The Piano Tuner

When I was growing up the piano tuner came to our house once a year.  He rested his white cane on the side of the piano and his slightly smelly black Labrador sat panting patiently at his feet.  He spoke to no one, said nothing just listened and twiddled his ratchet around the normally unseen pegs. I assumed that to be a piano tuner you had to be both blind and dumb, as it heightened your other senses.  Looking back, I'm not sure whether our piano tuner was dumb he may have just decided not to bother with the inane 'hairdresser -type' conversations that you can only stretch to with people you don't really know.  "Nice weather for the time of year."  "Are you going on holiday this year?"

Now that I'm grown up, the piano tuner still comes to my house once a year.  My piano tuner isn't blind and he talks.  In fact, he talks a lot.  He is happy to share his opinions and makes me feel like less of a grumpy old woman.  This time he said, "What we have to remember is to enjoy our leisure time.  That's what I've learnt as I've got older."

This year I've made the mistake of enjoying my work a bit too much.  The leisure stuff is what has given me the headaches.  I neglected the piano practice and going to the allotment and now that I can't hide behind being EVER SO BUSY at school I have to start enjoying my hobbies again.  It might take a while though.  Playing the piano and owning an allotment are not hobbies that you can enjoy if you only do them occasionally.  Two weeks of abstention from either hobby leaves you feeling pathetic and frustrated.  Fingers don't work properly, weeds have taken over and it's enough to turn me into a foul mouthed raving lunatic.

I have received my annual weed letter from the Allotment Nazis.  "We have noticed that you are not cultivating your plot to a reasonable standard."  TELL ME ABOUT IT!  HAVE YOU NOTICED THE WEATHER THIS YEAR?  MY SEEDS DIDN'T TAKE.  THE POTATOES HAVE BLIGHT.THE ONIONS ROTTED. SLUGS HAVE EVEN EATEN MY COURGETTE PLANTS.  I'VE ONLY GOT BEETROOT LEFT AND I CAN'T STAND BEETROOT.   The Long Suffering Husband, unable to stand my ranting any longer forced me out of bed this morning and frogmarched me to the allotment.  "You have to make a start," he said.  Luckily, he stayed with me, as he prevented me from swearing at people.  The first, a normally sweet old boy, said as he left, "Good job, I expect to see all this cleared by the next time I come." (F-OFF)  "Ha, Ha," said the LSH, "you know if you ever feel the need you could always pull a few weeds yourself."  Then an old couple, walking hand in hand,  "the dreaded bindwind, oh dear."  Then as they had passed, "Oh, how did she let it get into that state?"  (F-OFF)  "I think it's time to go home.  I'll make you a cup of tea.  It looks so much better," he said before I could open my mouth.

Maybe, a new hobby could be swearing at perfectionists.  I know I would enjoy that.

A small obsession

Follow that!

What a brilliant Olympic opening ceremony but the pressure to make the local Carnival a good one now weighs even heavier. So, between watching, eating cheese and tweeting I have been making paper flowers to fill our float.  It's becoming a small obsession and I confess that Danny Boyle captured my corner of Britain brilliantly, as I am also in my pyjamas.

This is how I make my paper flowers.  If you want to make some for the float or just for fun you can follow these instructions.

First take several sheets of tissue paper. I find that 6 - 9 sheets makes a good fluffy flower.  The sheets should all be the same size and square or squarish.  In the following example I used some red serviettes that I found in the cupboard.

Fold sheets up concertina-style (like a fan).

Find the centre and hold it tightly.

Wrap a wire around the middle.  I used forestry wire for this one but have used the ties you get with freezer bags for others.

Round off the edges with a pair of scissors.

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Spread the fans out.

Lift one sheet at a time.  Pull firmly but gently and shape into a flower petal.

Continue one sheet at a time on alternate sides.

When all sheets are lifted, fluff the petals until you are happy with the shape.

Flowers can be made any size, with any tissue paper you have.  The first picture was made with tissue paper wrapped around a box of chocolates I was given at the end of term.

Crime Report

On Wednesday a strange woman was spotted, with a small ginger dog, stealing newspapers from the blue recycling boxes. The same woman was then seen at the tip, collecting large pieces of cardboard.  She has also been observed taking a particular interest in local skips.  Police have been informed and although they are concerned for the woman's state of mind they do not believe her to be dangerous. A spokeperson said, "We have noticed an increase in this kind of petty crime in the past week. An older man and a young woman have also been caught on CCTV taking large cardboard tubes from a skip behind a carpet shop."

Another Grumpy Old Woman Rant

Yesterday, I said to my daughter, "I think I'm getting boring," and she replied, "Oh, Mum! You're not boring, you're age appropriate."  Somehow that's worse - being boring because I'm old.  The truth is that I've always been boring.  I've never been a clubber and the success of my holiday is measured in the number of books I've read rather than the beer I've drunk.  But I have also got to the age where, as the Long Suffering Husband is fond of reminding me, I've become incredibly angry about things that I have absolutely no control over.

A Man's car

Today I had to drive Mr All Trades car.  It's only a Ford Focus but I hate it.  "Who designed this stupid car?" I ranted as he slid into his seat muttering about having only been responsible for the exhaust system.  The problem is that I'm just not tall enough to drive it.  I can't see over the steering wheel.  "Did they take the measurements of the worlds tallest man?"

Looks like a spaceship - do women want to drive spaceships?

The LSH suggested I raise the seat.  "But then I bang my knees on the steering wheel!" I shouted, my voice rising in pitch.  "Oh, you can raise the steering wheel.  Why didn't I know that?  Now, I can't see over it again!  Stupid car!  I'm 5ft6.  That's not that short.  Bloody men, designing cars just to make women feel small and stupid. No wonder women are thought to be bad drivers.  They are being forced to drive around in tanks designed by huge men for huge men.  We can't even see over the steering wheel!"

By now he had stopped listening or maybe he couldn't hear anything as my voice had reached a pitch that only dogs can hear.

Spalsh!

Why hasn't there been a sitcom set in a swimming pool before?  There are so many characters.

They all have their own times as well. I usually swim at lunchtime, where everyone is on a mission.  They have to get their half a mile done in their lunch hour.  They don't talk to each other but they nod or mumble the length number they are on.  There are always old women in the sauna moaning about how dreadful their son's girlfriends are as mothers.

Sometimes I swim with my son in an evening, when the pool is full of kids, all trying to do anything but swim.  They run, shout, flirt, jump and splash.  Swimming at that time is like a human obstacle course, with the added challenge that the obstacles move in strange and unpredictable ways. If they have a lane open then there are the very serious swimmers, who have a training programme.  They have floats and goggles and a bottle of isotonic drink and time their laps, changing their stroke every 4 lengths.  They talk to each other a lot.  They compare times and training patterns and complain about kids and slow swimmers and always have advice for cramp.  "Oh, I know how that feels!"

Early on Sunday morning before the families arrive with their babies, the Triathletes train.  They have already run and cycled and so should be slow but they're not.  They power through the water in their odd costumes that show every lump and bump.  When they swim they undo the zip, which has the unfortunate effect of making them look as though they are exposing their breasts. They sit on the side catching their breath and it's only as I get close enough without my glasses that I realise it's a man with well developed pectoral muscles and not a woman flashing her cleavage.

Later in the day, or late in the evening there are plenty of women who do expose themselves.  They wear flimsy bikinis, and show off their fake tans and rub up against their boyfriends with mis-spelt tattoos.  They don't swim very far and keep their heads well above the water, which is probably a good thing as they would leave a make-up slick in their wake.  

Occasionally, I've swum before work in the Sunrisers session.  The pool opens at 6.30 and there is a queue of serious older swimmers.  The few times I've been I have been tutted at.  A newcomer, they hope I'm fast enough (I'm not!), and then horror of horrors, "children!  What are they doing in the pool?"  I was thrilled that I knew the children and had great fun watching them lap those (very fast) old folk over and over again.

This morning I found the most entertaining time to swim, 8am.  After my son, I was the next youngest in the pool by about 20 years.  The most competitive older folk had finished their swims the friendly old people swims.  Yes, they still complained about how busy it was but with no tutting, "I don't know, how dare these teachers be on holiday," was said with a twinkle in the eye and a direct wink at me. There was the ex-mayor, who bellowed jokes at everyone in his booming voice, people who were swimming to recover from an injury or illness. There was an abundance of bands to cover ears, flowery swimming hats and very old men in Speedos.

 Everyone knew everyone else by name.  They had conversations with the lifeguards, discussing their recent holidays and comparing how many women they had shagged (lifeguards won!)  There was a wonderful, white haired, white lipped man, a fantastic story-teller, who after a while complained that he was beginning to believe the story himself.  He told everyone who got into the pool that he had received an e-mail this morning from the Olympic swimming team and they'd asked him to be on the reserve team.  He completed his 2nd length and announced that he had done twice what he planned.  Apparently, he does one length on Monday, 2 on Tuesday and so on.  He was warned to take it easy, "Careful, you'll get dizzy!"

A sitcom would be an interesting idea.  I know there was the Britas Empire but that was about the staff who worked in a Leisure Centre and was a vehicle for Chris Barrie after he left Red Dwarf but to follow the morning swimmers could be so amusing.

Cartoon Characters

Over the last week I've been channelling the spirit of different cartoon characters.

First, I felt as though the term would never end and as though I just had too much to get through.  I became Nemo, singing, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."

Then I kept forgetting things. I lost my name badge and became unsure of who I was.  The only name I could think of was, "P Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way"

Then I became a little manic, rushing round to get everything finished (ha!) before the 6 weeks holiday,  shouting, "Beep, beep," at anyone who got in my way.

And now that school has finished and I want to get my life back I can barely keep my eyes open.

I wonder who I'll be tomorrow.

Would you tell me?

There used to be some saying about your friends being prepared to tell you if your breath smelt.  It was probably an advert for toothpaste, mouthwash or even some dodgy Eighties perfume, like Tweed.

I particularly remember Tweed because I learnt the music from the advert on the piano.  It's the Shepherds song from Beethoven's Pasterole Symphony but I'm being distracted from my original thought.  Would anyone really tell you if you're breath smelt?  I doubt it.  They'd  tell everyone else.  They might buy you mouthwash for Christmas or offer you a polo but not actually say to your face, "By the way, has anyone ever told you that you stink!"  When I was pregnant with my first child I stopped seeing a friend because my heightened sense of smell and quick vomit reflex meant that I couldn't be near her garlicky breath without losing whatever food I had managed to eat (which wasn't too much due to the nausea).  It was just less embarrassing to lose touch with her than tell the truth.

It's probably a good thing that people don't tell the truth most of the time.  Those of us blessed to work with children are at the end of a very long school year and are all feeling a little tired and irritable.   Everyone is having whispered conversations, "Oh boy, they're really annoying me this week!"  If they  had those conversations with the person themselves, I wonder if it would be better or worse.  "Did you know that the way you file those papers really annoys me?"

Recently, I have sat through several concerts that haven't been great and then have been surprised at the number of lovely things that have been said about them.  Maybe I'm getting critical in my old age but the truth is more likely that people don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I have always thought that if I would like to know if a concert I was in charge of wasn't brilliant so that I could make the next one better but I don't have the courage to say anything to anyone else.

 Today, we had a closing ceremony for our Olympic week.  It was great.  The kids had loads of fun and the weather was kind.  Now, I know that my part wasn't quite up to scratch.  The music didn't play from my phone so the singing was a bit lost in crowd chatter and some of the anthems were not rehearsed enough.  None of this was the children's fault and they coped brilliantly.  I don't expect anyone will tell me this, although as I know they probably don't need to but what if there were things that I don't know about.  What if the whole thing went on too long?  What if it was really boring?  What if some things were so bad they shouldn't have been included?  What if my dress was tucked into my knickers?  What if my breath smelt?

I need to know these things but I don't really want you to tell me.  Maybe you could just telepathically  plant suggestions for improvement in my brain without making me know you said them.  I was going to suggest that you could leave me anonymous notes but how soul destroying would it be to find hundreds of notes telling you your breath was smelly?  

Thank You

At this time of year teachers can be showered with gifts.  As a music teacher I only get given gifts by the children who really value what I've done with them over the year.  I don't get the box of chocolates or pot plant that I used to buy for my children's class teachers just because I thought it was the done thing.  My favourites are the ones that have been hand made by the child or where the sentiment in the card says just the right thing.

One year, a child made me a paper chain and wrote, "I love music," on each strip.  Another child bought be a flute study book they had found for 50p in a boot sale.  Last year a child wrote, "to the second best music teacher in the world."  Almost every child writes that you are the best music teacher in the world or the best music teacher ever.  Most have only ever known one music teacher, so there's really not much competition. Being the second best really made me smile. My daughter had a hand-made card, where the child had drawn their instrument and copied out a few bars of their favourite piece of music.

The best part about any child made gift or card is the accidental spelling funnies.  Quite often children write that they really enjoy sinning, which I think is more information than a music teacher needs.  Today I was given a card by a pupil and her little sister had also written in it.

I'm hoping that she just can't spell thank because the alternative is just too awful to comprehend.

It really made my evening though.  Every time I asked a child to play an F major scale, just saying the "F" sent me into the kind of giggles that make your eyes water.  It really was so unprofessional, every child thought they were playing so badly it was making me laugh and cry at the same time.