Strange

"Oooh, I love it when you see a teacher out of school, it's like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs," said the sassy one in Mean Girls, when they spotted their teacher in the Mall. Working in the town where you live can leave you feeling like you are permenantly walking on your canine hind legs. It's not feasible to stay locked in the house and it seems that whenever you leave it you see someone and some reactions can be extreme.

I'm quite lucky because I don't have separate school and home personas. I'm not mean and strict at school or a happy drunk, snogging and groping my husband in the corner of a bar, as a maths teacher from my school was. I don't always wear or not wear make up, so seeing me in town in slouchy clothes, pale faced with birds-nest hair isn't too terrifying for my pupils; they've seen it all before. 

When my children were at school (and before I taught) I would often hear other parents complaining about the teachers being drunk in the pub on a Friday night. "I think it's terrible," they would say, "It's just not professional." "How can they show themselves up like that?" I always disagreed, "Why shouldn't they? You are on your 4th glass of wine and you have to go home and look after your children - they don't!" I thought it was a good thing for parents to be reminded that teachers are real people.

Pupils can struggle with the concept of teachers as human beings. Parents should know better. As pupils get older they start to speculate about the outside school lives of their teachers. They wonder about their sexual lives and are not beyond making up a story or two. I used to babysit for my music teacher and his wife, who were a very happy couple but rumours used to run rife in our school that he was gay. One of my friends made up a lurid story about seeing him kissing a man. I know it was a story because he had supposedly seen him on an evening I was babysitting; they had been to a black tie dinner dance and so he wasnt wearing the jeans, leather waistcoat, no shirt and cowboy boots my friend had seen him in. 

Over the course of a teacher's career they could encounter thousands of pupils and it is impossible to remember them all. I knew a teacher who, after a particularly messy divorce, was picked up by a gorgeous young man in a bar. It was only as they were about to leave to go to his place for 'coffee' that they discovered he had been in her first year 5 class. They both sobered quickly and vowed never to mention it again.

Pupils are shocked when they see you in the wrong place. How you handle it can be a minefield. I usually smile and say nothing, unless I'm in the swimming pool, where  I pretend not to have seen them, so they can pretend they haven't seen a half dressed teacher. The youngest children struggle the most. Most think that teachers sleep in the classroom. Once, I heard a child exclaim to his mother, "Look, there's Mrs Music Teacher! What's she doing outside the hall?"

Children's reactions to you can be hilarious. One child got into the supermarket trolly and burried himself with the shopping, rather than have to face me. 

Yesterday I was in a shop in town when I saw a little girl. She looked at me shyly and I smiled and moved to the other side of the shelf. 

"You'll never guess who I just saw."

"Who did you see darling?"

"Mrs All Trades."

"Oh, who's Mrs All Trades?"

"She works at my school."

"Right. What does she do?"

"I'm not really sure......she sings a lot....and sometimes she plays the, oh, what's it called? You know, she plays the thing while we run around."

"Strange."

"Yes, strange."

Groomed

For Christmas I gave the Long Suffering Husband planning permission. He wanted a huge TV but I objected on the grounds that sometimes I like to live in my living room or lounge in the lounge without a screen taking over, so instead I gave him permission to turn the spare room into a cinema room.

This has already had many benefits. The room, hallway stairs and landing have all been decorated with new carpet and a whole load of junk has disappeared. 

Spare rooms acquire all sorts of items that can't find a better place in the rest of the house. Ours had the ironing board, a stack of empty boxes, The LSH's drum kit, my dressing table (which he had convinced me wouldn't fit in our bedroom) and an exercise bike that was mainly used for hanging clothes on.

He moved the drum kit to my daughter's room, the exercise bike to my son's room and the dressing table to our room, while he decorated. My son liked having the bike in his room and I was thrilled to have my dressing table where I had initially wanted it.

With an exercise bike in his bedroom my son has already lost weight and I am slightly more groomed because I see the dressing table, sit down and at least brush my hair.

This kind of grooming is a shock to everyone that knows me. Bounding into the classroom, stopping short and quizzically beaming at me a girl asked, "Have you got make up on?"

"Oh, yes. Actually, yes I do have a little bit of make up on."

"She doesn't normally wear make up, though," said another, as though I wasn't there.

"You're right I don't often wear make up."

"Well, that's good." The girl folded her arms and set her face in a tight pout.

"I mean at least the make up explains it. I thought you'd suddenly got pretty."

The Pleasure of Being Wrong

Along with the rest of the world, I've been watching the Netflix documentary, Making a Murderer, which has made me think about some Psychological aspects of being wrong.

No one likes to be caught out being wrong. I say caught out because when you are wrong and don't know it you think you are right, which is perfectly fine. In fact, if someone points out that you are wrong that uncomfortable feeling of Cognitive Dissonance (Leon Festinger) kicks in and you will do everything you can to justify your position as a correct one. We do it all the time; a scientist appears on the news to tell us that they have discovered that alcohol is bad for you and we explain to anyone that will listen how a glass of wine an evening makes us relax, which is a benefit that far outweighs any risk of mutating cells. 

This fear of being wrong is exacerbated by education. The old joke that, "my teacher must really love me because she keeps putting little kisses all over my work," doesn't really wash.

 Everyone knows that the children who get work back that looks like this are stupid, lazy, feckless and probably smelly. No one wants to be that child. The Government have made it even more clear from this year as without levels below average eleven year olds will be told they are failures after their SATs tests.

Making a Murderer demonstrates a brilliant example of Groupthink, a psychological phenomenon written about by Irving Janis in 1972. He observed that groups can make bad decisions because people strive for consensus within a group. They will blindly follow a charismatic leader and ignore evidence that doesn't fit the group's philosophy. This documentary follows the trial of a man, convicted of murder. The problem with this conviction comes because he had just been released from prison after serving 18 years for a rape that he didn't commit. The documentary implies that he was framed for this first crime by his cousin because she didn't like him. I think they just thought they had the right man and couldn't (as a group) entertain the idea of being wrong. Many of them still can't. Unusually, the victim of the rape, who picked him out of the lineup has accepted her error but refused to participate in the documentary because she has become wary of being certain about anything; he could be innocent or guilty.

But being wrong can be brilliant. We need it for creativity and innovative thought. Without someone admitting to being wrong we would still think the earth was flat, you could tell someone's personality by feeling the bumps on their head, illness could be cured by leeching out most of a patient's blood, and Pluto would still be the ninth planet in our solar system. (I will continue to believe the Pluto thing, though, as it fits my planet song). 

As an artist my mum used to talk about 'happy accidents', which was probably just to stop us screwing up paper and throwing it all over the living room in frustration when, no matter how hard we tried, our cat picture stubbornly stayed canine in appearance but if artists always had to be strictly accurate then Van Gough would have never been able to look at the sky and think it looked like this.

When I start composition work with children I always tell them, "You can't be wrong," we listen to other people's compositions and I ask them how it makes them feel. I might tell them that the composer intended them to feel a specific way but point out that they don't enjoy the music any less because they feel differently. 

At the end of this weekend the Long Suffering  Husband said, "It's brilliant isn't it? They seem so happy and we thought it wouldn't last once they'd finished college."

I was shocked as the LSH is never wrong.

"Do you mean you were wrong?"

"We were wrong."

"Yes, of course, we were wrong. "

"Actually, I don't think I ever said it. It was you all the time. I just went along with it."

"Obviously," I reassured him, "Well, I'm very happy I was wrong."

I'm always happy to be wrong. Be bold, be strong, be wrong: a motto I'm happy to live my life by.

Medical Etiquette

If you are not very experienced at dealing with the medical profession here are some suggestions of things to avoid.

1. Don't talk to the receptionist. They do not require human interaction. Talking to them is like feeding the velociraptors; don't do it, you might lose a hand. There is an automatic check in, which they would much prefer you use.

2. Do not talk to anyone in the waiting room in a happy way. You are only allowed to complain about your knees and the weather and maybe the government. Do not, under any circumstances, say, "What a beautiful day! This crisp clear weather makes you glad to be alive."

3. When you are bored of waiting and you think about using the automatic blood pressure monitoring machine, take your coat off. I can not stress the importance of this enough. If the machine can't feel your pulse it will keep squeezing. It will squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until your arm bursts or (after a little panic) you find the cancel button.

4. Small children of knackered mothers should not be entertained. This is not because they won't love using your knees as an extreme car race track or their mothers won't appreciate the rest but because when your name is called the person calling won't hear you shout, "Just a sec!" while you try to convince a sobbing child that the race is over. 

5. Don't assume that anyone will tell you where room seven is. You may go wandering off down corridors, while the irate disembodied voice calls your name again but no one will explain why room seven is next to room one.

6. When the doctor asks you how you are do not answer them as you would any normal human being. They are actually asking why you have come to see them and are not merely making polite conversation. 

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Come in and take a seat."

"Thank you."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine thanks, how are you?"

Although this is a perfectly normal conversation in everyday life, in a GPs room it will be met with a frown and a scratch of the head.

7. Do not assume that anyone will contact you if a blood test is abnormal. 

8. Do not assume that when the person you speak to on the phone tells you that it's not urgent and an appointment in three weeks time will be fine that the GP won't wag their finger at you for not coming in sooner.

9. Do not confuse your GP by understanding what they've said. They are used to explaining everything three times and don't suggest that another blood test in 6 months time might be a good idea (even if it is) if you don't want to make them flustered.

My final piece of advice is for people who are very used to dealing with the medical profession and is a suggestion of something not to say to ambulance drivers as they take your husband into hospital after his eleventy-hundredth heart attack.

10. Do not say, "OK, I'll follow on later. I'll leave it about an hour because the car park is always really crowded at 2pm."

Alternatively, do all those things, don't take life too seriously and you will, at least, have something to laugh about.

What do you know?

There's a quiz doing the rounds on Facebook of the current SATs grammar test. I got 60%; all good guesses. http://www.sats2016.co.uk/think-youd-pass-your-sats-in-2016/

Grammar is something that hasn't actively been taught in schools since comprehensive schools were introduced and so only a few linguistically interested adults will be able to do well on this test. Most of us don't know our subjective clause from our adverb but luckily are still able to tell our arse from our elbow.

 Normally these quizzes set parents against each other. Some say, "These poor f-ing kids. I only got two right. Give them back their childhood." While others say, "What? How can you be proud that you only got two right? Only a thicko would be happy with that. What are our teachers doing? All children should know this stuff. How will they cope in life if they don't?" 

This is proving to be different. Most adults finally agree on something. If you can use a preposition phrase do you really need to be able to label it as such? I remember a similar conversation between my friends after we'd watched a new sex education film to be shown to our children. A parent was very cross about the idea of her 8 year old being introduced to the word clitoris.

"Why? Why does she need to know that at eight?" she shouted at the teacher.

"It will save confusion if she ever needs to go to the doctors about a problem with it," the teacher replied matter of 

factly. 

I mentally ran through my not-so-exhaustive knowledge of clitoral disorders and decided that if I had any of them I would still probably say, "I've got a problem down there." I might even just mouth 'down there' while pointing. 

The poor teacher might not have been happy with eight year olds suddenly calling each other 'Clitorises' in her class either but teachers don't choose the content of education; that's the job of the government. Teachers who never learnt the grammar rules and labels themselves as as a child are now required to instill a message of their importance into the children they are teaching. This is going to be a tough sell. 

When I watch 'clever celebrities' on TV, such as Richard Osman or Steven Fry, I am always struck by how much trivia they seem to know. I wonder if they can define all the determiners in a sentence and then I wonder if it really matters and I start to get philosophical about the point of education in the first place. I used to tell my school-reluctant son that he had to go to school to try out lots of different things in order to find the one that he'd like to spend the rest of his life doing but I'm not sure the Government would agree with me. 

In the school where I work (not teaching grammar, you will be relieved to hear), there are six year olds who know more facts about dinosaurs, or birds, or Romans, or snakes, or flags than I could ever know. Actually, not flags because that was my six year old self's specialist subject. Some of these children will never be clever according to standardised tests because the Government isn't interested that you know that a velociraptor had thirty teeth.

Schools work really hard to teach children some of the things they think are just as important: being polite, eating with a knife and fork, playing outside without getting mud everywhere, queueing (a very important British skill learnt in Primary school), riding a bike, swimming, life saving, building an igloo and dodging snowballs (if we ever get any snow).  They do this while trying to cram the test facts into those little heads. 

This week the oldest children in our school were learning life saving skills in the hall. The music room can only be accessed through the hall, so every class had a glimpse of their future. They were all fascinated. They knew they were missing out on something, even if they weren't quite sure what. Trying to engage children to learn about the pentatonic scale and ostinato patterns was tough. 

In a quiet moment a child said, "They're doing sex in there."

"No, they're not!!! Lifesaving! They're doing lifesaving."

"Oh, that's what she told me," he said grumpily nudging the little girl next to him.

"I said sex education. I thought it was," she protested rolling her eyes at me.

"No. Lifesaving."

Loud music started: Staying Alive by the Bee Gees.

The temptation was too great not to go and look through the glass door. He bounced up and I followed him to encourage him to sit back down.

"See, I told you!"

Fifteen children were leaning over dummies, kissing them and bouncing up and down in time to the music. 

I suddenly saw the Government's point. I would have been less embarrassed if the children in the hall had been learning how to avoid a dangling participial. 

A Story

It was the October 1986 and I was just beginning to feel comfortable in my surroundings.  The weather helped; bright clear autumn days, where kicking through musty smelling leaves on the way back from Woolco with the plastic shopping bags making red weals in my fingers reminded me of home.  I had gone to do a Psychology degree but had accidentally found myself doing music as well.  The music teacher had heard me playing in a practice room and said, "Oh, Psychology, that's an easy degree, you'll have plenty of time for music as well."

It was a small  music class.  The only other girl was complaining when I arrived.
"I'm not cut out for this weather, look at my hair." None of the boys saw her swish her fine locks over her shoulder. They were too busy laughing at me, as I fell into the room, having tripped up the step.
"See, look at Julia's hair, it looks as though she hasn't even brushed it."
I blushed deeper.
"Oh, I'm sorry dhaaarling, I didn't mean to embarrass you."
We wouldn't have been able to make any kind of useful band; a  jazz saxophone player, two guitarists, a trombonist, a cello player and a singer who dabbled with a keyboard and me with my flute.  We did get on. Mostly. Even though our backgrounds were as eclectic as our instruments.  It was a tough lesson. analysing Mozart's Jupiter Symphony was particularly difficult for the singers and guitarists and brains were exploding all over the room. We tried to support each other.
"This would be quite fun if it wasn't hurting my head so much," said a boy with three mile hair and long fingernails on one hand only,"
"We should go out together," said the trombonist.
"That would be dhaaarling," said Rebecca the jazz saxophonist.
"I'm meeting my brother in Covent Garden on Friday night, why don't you all join me?" said John Smith.
"Great idea," we all agreed.

I liked John Smith.  He was in the same Halls as me and had tried to teach me to play Stairway to Heaven on the guitar, while we drank coffee and I teased him about having such a boring name.  John was from Northumberland, a place I had never heard of and had a weird posh, Scottish accent.

John and I walked to the train station, where we were meeting the others and he told me more about his upbringing.
"It will be nice to see Pete.  I miss him.  He's like the only family I've got really."
"Haven't you got a mum and dad?"
"Oh, the parents think I'm a huge disappointment.  Papa will never forgive me for choosing this crappy Poly.  He thought that once I'd flunked my A levels, I should take up his offer of a Liberal Arts College in the States.  Gordonstoun boys become something, you see?"
I didn't.
"What?  You've never heard of Gordonstoun? The Royals went there."
"Oh, right."
"Yeah, right. So Papa still can't get his head round the fact that I completely fucked it up.  Still, Pete will probably go up to Cambridge, so I could be forgiven, yet."
"What about your Mum?"
"She still sends me one of Polly's cakes every week.  I suppose that's maternal love, of sorts."
We walked the rest of the way in silence.

Becki had brought a bottle of wine, which we shared on the train, wiping the top of the bottle on a sleeve before taking a swig. I knew my way around the tubes quite well - the only real advantage of being an Essex girl in the eighties - and so I took charge, guiding the group to Covent Garden tube and persuading them that walking up the stairs really wasn't a good idea.  We pushed our way to the bar at the Punch and Judy and out on the balcony several times before Pete and his friend arrived. They were clearly underage but no one seemed to mind about that in the Eighties.

John's face lit up when he saw them. He grabbed his brother and wrestle-hugged him around the bar, annoying several loud men in pink stripped shirts and braces. Pete's friend stood, awkward, not knowing where to look.  Matt, the trombonist, rescued him, taking him to the bar for several pints and a gin and tonic.  Becki had embraced the lad culture in a way that I had been unable to match.
"Julia, this is my little brother Peter and his friend, oh where's he gone? Joe Jones."
"The bar, with Matt.  Joe Jones?  My God that's almost as boring as your name.  Does he go to that posh school too?  What do they do up there, change everyone's name to the dullest thing they can think of?"
Pete and John exchanged looks.
"You're right bruv (it was posh then), she is a hoot."
"You've told your brother about me?"
"Just about how you don't like Bowie."

The others were back from the bar and the conversation became heated.

"I just don't know how you can say you don't like Bowie," said one of the guitarists.
"Yeah, he's an inspiration."
"Pure genius."
"He's changing music forever."
"Legend."
I noticed Joe standing looking at his shoes, twiddling a section of his hair around his thumb. His hair was about the same colour as mine; blond but with the definite hint of a Celtic heritage.  I felt encouraged to state my opinion on Bowie again, as I thought Joe wasn't a fan either.
"It's not that I can't see he is inspirational and all that.  Definitely an artist but I prefer my musicians to be able to sing in tune."
Joe snorted his beer through his nose.
"You don't think Bowie can sing in tune?" he asked, eyes twinkling.
I had clearly misread that one. Berating myself for being so stupid and thinking that I wasn't the only person on the planet who thought Bowie was God, I ploughed on regardless.
"No.  Err.  Well.  No. Honestly, no I don't think he's in tune.  There's always so much music and production on the record and we are completely distracted by his charisma and charm but singing in tune?  No. No I don't think so.  A woman would never get away with it you know."

We discussed the lack of equality in pop music, how there were never any female drummers and how women only had a choice of whore or lesbian, as an alternative personality.
"If a woman went on stage without make up, we'd all know she was a dyke," Becki informed us.
"David's a stud though.  I would. Would you?" she asked.
Everyone agreed they would, except Joe and Pete who both looked a little uncomfortable.
"He's married isn't he?" someone asked
"Divorced, I think."
"Swings both ways."
"In that Rolling Stone article it said that he described himself as a closet heterosexual."
"He's got children, right?" I asked "I feel sorry for them."
"Just one I think, Zowie."
"Ha ha. Zowie Bowie.  Why would you do that to a child? I might consider changing my name. Something like John Smith or Joe Jones," I said, digging my elbow into John's rib spilling his beer on a floppy haired man's foot.

We were all quite drunk and giggly.

On the way back from the station John could hardly walk. He threw his arm over my shoulder.
"Shhhh. Can you keep a secret?  Shhhhh," he laughed.
"No, John.  I'm terrible with secrets.
"Ha ha.  I'm going to tell you anyway.  Shhhhhhhhhh."
He leant right into my face the beer becoming my breath as well.
"Joe is Zowie Bowie."
"What?"  I stood straight up, tipping John off my shoulders. He landed on his bottom on the grass verge and laughed.  I had never felt so suddenly sober in my life.  "How could you?"
 John pulled me down by my scarf and hissed in my face again. "SSSS a secret.  Shhhhh,"
"You.  You.  Let me.  You let me say all that stuff.  In fact you started it.  I would have never said all that if I had known."
"Was funny."
"It.  Was. Not.  Funny.  I made a fool of myself."
John looked at me, seeing my anger for the first time.
"Oh, Oh, don't be cross with me.  I didn't mean it.  I was only joking.  Let's never talk about it again."

And we didn't. And we never went out as a group again.

 

Who Do You Want To Be?

Yesterday morning I was in the car, listening to the Communards-twitter-star-vicar on the radio. One of his guests was Paul McKenna, who was talking about his new book, "Instant Influence and Charisma." There must be something about his techniques because the people in the studio were hanging off every word of this, not very likeable man.The Ex-DJ, hypnotist with a PhD from a fraudulent University in Louisianna and a DPhil in Neuro Linguistic Programming, started to talk about the techniques you could use to give yourself more confidence and charisma.

NLP is a fascinating branch of psychology that I always want to know more about. It is quite complicated but Paul McKenna has a knack for making it sound easy. "Do what I say and you will be thinner, stop smoking, lose 10 pounds (the price of the book?), be more confident, have a gastric band fitted, sleep, be happy, look more beautiful."

He claims a 70% success rate and I wonder if he could do even better if he tried the techniques in his, "I can make you more successful book," He said that he was happy with this acheivement and said that any practitioner who can cure all their patients doesn't have enough clients. That made me like him a bit more. 

So, there I was, in the car being told to think of someone I admire; someone charismatic who I would like to be like.  

"Close your eyes and picture them in front of you. Step into their body and inhabit their posture........."

I had stopped listening, stuck on the very first part. I couldn't think of anyone, which is probably a good job because it's never a good idea to close your eyes while driving. He gave some examples. Simon Cowell - ugh no. Sean Connery a real man's man - well that's not relevant. I wondered if Theresa May has stepped into Sean Connery's man's man body when she had that photo taken.

But I was getting distracted again, which is always my problem with any self help technique that relies on a focused 

mind. 

There didn't seem to be as many female role models for charisma. I wondered about Theresa May but while I could imagine stepping into her shoes literally (she always wears nice shoes), I just don't like her enough to want to be like her. I wasn't able to think of anyone without some flaws and I suddenly became terrified that if I stepped into another person's body I would get their bad bits too. 

I decided that it would probably be safer to continue bumbling along as me and switched over to radio 3 and a Brahms Concerto.

Later that day I went out for lunch with my family for my Mum's birthday. It was an eventful lunch, as they always are with my family, who seem to make friends with the whole restaurant without trying. We joined in singing Happy Birthday with every other table wishing everyone but my mum a wonderful day. It sounds cruel but my mum prefers less fuss, so it was probably good that there was a distraction.

The lady on the table next to me was having a tough time, her taciturn partner watched,expressionless, as she sobbed, pushing her food around her plate. I listened to what she said through her tears and filled in the story in several different ways. When her partner disappeared, I was so convinced that he had left her and my surprised look made the rest of the family want to know what had been going on. I quietly told them all of my theories and we were all worried about her. He came back and we were all relieved but still worried. My sister said, "When she goes to the loo I'll go with her."

Suddenly, I knew who I wanted to be. My sister is brilliant. She can talk to and help anyone. I could only watch and worry and add the scene to my novel when I got home. The confidence to do anything was beyond me. Following someone, asking them if you can help, listening to them, giving them a hug, some helpful advice and even considering giving them your phone number are all things I would like to be capable of. 

I thought I'd try to step into my sister's shoes when I got home. Then I realised that if I did that I'd have to be cross with myself for all the times I was mean to myself growing up and when we went out I would have to call the Long Suffering Husband, "F-ing boring," every time he spoke. It would all be too complicated.

Dear Father Christmas

Dear Father Christmas,

Sorry to bother you on your Barbados beach holiday and I may have written to you about this before but there is something I need to get off my chest.

Raymond Briggs captures your holiday beautifully

Again, you have been very generous with your musical gifts but have left out of the package the most important thing that the children (and their parents) thought would come with it: The ability to play the thing. They thought that owning a violin would instantly turn them into Nigel Kennedy, a flute would make them better than James Gallway and a guitar would turn them into the next Eric Clapton.  Actually, they didn't because they are all too young to know about these people. But they did think that the instrument came with a gift of virtuosity and you have failed to provide it. I have been hearing snapped exchanges between parent and child at the end of the school day that sound something like this:

"Did you see Mrs Music Teacher today?"

"I had music, we sang a Pirate song," (starts singing)

"Stop singing! What did she say about your (insert type of instrument)?"

"I didn't...."

"Oh, honestly. Why not?"

"We were busy singing about Pirates," (sings again)

"Oh, do be quiet. Let's go and find her now."

Honestly, Father Christmas, I know I was on the 'nice list' this year but I really won't mind if I get coal for occasionally hiding. You see, I can only offer, lessons (if it's an instrument I can play), hard work and perseverance. The gift of instant virtuosity is one I have never heard of. If it does exist then it must be magic and be your field rather than mine.

If I have failed to hide sufficiently well I am greeted by a furious looking parent, miserable child and an iconic shaped box.

"There's something wrong with this instrument," snaps the parent.

"Oh dear, where did you get it? Maybe you could take it back."

"Father Christmas bought it," says the child, the sparkle back in their eyes.

Sometimes there is something wrong with the instrument and I think you might have to have a word with some of your flute making elves who are using some very cheap materials and not always putting them together properly. It would also be nice if string instruments were set up and tuned. I don't mind putting a bridge in a violin but don't really have time to do it for thirty. Do your bike making elves send children bicycles with wheels they have to attach themselves? One flute even came with a tiny screwdriver, which confused both parent and child, as they asked to be turned into a natural flautist not for a 'build your own flute kit'.

Some parents have been very disappointed at the noises that emit from the instruments you have sent. I'm sure you are keeping an eye on these parents and will, in future, only send i-pads with headphones. One child told me, "I got an iPad from Father Christmas an' me Dad said its the best present 'e's ever got me 'cos it keeps me quiet and stops me asking questions 'cos I'm sooooo silly." 

I know that an iPad costs a little more than a beginner flute and about six times as much as a violin  but I'm sure you can see that parents would feel it was worth it.

I am wondering if you too are feeling ready to retire as I have been surprised at how many children have received the wrong sized instrument. Are children suddenly also getting pyjamas for twelve year olds? Probably not because they are not expecting to suddenly be good at sleeping in their teenage years.

I was talking to a six year old who had a full size violin for Christmas.

"I got a violin for Christmas and Mum says you have to put the bridge in."

"Oh, OK, oh, this violin is much too big for you. Where did Mummy and Daddy get it from?"

She scratched her head and gave me a puzzled look, "Father Christmas brought it, silly!"

"Oh dear, I was hoping it could be swapped for one the right size because you won't be able to play this until you are twelve."

She thought for a little while and then said, "Ha! Father Christmas must know that I'm going to be brilliant at the violin when I'm twelve. I'll keep it until then."

I must say that I'm very impressed that you can know that. Would you teach me how to do it, as I keep getting it wrong. The children that I think have amazing potential don't practise so never get any better and those that can't get a sound out for weeks on end up being grade 8 players at 14.

I know I sound ungrateful. I really do appreciate your musical generosity and I am glad all these children are getting their very own instruments.

I hope to see you next year for my lump of coal.

Yours,

One, already quite tired, music teacher.

Happy Bora Bora Day

Bora Bora day is here again. I am expecting my timeline to fill with beautiful pictures of Bora Bora, or maybe the Maldives.

When I woke up this morning, at silly O'clock, even the birds were struggling to make their dawn singing sound enthusiastic. They tweeted, "Get up. Get up. Can I go back to sleep? It's dark. It's cold. It's enough to make you weep!" Even the doves are hiding in the beer aisle of the supermarket, refusing to believe it's all over.

For many people this will be the second day of leaving the house in the dark. They will have put their watch back on (not wearing my watch is my favourite thing about the Christmas holidays). It will be extra hard this year because so many people will have had the whole festive period off. It's wet and grey and suddenly it seems to be colder. People complain that global warming was meant to stop it being cold in winter. The Christmas pudding, pies and cake are sitting heavily in the stomach, the Christmas booze is finally working its way out of the system and the feeling of biliousness is enhanced by the dread of a healthy eating and exercise campaign.  Days are counted: Six weeks until half term, 12 weeks until Easter, one day until the day when the wise men finally reached the baby Jesus and we have to make sure that last Christmas bauble is stored away for fear of bad luck, 66 days until summer and only another 354 days and 17 hours until Christmas. 

The solution, for most people, is to dream of holidays. TV adverts will tell us that we need to book our place at the tropical adult camp and the world  will google, pin and post pictures of  Bora Bora.

I'm sure I'm alone but I don't really like the look of Bora Bora. It's name sounds like boring boring and looks a bit dull,  so I'm going to put my waterproofs on an take the dog for a muddy walk in the woods.

New Year Honours

I've scoured the list and I'm not on it. Nor is the Long Suffering Husband. I can't believe it; this was going to be our year. The BBC said that this year the list was overwhelmingly made up of ordinary people. Quite surprising. Aren't honours meant to be for extraordinary people; people who've done something extra from the ordinary? Hey, who am I to argue with the Queen? If she wants to give honours to the ordinary she should just go for it. Some may accuse her of senility but if you are still working and having to balance piles of diamonds on your head at 89 then you could be forgiven for the odd strange decision.

First, I checked the Order of the Bath. If there was going to be a gong for me that would be it. I'm brilliant at sitting in the bath, reading books (don't worry I always have a bath book on the go, so that when I fall asleep I don't electrocute myself with my Kindle), listening to the Archers and topping up the cooling water until my fingers do the dried pea thing. I wasn't there.  In fact there were no ordinary people.  There were chief executives, director generals and professors.  There were none from Essex (I know that ordinary people can live in places other than Essex but surely there are no ordinary Londoners).

I could have been a Dame or a Knight for services to literature (or book reading in the bath).  If I had to choose it would be a Knight as the costume is so much better.  Who wouldn't rather wear a suit of armour that a flouncy frock, bloomers and blue eyeshadow.

The LSH seems to think I'm setting my sights too high.  "People don't just get to be a Sir first.  They have to collect the  letters first. MBE. CBE. OBE."

I could collect the CBE.  Clearly Batty Educator.  It could go to ordinary teachers who just go to work and try not to drown in the paperwork.  The teachers who look down and spot that they are wearing shoes of different colours, who enjoy a good laugh with their pupils (luckily, as they are the butt of many a joke).  I looked at the pages and pages of CBEs and it was full of philanthropists.  The educators had set up acadamies and probably never went to work with odd socks, lost their keys in the fridge, or remembered how to laugh.

What about an OBE?  Surely I could get one of those.  Ordinary Bossy Entertainer.  I'm no Sheridan Smith but when I try to entertain I am very ordinary and because I'm usually in charge of small children I'm quite bossy too.  I could get an OBE for services to wrong notes and clashing harmonies.  But they were all Sheridans and Idris Elbas and Damon Albarns. I'm still setting my sights too high.

I looked at the MBEs.  I was hoping to see Master of Beer and Eating.  I know a few people who would deserve that award.  MBE for services to cheese.  Us ordinary folk have been all over that for the last two weeks.  Unfortunately, the 78 pages of MBEs were for extraordinary people.  People who worked for charity or did amazing things that no one else could.

Oh well.  The Queen hasn't finally lost her marbles and so there will be no award for continuous TV watching for the LSH, or special mention for services to laying on the sofa with a duvet for my son and I will just have to content myself with a Christmas present from a couple of orchestra members, who gave me something that I'm pretending is an award.

It's an MYO for services to Friday evening fun music making.