Bums on Seats

It seems a lifetime since the Long Suffering Husband and I went out together on a Saturday evening, without any children or friends where we talked about children.  Last night we went to see a local Drama group perform a play called Bums on Seats.  It was a last minute decision to support our local Arts.

AmDram productions always amuse me.  I love seeing characters from my own personal daily soap opera pretending to be someone else.

Bums on Seats is a gentle comedic farce about life in the theatre by Michael Snelgrove.  From the program I thought we were in for a real treat - a play with a majority female cast but it seems that this was just an adaptation for this particular group.  Far from being a 'riotous, satirical comedy', it was a dated script, probably written in the late 60s early 70s and published by Samuel French specifically for am-dram groups to pretend they were 'serious' actors.  There were one or two funny lines but it all felt as though it had been done before.

Despite the script there were some really good performances.  The young woman who my daughter used to know at school was wonderful.  She really made me believe she was devastated to be doing this job (I think that was part of the script!) The man playing a long-suffering husband was also very good.  I think he may have taken lessons on eye-rolling from Mr All-Trades.

At the end of the play the couple in front of us turned to their friend and said, "Well, what did you think?"  The reply was, "It's not really my thing but I'm sure it was very good."

We felt a bit like that too but it wouldn't stop us going to see the next things they do.

Symbolism and my padded cell

Symbolism is a fascinating subject.  The idea that an object, action or idea can represent something more than itself runs through art, science, literature and every major religion.  Humans are always looking for connections.  Almost as soon as we can talk we ask, "Why?"  Parents pushing buggies sigh, "because...because...it just is!"


When I was a homoeopath, I loved studying the symbolism between plant remedies and the things they could cure.  Paracelsus wrote about the idea of the Doctrine of Signatures in the early 16th Century.  Herbalists at the time believed that God had marked things with a sign or signature of their use.  Medical scientists would probably sniff at the idea but it is undeniable that these herbalists contributed enormously to botanical study and pointed the way to many amazing medical discoveries. Without the doctrine of signatures, aspirin would probably never have been invented.  Herbalists noticed that Willow trees (Salix) grew in damp moist environments and so they used Willow bark to treat people with pains from rheumatic complaints that were aggravated by damp weather.  The Salicylic acid in the bark has been synthesised to make aspirin.

  I wonder if headaches that do not start in damp weather would be better cured with paracetamol?  


As a child, I was fascinated with the plant Shepherds Purse.  I loved the shape of the leaves and even wondered if it people should chew it if they had a broken heart.  Studying the plant, as a homoeopath, I found out that they weren't heart shaped leaves but womb shaped leaves and that as a homoeopathic remedy.  Thalaspi Bursa Pastoris  it was very effective at treating many of my patients with menstrual disorders (especially fibroids).

This current spell of wet weather has coincided with a time when many people I know are experiencing a lot of sadness.  Somehow, it feels as though the world is crying.  Every funeral I have ever been to has been in weather like this.

On Friday, I went to support my daughter at her A level music recital.  It was an absolute delight to be treated to so much beautiful music by such talented young people. When one candidate started to sing, the birds joined her.  The song was Eva Cassidy's Songbird.  It was a beautiful, natural duet but then the birds got a bit carried away and over-sang.

Scene Stealers

At the beginning of the week I had some very exciting news.  The school where I work is to build a posh shed for me to  teach music in, without being disturbed by the dinner ladies trying to get the tables out for lunch, or the football team using the hall to change, or children coming in to find PE equipment.  However, the symbolism of this has started to hit, as it is being referred to as my 'padded cell!'


           

How do single parents do it?

My daughter overheard a conversation between a couple of male teachers with small children the other day, where they were discussing a friend whose wife had left him.  One said that he felt really sorry for him because he had a two year old daughter.  "I wouldn't like to do it on my own," he said, "It would be so lonely."  

This weekend would have been impossible with only one parent in my house.  

My son has signed up to do the Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award and next weekend he will do his practice walk. We had decided to do a practice, Practice Walk this weekend, whatever the weather so that we could test the back pack, camel pack water bottle and walking boots.

We left the house and started walking.  The sky was beautiful blue, so we sang Mr Blue Sky.  The fields were gold, inspiring a short burst of Eva Cassidy.

We were having a great time and the dog found some new friends.

The backpack seemed to be working well.

As we walked we found a bridge made of pipes that we knew The Long Suffering Husband would like.  We knew he was missing out on this because he was at home, being the 'calm-"you-can-do-all-the-work-you-need-to-do-for-your-Alevels"-parent.'

Just as we started to get excited because we could see the penultimate lock it became clear that year 9 is a stupid year for boys to do the DofE. Year 9 boys grow in very unpredictable ways.  Just one month ago the new walking boots were too big.  Now his toes are pushing at the ends and his big toenail split.  It's a good job we did the practice walk.

We arrived and made a phone call to The Long Suffering Husband to collect us.  6.4 miles was enough practice and the dog had sticky buds in his armpits and was beginning to find walking uncomfortable.  I rang home and there was no reply.  I rang 'Dad' on my mobile and whilst my Dad was really pleased that we were at Paper Mill Lock he had no idea why I had rung him.  Ringing the correct number was no help, as he didn't hear it (never does!).  I rang my daughter's mobile and she told me that he'd gone to play golf.  Now, I was beginning to panic.  Luckily, there was a boat coming through the lock to watch.

In times of crisis, the only thing to do is eat, so we had lunch.

While we were eating, the Long Suffering Husband rang because he hadn't been on the golf course but in the Supermarket, where there is no phone signal.  He had finished the washing, cleaned the cars,  said, "Don't worry, it'll be fine a few times." and bought enough food to last the week.  He arrived just in time for cake.  Good timing.

At home I bathed the dog, cleaned the bath, checked Spanish homework, accompanied Saxophone practice, went for a swim with son (to help him get his physical part of DofE) and took daughter out to teach her how not to park a car while L.S.H. cleaned the house, cut the grass and made dinner.

How do people do it on their own?

Local Newspaper

Living in a small town, where everybody seems to know everybody else can make life difficult for the local newspaper.  The journalists don't seem to live in the town and their office has been moved to a larger town, a few miles away.  It's not the kind of town where much happens.  Often the crime page lists the flower pots stolen from garden sheds.

Our Saturday morning walk into town was livened up with a story that could make the front page of our local paper.  It was only a minor traffic accident and no one was seriously hurt, the driver was treated for shock by a paramedic and a shop front was completely wrecked, with glass all over the pavement.  But there was so much more to the story.  I was waiting outside the bank for the Long Suffering Husband to update his signature (which he hasn't done since he was 16 and they have just started bouncing cheques) with the dog (who makes old ladies cry and small children call him a cat), watching people go past and listening to their comments.

Not a Cat

Most people were super critical,  "Why aren't the Police there?"  "I can't believe they haven't put cones around the glass."

Some were funny, "I hope the shop doesn't have to close - where will the old ladies get their big knickers if it does."

There was lots of confusion, "How did that happen?"

No one was angry with the driver, "Poor girl, is she alright? She looks very shocked."

By the time the car had been moved (by a very calm man with a broom) the small crowd had dispersed apart from one local man.  He is known in the town for wandering into the road and stopping the traffic.  Recently a carer must have suggested he have a high-vis jacket because when he arrived he stopped, surveyed the situation, put his shopping bag down, took out his jacket, put it on and directed people away from the glass.  Who needs cones?

One of my favourite parts of the local newspaper has always been the Obituary page.  It may sound morbid but it's a fascinating read.  I have noticed a worrying trend. The age that people die has gone from about 60 to 85 in the last 20 years.  For most people it would be a positive thing but if life expectancy rises by that much every 20 years then I can expect to live to about 135.  That means that I will have to live as long as I've lived another two times over and I'm really quite tired already.

A Load of Rubbish

Everyone is talking rubbish at the moment.  It's the hot topic of conversation in the staff room, in the pubs and the swimming pool sauna.

Our local council has just switched to a new contractor who is providing new recycling services.  I'm a fan of recycling. I like to separate my waste.  It feels positive, as though I am doing something, no matter how small to save the environment.

Teething problems are to be expected but this new scheme has been a disaster.  Everyone's collection day has been moved to the same day and the poor bin men don't stand a chance of collecting everything on one day.

In the local paper a councillor admitted that the service was not good enough but said that the abusive telephone calls had to stop.  This astounds me.  Why do people feel the need to ring up and be rude and abusive to a poor receptionist, who has no power to change anything?  When I was walking the dog the first week, the bin men were quite cheerful.  They were confused and knew it wasn't all working but they were determined to do their best.  This week, they appeared downtrodden and fed up and when I said, "Morning, how's it going?" (Which is normally answered with a friendly chat) the reply was, "You're not going to moan at us as well are you?"

Following bin men around with a stop-watch is one of the highlights of my career.  I worked in the work-study department of a different council and it was my job to find out how long it took council workers to do certain jobs and set bonus rates for them, to encourage speed and accuracy.  Overall, it wasn't a job I enjoyed very much but the day I spent on the refuse truck was the most fun I've ever had.  Those men worked so hard and had so much fun, while doing it and they were even nice to me and my clipboard and stopwatch.

While I was working there the government made a new rule that council's had to put their services out to tender to make sure it was the cheapest deal.  The tender report became the responsibility of the the work study department and took months to produce.  We knew exactly, what it took to provide the services and the outside contractors were able to be more optimistic.  It didn't really matter if they could deliver because if they were cheaper they would get the job.  This must be what has happened here.  A contractor has been overly optimistic, got the job and failed to deliver.

What did you do today?

The Long Suffering Husband has always appeared to be a little resentful that I work part time.  On my days at home I teach individuals to play the flute in the evening and so we don't get to talk until after 8.  At that time he always says, "So, what did you do today?"  More often than not I just say, "not much." or "the usual stuff." This usually causes a bit of huffing and puffing.

I understand.  Honestly, I do.  It must be so depressing to live with someone who loves their job and also gets some days off.

This week, though, I decided to list the usual stuff in boring detail.  This is what I said:

"Well, I got up had a wash and got dressed and did a bit of ironing.  Then I did a  school run and took the dog for a long hour's walk along the canal.  When I got home I washed up and cleaned the kitchen and did some more ironing (while watching Jeremy Kyle).  Then I put some washing on, changed the bedclothes, hoovered up and went downstairs, where I finished my reports.  (Celebratory Dance)  Then I took all the music off my bookshelf sorted it and put it back on again, swam 34 lengths had a sauna and did a little bit of piano practice. My first of 10 pupils arrived.  Now, we've just had dinner, we are walking the dog.  When I get back I will wash up, iron the clothes I washed today and fall asleep (probably on the sofa)."

"Oh, Good," he said, "You should do that all the time.  You are so much better when you are busy!"

GRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

A Lucky Escape.

Have you ever had a lucky escape?  A time when something you thought you really wanted didn't happen and sometime later you realise how awful your life would have been if it had?

When I was 18 applied to University to do Medicine.  There was no real reason behind my decision, other than it wasn't music, which I had decided was a subject you only did if you wanted to spend your life miserably regretting it.  As I vomit in sympathy if people are sick, hate the sight of burns and have absolutely no patience with people who moan it was lucky that I didn't get those 3 A grades that I needed. I went to a Polytechnic instead to do Psychology, which was interesting and not very time consuming, leaving me lots of time to play music.

My daughter may also have had a lucky escape at the same age.  She is due to go to university to study journalism in September and after the Grand University Open Day Tour her  favourite was Kent.  We were all impressed with the professor's credentials, as he'd worked on the Today program and was regularly on Newsnight.

It was the only University to reject her without an interview.  They wanted 3 A's.

When we went to look round one of the students had just had an article published in the Independent. We were impressed.

I started to stalk the professor on Twitter.  Over time I started to realise that he didn't suffer from any journalistic impartiality and was happy to nail his right wing colours firmly to the mast.  Yesterday, the same student had another article published in the Independent.  He tweeted: "More impressive writing from Sarah Malm  Kent - where students learn to think for themselves."


Had she written something he disagreed with? No.  It was a very odd, right-wing opinion piece about how teachers shouldn't strike.  The girl could be the next Samantha Brick and I'm sure she's going to have a great career with the Daily Mail.  

Looking at the tweet again I noticed that someone had replied, "No offence to the student or university but the idea that striking is wrong is as old as the hills."  The professor then used 4 tweets to explain why teachers shouldn't strike.  


"Kent - where students learn to think for themselves" and decide that they should hold the same opinion as their professor. 


 If that were not true he wouldn't not have defended her point but would have defended her right to an opinion and suggested that opinion pieces should be inflammatory.  They are designed to get people talking.


Make up your own mind about the piece by reading it for yourself.


http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/sara-malm-going-on-strike-is-disgraceful-selfish-and-quite-frankly-pass-7643118.html


Personally, I think anything that compares a striking teacher to someone who doesn't turn up for their shift at McDonald's because they are hung over and ends with the phrase 'grow a pair' is probably ill informed.  


My daughter would have been so unhappy at this University, if she were expected to adopt opinions like this and even more unhappy if her professor thought this was good writing.  Phew.  Lucky escape.

Tears, Horses and Lemon Drizzle Cake

As a family we make one bet a year.  I don't know how it started or why we chose the Grand National to be our annual gambling focus.  It's not even as if we are horsey people.  I've thought of horses as large, smelly vicious creatures ever since I was 8 and a horse in a field near where I lived clamped it's jaws around my whole hand and refused to let go until the the polo has disappeared.

Crying doesn't come easily to me.  I'm not one of those people who weeps at films, weddings, cute babies or animals, or children singing (unless they are very out of tune - but I don't think that's the same thing!) but I find the Grand National to be a very emotional race.  I cry from the very beginning.  When the horses are parading around.  After Red Rum had retired you could almost taste his pride during the parade.  Some horses are nervous and skittish, some look relaxed and others are excited but all of them have their emotions clearly on display.

This year I was blubbing from the interview with Ted Walsh, where he said, "I'm just a father today.  It's difficult when it's your little girl is riding.  I just home she comes back safe."  Synchronised threw his rider before the race even started and went for a wander on his own. I sobbed, "Oh, now the Jockey will be really cross with him." Then there was laughter as I discovered my horse had wind problems and the children decided that I'd chosen well.  I thought I'd chosen well anyway just from the name  as I am 'Always Right.'

Then the race started and as each horse fell we were all shouting at the TV, "No!  Get up!  Quick!  Don't crush him!"   All our horses had fallen and the excitement started to build.  United, we wanted Seabass to win.  They could probably hear my daughter screaming, "Come on Seabass.  Yes, let a girl win.  Come on Katie," in Scotland.  

The race was over and Neptune Collonges had won.  I thought grey horses never won the Grand National.  They are so pretty, always remind me of rocking horses and both Jockey and horse were so proud of themselves.  

But the real tears came when we found out that Synchronised and According to Pete had fractured legs and had to be destroyed.  

The death of the horses reminded my daughter (Media Studies Geek) of Waltz with Bashir.  Despite hearing everything about it I hadn't seen it until today.  

There is only one cure for that many tears.

Lemon Drizzle Cake.

Reports

All the words are blending together.  After writing 6 classes music reports, with another 6 to go,  words are beginning to fail me.  All I can manage are lists.

Ten things said about Celebrities on their school reports

1. Winston Churchill - "He has no ambition."

2. Jilly Cooper - "Jilly sets herself an exremely low standard which she has failed to maintain."

3. Jeremy Paxman - "Stubborness is in his nature"

4. John Lennon - "Certainly on the road to failure."

5. Judi Dench - "Judi would be a good pupil if she lived in this world."

6. Diana (Princess of Wales) - "Must try to be less emotional in her dealings with others."

7. Michael Palin - "Just a tiny bit pleased with himself."

8. Margret Thatcher -  "Her cheeriness makes her a pleasant member of the form."

9. Peter Ustinov - "Shows great orginality, which must be curbed at all costs."

10. Norman Wisdom - "The boy is every inch a fool but luckily for him he's not very tall."

Ten things you'd like to write on a report but know you shouldn't

1. He is thick as two short planks.

2.  I have tried to teach him but you can't polish  a turd.

3. He is a complete pain in the arse.

4.  I've tried but I really dislike your son.

5. If only she stopped talking for 5 second.....

6.  She is such a crawler

7. He is just average

8.  She is just average

9.  He is just average

10.  She is just average.

Ten things said about me in my reports

1.  Junior 1 Special aptitudes - "Good recorder work"

2. Junior 1 Reading - "Enjoys humorous literature."

3. Junior 1 General remarks - " Her lack of self confidence is unfounded."

4. Junior 2 Special aptitues "Member of 2nd year choir and recorder group.  Good at needlework."

5. Junior 2 General remarks - "Julie (sic)  looks timid."

6.  Junior 3 English - "Julia can express herself with clarity and humour."

7.  Junior 4 Special aptitudes - "None"

8. Senior 3 -Elements of Engineering Design - "Her lack of confidence with the machines is a drawback with her practical work."

9. Senior 4 French - "Her Christmas test result was disappointing."

10 - Senior 5 Music - " Julia seems to have a grasp of the basic musical skills."

Sinking

The Titanic is everywhere at the moment: Terrible TV dramas, books, films, documentaries, new museums, the news.  You would be forgiven for thinking it had just happened.  But everyone loves a Centenary.  One hundred is a lovely number, big fat and round.  It rolls around your tongue and makes everything look special.

It does seem a very strange thing to do, though.  Who came up with the idea of putting the relatives of people who had died on the Titanic in a great big boat exactly 100 years after the first one set sail and taking them to the spot where it hit an iceberg?  It seems like madness.  What if this boat sinks?  In this age of terrorists one of them will have considered that to sink this boat would make a big splash.  

When my daughter first got her i-phone she considered calling it Titanic just so that when she plugged it into her computer it said "Titanic is Syncing".  My computer currently says, "Julia is Syncing." It may be right, even if it's spelling is bad. 

The Long Suffering husband bought me a Minstrels Easter egg and I have eaten the whole thing.  It was delicious but then I made the stupid mistake of checking the calories.  

Total calories = 1673.  

This wouldn't be a problem if that was all I had eaten but that was on top of the slight overeating I've been doing in the last week and all in one day.  My son has been cooking.  We have had the most delicious meals and a dessert every day and I've taken the word holiday to heart.  I've lazed in bed reading books, slobbed on the sofa watching films,  not been swimming and my trousers are beginning to feel tight.

Determined to make amends I made my way to the swimming pool.  I decided to keep going until I had swum a mile or sunk due to cramp, whichever came first.  I had the pool almost to myself.  After 37 lengths I had cramp in the little finger of my left hand.  It was odd but not enough to stop me and it disappeared at 40 lengths.  Then at 50 lengths it was my left ankle's turn. 'Fifty is a good round number," I told myself and the cramp went away.  I didn't sink.  At 62 lengths cramp struck again.  This time in my right middle finger.   This cramp has stayed and although it didn't stop me swimming a whole mile it might just be enough to stop the piano practice.  What a shame!

A badge you would only get with a proper swimming stroke