lot of people were scared and dissatisfied. They were looking for someone to blame. Some rich UK people thought that aligning themselves with the Nazi party would make them richer. But most people were somewhere in the middle. They laughed at the idea or shrugged their shoulders when asked what they thought of it all.

Then Joachim Von Ribbentrop (one of the Nazis later to stand trial at Nuremberg) visited the UK. He was a champagne salesmen and was well connected to the uk elite and therefore seen as the right person to bring the UK on board. However, he made a fatal error. Instead of bowing to the King and following protocol he gave a Nazi salute and shouted, ‘Heil Hitler.’ As his shiny black booted heels clicked together those standing by stood up. ‘That’s not right,’ they said and a possible history shifted. 

My blog will be used for standing up, exploring my thoughts in more depth and hoping, that if you read this, you’ll stand up with me.

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.