I'd never be a sports journalist

This evening I had a long conversation with my daughter, who is studying journalism at University.  She is really enjoying her course and the social life and is managing to juggle both admirably.  She is finding that lectures with a hangover are harder work but is zealous in her belief that you shouldn't miss sessions because of a hangover; "after all, it's self inflicted, isn't it?"  One of her main concerns is that whenever a new lecturer appears they ask what kind of journalist they want to be and she doesn't know but she does know that she'd never be a sports journalist.  Lack of co-ordination makes sport difficult for my poor children and I must apologies for those genes. The Long Suffering Husband is quite coordinated, he plays golf, tennis and shouts at the football.  Actually, the shouting at West Ham on the TV might also have contributed to her dislike of sport.  It always frightened her when he would shout, "Wasters!" at the top of his voice.

I enjoyed the Olympics, I quite like watching swimming, gymnastics and table tennis and if I was going to watch men running around on grass after a ball then I would choose rugby (more my type of physique)

But I have never managed to get excited about football.  

Today, is different.  I'm glued to the TV and irritating the Long Suffering Husband.  Transfer deadline day.  It's so exciting.  The presenters have matched their tie and dress to the words scrolling across the screen, a beautiful gold. 

There is still so much I don't understand.  When they excitedly announced that someone (whose name I forget) who is currently at West Ham had just had his claws triggered I was very confused.  

The LSH said, "Not claws, clause!" Well, that explains it all. (sarcasm is difficult to convey in print).  Then they kept saying they couldn't talk about it.  Apparently, if someone offers a certain amount for him, which is an undisclosed millions sum then they have to sell him.  Now, that brings me onto something else I don't understand.  How can it be humane to buy and sell people in today's society?  It's like the old slave auctions.  They keep saying that they have to have a medical before it's all confirmed and I keep picturing them checking their teeth, feeling their muscles and pinching their bums.  Surely, these are people who should be able to choose where they work and who they work for.  The presenters on Sky are outraged by the man who had driven to the club he wants to play for, even though the club he currently plays for told him not to talk to them. In any other walk of life, the man would be applauded for his tenacity.  He knows who he wants to work for and he goes to them but in football that's not the way it's done. Footballers aren't people.  They can't be can they?  Real people aren't paid millions of pounds a week plus bonuses if they do their job well, like score goals and real people aren't bought and sold like bags of precious gems.  Also, the same rules of work visas don't seem to apply to these footballers.  People from America, Egypt, Africa, are able to play football in England and they don't seem to have to prove that there is no one else who could do their job.

The LSH tells me that there is no alternative.  How would clubs make their money?  How would poor clubs get a return on their investment of training their players?  I suggested money laundering, TV fees, ticket sales (tickets can cost anything from £15 - £125 each) and sponsorship but that wouldn't be enough.  I suggested that the arts would be able to run with that small sum of money but it turns out I really don't understand.

I may not understand but I do think it's time to stop the slave trade.

A bad day

Today was a very bad day.
There were things that just couldn't have been worse.
There's really not much that I can say.
The children have worked out that I can't shout at them.
My colleagues are bored of saying, "pardon."
And the worst thing is that I grabbed some homemade soup out of the freezer for lunch and then at lunchtime discovered that it was ice cream and I'd forgotten my purse.

Another Unbiased Review - Oh, no it's not!

Last night I went to see the final performance of Maldon Pantomime Society's production of Babes in the Wood.

It is impossible to impartially review anything when you know people who are performing.  The man sitting next to us wolf whistled every time Maid Marian appeared on stage, which surprised us a little until we found out that he was her husband.  Now, I'm not saying she wasn't lovely and very good in the role, she was but wolf-whistling seemed somehow excessive.

I love a bit of pantomime silliness.  I like the stupidly, predictable jokes, cross dressing, musical jokes and the well defined good and evil roles.  I like to be able to shout (although I don't think anyone noticed that I was miming my, "Behind You"s).  And I particularly enjoy last night panto, where all the directors previous instructions have been ignored and the more confident performers show their improvising skills and play practical jokes on each other.  This panto didn't disappoint.  There were plenty of parts that seemed just a little fresher than you would expect.  The Tesco burger jokes could have been written in but as there were so many of them I suspect the cast were having a competition to see how many they could get in and the hoover was inspired.

There wasn't a member of the cast that didn't do a good job in my opinion but I did have some favourites. The comedy duo were probably my favourite characters.  Steve Williams, played Mole, the cleverer of the two, bringing all his Shakespearean skills to the role, while Wart was played by Rene Thorneloe, whose accent reminded me of Pam Ayres so much so that every time she spoke I wanted to sing, "Oh, how I wish I'd looked after me teeth."  She also had the unenviable task of pretending she couldn't sing and she was so sweet and funny that the whole audience ahhed when she was told she couldn't sing.  Cally Beale made a wonderful principal boy with great legs - not many people can carry off the green tights! Andrea Dalton had a cackle that I can only dream of.  Oh, how I wish I could cackle like that.

The band were fantastic under the musical directorship of Ben Markham, the singing was in tune and the dancing was brilliantly choreographed by Louise Markham and Charlotte Hall.  But with out a doubt the best part was the children, who were absolute stars.  They danced sang and smiled their way through 6 shows.  I was so impressed I managed to get some of them to sign my programme because when they are famous I will have proof of their first performance.

In tune

"The band is sounding really big now," said my headteacher

A large primary school band - Northmead Public School , NSW, Australia

To most people this would sound like a compliment and it was meant as one but it caused me to slap my forehead in disgust and say, "Oh, no! I forgot to tune the violins."  I knew it didn't sound as good as it usually does but then nothing has recently.  Although, my lack of voice must be boring you as much as it is me by now, it has made me take back my previous assertions that, 'anyone can teach children to sing."  Well, I don't take it back completely but I do know that it takes someone who can sing in tune to teach children to sing in tune.  You don't need a beautiful voice, or a strong powerful belt of a voice but you do need to be able to pitch accurately and that seems to be much harder than I thought it was.  Even when I have enough voice to try to sing I am unable, just like Huge Act Man, to control my voice well enough to get accurate semitones (or sometimes even tones, 2nds, 3rds, 4ths, 5ths and octaves are completely out of my range).  This lack of accurate pitching is beginning to hurt my ears but the bonus is that a class of 30 sounds like a class of 90! (Actually, without a voice a class of 90 doesn't feel like a bonus at all)



By Friday evening, I knew that 'near enough for Jazz or MYO,' just wasn't working for me and so we did a really interesting tuning up exercise.  Each person had to tune themselves to the oboe, saying whether they were in tune, and then doing something about it if they weren't.

I explained that we always tune to the oboe because if the oboe is out of tune there's not a lot they can do about it.  They can push their reed in a little or pull it out a little but not very much.  This has led to there being almost as many jokes about oboes as there are about viola players (don't ask - it's a personality thing!).  Many oboe jokes are about their obsession with getting the right reed, for example:  How many oboists does it take to change a light bulb? Only one but they will need to try 30 or 40 before they find the right one! However, there are so many more about pitching, which really says something because oboe players are obsessional about their reeds to the point of having specially made velvet lined boxes to keep them in and a little case of water by their chairs just in case their reed needs a drink.  Sometimes oboe players can be a little 'twitchy', which I suppose is understandable if your reed is going to refuse to work mid-solo because it feels like it needs a drink.  Most jokes are a variation of, "What is the definition of a minor second? - Two oboes playing in unison."

Our brilliant oboes, however, were perfectly in tune with each other and then it was the turn of the rest of the orchestra.  Everyone was worrying if they would be able to tell but most could - easily. It turns out it's easy to hear 'out of tune' than 'in tune.' Then we got to the strings.  Now, strings, like oboes are also special.  They don't just have to make sure one note is in tune, they have to check all 4 strings.  This is quite a tricky business and is the responsibility of the the leader of the orchestra who stands up and makes sure that all his/her string players are in tune.  Even if all 4 strings are in tune the string players then need to listen to every note and the misplacement of a finger by less than a millimeter can sound terrible.  This reminds me of a wonderful viola story.  In a local orchestra rehearsal the conductor was getting really fed up with the first violins not being able to get a high F properly in tune and he said, "Can we please have the F in tune?" to which a witty viola player replied, "Can we please have the f-ing tune for a change?"

One day we will have a string section this size - vivaorch.co.uk

Going to see a live orchestra always includes this little tuning up performance.  It amazes me really, in the age of digital tuners, where most musicians will have made sure they are in tune before they leave the back room but I expect it has become part of the mystery.  When my daughter was about 5 or 6 she came to see a concert that was being given by an amateur orchestra (that I played with) and a professional pianist, who was going to play Rach.2 and Gershwin's Rhapsody in the second half.  She was sitting in the balcony with my mum, so that if she didn't really get it, they could leave without too much fuss.  After the tuning up, she started to clap the looked at my mum and said, "Wasn't that the first piece?".  The handsome young man sitting next to her laughed, leaned over and whispered, "It might be the best thing you hear all evening."  It was only when he wasn't sitting next to her in the second half that they realised that he was the soloist.

That Crow!

My voice has gone again.  A day and a half of normal vocal sounds was as much as I have been able to manage since the 12th of December and I'm tired.  I'm not sure if I'm tired because I'm ill or I'm tired because I'm tired of not being able to speak properly.  It makes me rather useless (after all what is the point of a music teacher who can't sing - or even speak?) and I'm struggling with the constant dilemma of whether I should be working or not.  I had a sick day yesterday and felt guilty.  I did nothing.  I didn't practise the piano or write my blog or read a book or do some knitting or sort out my recipes or bake cakes or go swimming.  Instead, I sat watching rubbish TV, worrying about what I would do the next day.  Today, I decided to go back in.  After all, what is the point sitting at home worrying?

Now, I don't want to appear ungrateful and I know that people are only trying to help but I really want people to stop asking me what I think it is.  I don't know.  I have to wait another 2 weeks until I can see someone who might have more of a clue.  I also find I'm getting a bit tetchy with people who are telling me about when they lost their voice, about someone they know who lost their voice,or how they know how it feels.  And I'm afraid that the worst thing of all for me is the people who are telling me what it could be.  I'm still holding out for 'nothing - it will just get better.' I don't want to know about stretched vocal chords, polyps, nodules, throat cancer or bugs.

Despite the difficulty of teaching music with no voice I am really glad I went in today.  The foundation stage class and I created a 'Rumpus' that Max from Where the Wild Things are would be proud of.  Year ones and twos sang in Chinese, Japanese, banged instruments in time (sort of) and sang about having a mouse in their hamster jam.  That would be terrible, wouldn't it?  It would be like having a rogue plum in your strawberry jam - yuk!

  

Now sing with me.  This is fun, Honestly....

"I saw a mouse, where? There on the stair.  Where on the stair? Right there!  A little mouse with clogs on well I declare going clip, clippety clop on the stair! A mouse in Old hamster jam!" 

Although, I've been ungrateful for the suggestions of what is wrong from adults the children have been a delight.  When I aplogised to a class for coughing and then croaking at them a child said, "You can't do anything about insects."  I was confused until they sang me the B.U.G song.  

Today I couldn't find the audio lead for the computer and so it had no sound.  "Maybe that's what's happened to you?"  I've lost my audio lead.  There's always a technical solution.

 

We have a crow that visits our school.  We have one of those 1970's school halls with a flat roof and tiny windows all the way around the top.  The crow sits on the flat roof of the kitchen and bangs on the window with his beak whenever he can hear singing.  We haven't seen him since before Christmas and then last week (during my day and a half of normal voice) he re-appeared.  A colleague suggested that he had been absent because he hadn't heard my singing and we laughed that maybe he had stolen my voice and only brought it back last week.  I shared this idea with the infant children, who all agreed that that must have been exactly what happened.  Today, I told the children that the crow had stolen my voice again and they all needed to sing beautifully, so that he would re-appear and bring my voice with him.  This prompted a little boy to say, "What I don't understand is...." 

"Oh dear," I thought, "This sounds like a question I'm not going to be able to answer."  Sometimes the pressure of small children who think you know everything can be too much to bear.

"What I don't understand is why the crow would take a beautiful voice and leave you with an old ladies voice!"

We did have a theory that maybe the crow was the re-incarnation of an old music teacher so maybe it's that old ladies voice.  I like that theory and won't be considering any of the suggestions that google gave me for what being stalked by a crow symbolises.

The Lost Art of Sunday Fortune Telling

We only have pudding after Sunday Lunch.  It has always been this way. My memory doesn't allow me to recall any weekday puddings from my childhood. although there probably were some, I don't remember them and so they couldn't have existed.  I do remember Sunday puddings though.  Pies and crumbles were the favourite.  My mum is a pastry genius and my dad swears he married her for her Cornish pasties and then spent a lifetime trying to persuade her to make them.  We used to be given tins without labels on by a neighbour who was some kind of sales rep and my mum would often make a pie from one of these tins.  The fruit was often stoned, cherries, apricots or plums.

 If the unlabeled tin contained stewing meat (or dog food, as we used to joke) then Sunday pudding would be made from apples from the garden and cloves were added.  The cloves made a good substitute for the stones of the fruit. The apple pie was my favourite. I didn't like tinned cherries but they had to be eaten or your fortune couldn't be revealed.  Cloves are brilliant, they have a fantastic flavour and we used to try to brush our teeth with them because we knew they were somehow good for teeth.

At the end of the meal, we would tell our fortunes with the cloves or stones left on our plate. It was all about who we would marry and was the highlight of our week.  I'm not really sure why because when I was a child I was not going to get married, not ever, no way, thank you very much, boys were just yukky.  And the choices weren't fantastic either.

When shall I marry?  This year, next year, sometime, never.

Who shall I marry? Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich man, Poor man, Begger man, Thief.

What shall I wear?  Silk, Satin, Rags, Tags.

Have my children missed out?  They will never know that they are going to marry a poor man, next year in satin, nor have the experienced the delights of unknown fruit pie.

Snow Disappointment

This blog is inspired by a friend's daughter, who reminded me of how much I love J B Priestley by putting this quote about snow on Facebook this week. 

"The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event.  You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?"

We were all waiting for that magical event.  The TV, radio, weather apps all predicted loads of snow and it never really happened.  It's really cold and there is a light dusting, which does look quite pretty but if there isn't enough to build something with, what is the point?  I knew we wouldn't be able to match last year's igloo but I was hoping we might be able to make some snow lanterns. 

Mr Priestley has a quote for what has happened over the last few days,

"Living in an age of advertisment, we are perpetually disillusioned.  The perfect life is spread before us, but it changes and withers with the touch."

 Luckily someone posted a link on my Facebook timeline about making marbles by filling balloons with water and food colouring and leaving them outside to freeze.  We could only find tiny water balloons, so they won't be very impressive but we had great fun filling them and even added glitter to some.  If they work, we might get some bigger balloons tomorrow.  

 

A Chemistry set for Christmas containing pipettes was very useful

If it's not messy - it's not fun!

We had loads of fun and made loads of mess and I really enjoyed sharing my excitement with my son.  This week I have been thinking about another quote of J B Priestley's that sums up perfectly why my lost voice has made me so miserable and why I enjoyed making the marbles so much.

"To show a child what once delighted you, to find the child's delight added to your own - this is happiness."

Without my voice it has been very difficult to share my delight in music and singing and so my happiness has definitely been reduced. Each morning I have woken up and hoped that my voice would be back to normal because I very much believe this quote;

"I have always delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning."

And for two mornings there was magic.  For a whole day and a half I had a normal voice and I could share my delight with children and I was happy.  Can life really be this simple?  I think it is for me.  That and the humour.  I think I may have modeled my life on Priestley quotes.  Although, I chose to stay at 42, I wonder if this was the reason;

"She was a handsome woman of 45 and would remain so for many years."

It made me laugh many years ago but maybe somewhere in my sub conscience it stuck as being a good idea.
But this is the best advice I have ever read:

"Comedy, we may say, is society protecting itself with a smile."

At the end of the day

Les Miserables is a wonderful film.  It's a wonderful musical.  It's my favourite and I love it.  I've seen it lots of times.  It's the only musical I have seen more than twice.  The film doesn't give you the whole body vibration that you get when you see it live.  You don't feel the vibration from the music of the (pretty large) pit orchestra.  The barricade scenes seem smaller and less dramatic in the film and some of the singing lacks the accurate pitching that you would expect in a West End Stage show.  But the film gives a much greater understanding.  You can see the emotion on the faces of the characters, no matter how far back in the theatre you sit.  The first time I saw Les Mis in the theatre I knew I loved it and I knew it had something to do with a prisoner number 24601, who was an amazing singer (It was Colm Wilkinson).  I was a bit confused about who the women were and I don't think I had any idea that so much time had passed.  Each time I saw it I understood a bit more.  I read Victor Hugo's book and looked up some of the history of the French Revolution.  This understanding took me 26 years! Only an idiot could watch the film and not understand what is happening.  Huge Act Man does a wonderful job of aging, and still looking gorgeous, even when nose deep in french shit.  There is no doubt that many years pass.  The little Eponine and Cosette look like their grown up actors.  Anne Hathaway leaves you in absolutely no doubt that Fontaine is having a terrible life and that death is somehow a blessing and a relief and even a cold heartless woman like me was moved to tears by her performance of I Dreamed a Dream.

The Long Suffering Husband loves Les Miserables too but the film enlightened him in a new way.  "What I don't understand is why those women in the factory turned her in like that," he said.  "Were they jealous of her because she was pretty? There wouldn't have been any story if they'd just helped her out."  He's right and the worrying thing is that this sort of thing isn't just the stuff of fiction and the past.  Women are turning on each other all the time and there really isn't any need. Maybe, when men were in short supply women had to compete, they may have had to prove they were the most beautiful, smartest, best mates and that they would produce the best children and if they couldn't do that then they had to nobble the competition.  Now, it's time to let all of that go.

Women of the media are currently proving that they will do anything to eliminate the competition.  Last week,  Suzanne Moore had an essay from a previously published book published in the Spectator.  It was a good essay all about female anger and contained the apparently offensive line, "We are angry with ourselves for not being happier, not being loved properly and not having the ideal body shape – that of a Brazilian transsexual."  Personally, I don't know what a Brazilian transsexual looks like or whether I want a body  like a woman who used to be a man who lives in Brazil.  I know now that Brazil has terrible human rights record for these people but I'm still confused about what was wrong with the original line.  Today, her supposed friend, Julie Birchill has written a piece in the Guardian supporting Ms Moore and all I can say is with friends like that she doesn't need any enemies.  It rings of the women in Les Miserables crowding round and singing, "You must send the slut away or we'll all end in the gutter and it's us whose having to pay at the end of the day."  

Today, there was another female journalist who decided to write a spiteful piece about Clare Balding. Liz Jones is now the subject of women screaming for her public humiliation.  The article summed up how many women feel about other successful women.  The threat of Clare Balding being successful, despite not 'bothering to shop at Prada and having face-lifts like the rest of us' is too much to bear for this poor successful Daily Mail journalist and so she calls for the woman in 'terrible shoes' to be thrown out of the club in case we all have to suffer.  

Women may not be competing for men to have babies with any more but to get and keep top jobs it seems we are still using those old skills.  It's time we learnt from the men.  The way to get more women into these jobs is to help each other out, go and play golf, do each other favours and above all not to even notice what shoes someone is wearing.

At the end of the day it might mean that there is no story to tell but I would much rather no women ended in the gutter and no one had to pay.