Grumpy Old Technophobe

I bought the Long Suffering Husband a Fitbit for our wedding anniversary. He hadn't asked for it and wasn't even sure he wanted it but I thought it would be fine to drag him, kicking and screaming into the modern-track-your-whole-life-age. I bought it because it had a silver coloured plastic wrist strap and I thought it fitted the Silver Anniversary theme.

He seemed interested but three days later hadn't actually charged it or tried to set it up so I offered to send it back.

"No,no. I've just been too tired to do it," he said.

"Oh, right. Well, charge it up now. How hard can that be?"

We went for a long walk.

"I wonder how far we went," he asked.

"I don't know but if you'd had your Fitbit on you could have told me."

When we got home we had dinner and were just about to take the dog out when I suggested he get his new gadget on to measure at least these few 

steps. 

After about twenty minutes and some unrepeatable language I thought it was time to help. Not that I knew what I was doing, either but I thought I would just be able to read the instructions in the box. There were no instructions other than those that told you not to do stupid things with it. There was no danger of that; we couldn't even work out how to turn it on. 

I laughed. He scowled. I remembered when we used to take the mickey out of his parents for not being able to work the video player. It has come to this: we are the laughable old codgers who are baffled by technology.

I found the website with the step-by-step instructions and video tutorials and we did everything it said. Twice. 

"Is there a number? There must be someone we can talk to. The LSH likes to actually talk to people. I prefer not to just in case I get sarcastic and angry. It took a while but I found a helpline number. It was closed but there was also 'live chat' 

"Hello, I'm Stephano, what can I help you with today?" blinked on the screen.

We told him the problem and he took us through all the steps we had already done.

"Okay," blinked Stephano, "this will be really quick and simple."  After each step that didn't work Stephano typed, "Okay."

After forty okays that were anything but this started  to get a bit irritating. We had all the right flashing lights (apparently) and had now set up an account but the only thing that was sinking/syncing was our patience. Stephano remained calm, "Okay."

We turned off every Bluetooth device in the house, although the LSH phone was still registering the car and the neighbour's Internet. 

Still nothing.

"Okay."

"I'd like to try some of the troubleshooting steps, if that's okay with you?"

We did the troubleshooting steps again.

Nothing.

"Okay."

"Is it always this difficult?" I asked, feeling sorry for Stephano in his office in Guatamala, having to go through this a hundred times a day.

"I'll be honest. This is the first one like this I've had. It's usually really quick and simple," he replied.

I expect he's used to the people who e put the battery in the wrong way round or who haven't even charged it up. I think about the old story that Terry Wogan used to tell about someone who rang a computer help desk to complain that their cup holder was broken (meaning their disc holder)

An hour an a half later Stephano was keen for us to try using a computer to attempt the set up because in his mind it had to be the phone. 

The LSH wasn't too keen on his Fitbit being linked to my laptop.

"You'll be able to see everything. I don't want you tracking me. You'll see just how sedimentary I'm being."

"I think you mean sedentary unless you do actually move less than a rock."

I could see his point though, trust not tracking is the basis of any healthy relationship.

The computer said no, too.

"Okay," said Stephano "Let's try more troubleshooting steps."

We tried.

"Tell me what is happening," begged Stephano's blinking cursor.

"It says to give it two taps and you should feel a vibration but there's no vibration."

"You can put it on your wrist for that bit."

"Oh, Stephano, we worked that out. Stop rolling your eyes."

"Sorry. Jajajaja..... try hitting it harder. You need to tap it on the lights."

I told him that I was taking a sledgehammer to it and the LSH had felt enough vibration to break his wrist but nothing from the Fitbit. The LSH and I wondered how many steps we could have taken the dog for in the last two hours.

Stephano was stumped. You could tell but he didn't really want to give up.

"Time to send it back?" I asked. 

"Unfortunately, as you have been unable to link it to an account you will have to return it to us, at your own expense."

Oh, Stephano! We liked him until then.

"What?" I asked "Why wouldn't I just tell Amazon I don't want it, get my money back and let them send it out to some other poor sucker?"

"You would probably be able to get a replacement if it's faulty," typed Stephano helpfully.

If it's faulty? 

"I think we can both agree that it's faulty but I think I've lost confidence in the product."

"It would be really quick and simple."

"I feel like you might have promised me that before."

Stephano agreed and once again typed his Germanic laugh. 

"It's been a pleasure talking to you today," he said.

"I'm sure it's really made your day," I replied.

So, the Fitbit is going back and the LSH is resigned to being a grumpy old technophobe who is a bit flabby around the middle. 

Music, Cake and Politics

Maybe you wouldn't choose to book a mini-break around an election but it can add a tiny air of excitement if you enjoy politics and percentages.

I am fascinated by politics. I wouldn't want to do it and honestly don't understand the people that do but watching politicians and how people react to them is one of my passions (along with music and cake). So, you can imagine my excitement when I arrived in the land of music and cake (Vienna) to find they were in the middle of an election.

It appeared that the Viennese (who still have a passion for lederhosen) were in a whirl and about to elect an ayrian president from the Freedom party whose political beliefs are on the far right. Every country seems to have one. Norbert Hofer is Austria's Farage or Trump: a fresh faced, blue eyed man whose posters looked like an advert for the Hitler youth (a thought that occurred to me before I spotted the graffiti moustaches)

Austria's President is mostly a ceremonial role with few powers but this candidate had promised to disband parliament if they didn't do something about immigration. This surprised me because Vienna seemed such a nice safe city. People happily gave money to the few people that were sitting on street corners and shops are able to have a display cabinet full of knives outside all night, without fear of inciting violence.

We even saw someone stop next to a woman with a dog, headscarf and sign that said, "Hunger", sit down next to her and empty Tupperware cartons of hot food onto a paper plate. When the woman had eaten she picked up her sign and belongings and went for a nice walk with her dog. 

This election was interesting to me, not only because of the right wing phenomenon that is sweeping the world but also because of the actual election system. This was a second vote, which is    usual in Austria. The first vote is for all the parties that are standing. If one candidate gets more than 50% of the vote then they are the winner. If not then the second vote is between the top two parties. This seems to be a much better system. It would stop people saying that their vote doesn't count. Austria used to have compulsory voting, of which, surprisingly (as a normally liberal person) I am in favour. I'm not sure when they stopped making people vote but they still managed a 78% turnout (uk: usually around 60%).

Norbert had won over 30% of the vote in the initial round and everyone had expected him to win the second round. He was up against a Green Party candidate, Van Der Bellen, who has a nice white bushy moustache (not the black toothbrush version drawn on the poster) and a nice looking dog.

The election closed at 5pm and they were expecting the results to be announced soon after. We walked past reporters and their man with an i-pad (BBC), practising their smiles and serious faces, and larger crews with proper cameras and fluffy things on sticks pointed at men in suited top halves and more casual below the camera wear, and we could almost taste the anticipation and excitement.

We chose a cafe in the Hofburg Palace to sit and watch.  The LSH  tried to ask about the election but the waiter just waved towards the corner of the building and mumbled something about the President living in, "that part there."  Having missed the memo about not talking to the famously grumpy waiters, he persisted and even tried talking in German.  It turns out that the waiter hadn't voted, didn't care, wasn't even Austrian and wasn't a "politicky person."

The results came in.  Or rather, they didn't come in because they were 50:50.  Not exactly but it became clear that the postal votes could change the whole situation.  The reporters did their piece to camera and packed up, resigned to coming back tomorrow morning for more of the same. At that point Hofer had 51.9% of the vote.  

The next day they were back and by late afternoon were beginning to look more than a bit fed up.  Eventually, Hofer conceded and Van der Bellen had won with 50.35% of the vote.  People in Vienna seemed happy.  

"I would ask for a recount, if I were him, That can't be statistically significant," said the LSH sounding like my son.

We both expect that this isn't the end; that there is an appetite for very right wing politics, even in lovely safe and happy places like Austria.  Even the cake and music can't stop the shift to the right.

The Opera

Everyone said, "You can't go to Vienna and not visit the state opera."

Of course you could, if opera isn't your thing then don't go but it is mine. We hadn't booked any tickets and couldn't decide if we thought it was worth the €68 ticket price the tourist office had with 'interesting seats'

"You would be in this box here. When you sit down you can't see any of the stage but if you stand up you get an excellent view of the orchestra and if you stand up and lean over a bit you can see most of the stage." 

The cheapest €134 from the box office somehow didn't appeal either.

There were young men everywhere, dressed as Mozart trying to sell tickets to 'the concert tonight', as if there was only one in the whole of Vienna. Classical music is everywhere. There are Beethoven, Strauss, Haydn, Mozart concerts and concert 'light' programmes that would be no more challenging than radio 2 on a Friday night. There are harpists, string quartets and amazing trumpeters busking on street corners. The Vienna Boys choir just casually sings mass on a Sunday (and before you ask, I did go and no, I could never get my choir to sing like that)

But to experience the opera seemed the most important to me.

A little known fact is that they sell over 500 standing room tickets, which cost €3-4 and they go on sale about two hours before the show. You can't wear shorts (even to buy the tickets) but jeans, trainers and general scruffiness is allowed for people who are willing to stand. You have to go in the back door to buy tickets from the special box office. At the front of the opera house people are dressed in black tie suits, kilts, evening gowns, fur stoles and drip with diamonds.

The opera was Wagner's Lohengrin. If you know about opera then you will already be chuckling at the challenge we set ourselves. This opera is part of the ring cycle, like Lord of the Rings without the Awk battles, but twice as long lasting, in some cases, up to forty days. Loengrun lasts for four hours (with two short breaks).

It wasn't that difficult, though. The standing area is on steps with leaning rails. The libretto (words, in English or German) appear on a small screen in front of you and although it starts out a bit of a squash people leave as soon as they think they have done enough to say that they've been to the opera. The view is perfect. You can see everything.

The orchestra were perfect apart from one small slip from a French horn at the beginning, which resulted in frantic turning of his instrument to get the water out. We really could see everything. The LSH was particularly impressed with the harp-hole.

Wagner writes wonderful music but struggles to get to the point with the story.

I was worried that I had inadvertently tortured the LSH.

"Oh no," he said, "it was really powerful but if it were a film they'd only be able to make about 20 minutes of it." 

The story reminded me of when I was 11 and saw Grease at the cinema. Everyone wanted to be Sandy and would enviously  say, "Oh Julia, you could so be Sandy," but I preferred Rizzo. What is the point of a virtuous woman in a white dress who doesn't make any decisions for herself? Much better to be the one in the red dress who at least gets to sleep with her husband before he declares that he is a Knights Templar and gets a huge golden horn and ring before getting dragged off by a swan.

Although it could have been shorter the bargain hunter in me can't help but be excited at top-class entertainment at €1 an hour.

Vienna

Vienna: It's stripey

My first impression of Vienna, as we make our bumpy descent towards the airport is that it is a land of stripes. The fields are beautifully ploughed in long straight rows. Trees line parallel boulevards. It seems perfect; even from this distance.

The airport is amazingly clean and the Long Suffering Husband is very impressed with the hugely powered ride on machines that the workers are using. The floor is buffed to sparkling perfection (it really is sparkling as the tiles appear to be laced with glitter) by huge polishing machines driving up and down in perfect stripes. 

The train (CAT) is also spotless, with comfortable seats, legroom that Easy-jet could never comprehend and it takes you straight to the centre of town without stopping. There are two young English women next to us discussing how they will find their hotel.

"It's on the good side."

"Which is the good side? It's not labelled on the map."

"Let me see."

"Can you read a map?"

"Yeah, I'm not bad if I know where I am and where I'm going to."

The train fills up because it has two layers there is plenty of room for everyone to have a comfortable seat.

Looking out of the window we see there is something for both of us in Austria. The LSH gets excited about a pipe and tube factory and I enjoy the rows of polytunels.

Due to an excellent Hotwire deal we are staying in the Hilton, which is helpfully signposted from the station. We are upgraded to a room with a view of the park and city. The view, framed by curtains with tasteful horizontal stripes is perfect.

We remember that the last time we ate was in Gatwick Airport when we grabbed a pastry from Pret. When we read the guidebooks we were given the impression that we were in for a relaxing break. They all mentioned sitting for three hours in a cafe, taking a gentle stroll but there is loads to see and do in Vienna. Lunch, for us, was cake. You can't go to Vienna and not sample the Sachertorte, which is the least layered of all the cakes on display. The one I had tasted very much like a Jaffa cake.

The wonderful thing about Vienna is that you can have cake for breakfast dinner and tea. We had apple strudel for our evening meal in Mozart's cafe; perfect laminations (or stripes) of pastry hugging the cinnamon spiced apple: delicious.

Vienna

Vienna: It's stripey

My first impression of Vienna, as we make our bumpy descent towards the airport is that it is a land of stripes. The fields are beautifully ploughed in long straight rows. Trees line parallel boulevards. It seems perfect; even from this distance.

The airport is amazingly clean and the Long Suffering Husband is very impressed with the hugely powered ride on machines that the workers are using. The floor is buffed to sparkling perfection (it really is sparkling as the tiles appear to be laced with glitter) by huge polishing machines driving up and down in perfect stripes. 

The train (CAT) is also spotless, with comfortable seats, legroom that Easy-jet could never comprehend and it takes you straight to the centre of town without stopping. There are two young English women next to us discussing how they will find their hotel.

"It's on the good side."

"Which is the good side? It's not labelled on the map."

"Let me see."

"Can you read a map?"

"Yeah, I'm not bad if I know where I am and where I'm going to."

The train fills up because it has two layers there is plenty of room for everyone to have a comfortable seat.

Looking out of the window we see there is something for both of us in Austria. The LSH gets excited about a pipe and tube factory and I enjoy the rows of polytunels.

Due to an excellent Hotwire deal we are staying in the Hilton, which is helpfully signposted from the station. We are upgraded to a room with a view of the park and city. The view, framed by curtains with tasteful horizontal stripes is perfect.

We remember that the last time we ate was in Gatwick Airport when we grabbed a pastry from Pret. When we read the guidebooks we were given the impression that we were in for a relaxing break. They all mentioned sitting for three hours in a cafe, taking a gentle stroll but there is loads to see and do in Vienna. Lunch, for us, was cake. You can't go to Vienna and not sample the Sachertorte, which is the least layered of all the cakes on display. The one I had tasted very much like a Jaffa cake.

The wonderful thing about Vienna is that you can have cake for breakfast dinner and tea. We had apple strudel for our evening meal in Mozart's cafe; perfect laminations (or stripes) of pastry hugging the cinnamon spiced apple: delicious.

The joys of flying Easy-jet

The joys of flying Easy-jet 

You make a reservation. The tickets appear super good value until you add tax, a fuel charge, a charge for a seat, a premium for being allowed to take anything with you, an extra charge to allow the flight crew to smile at you, and you still convince yourself you've still got a good deal.

From that moment on you get a daily email: "Your Flight to Vienna," it states in capital letters before going on to sell you anything from a hotel to bicycle hire to a sandwich. If you are not extra vigilant then you could accidentally swipe away the one email that tells you your flight times have changed. Luckily, I'm Mrs Read-Everything, so I spotted the important change in details. "Your flight time on EZ4564£ has changed: Old time 6.25. New time 6.20."

"Our flight time has changed," I told the Long Suffering Husband. 

"Oh, 6.20. That's early. Shall we book a hotel at Gatwick the night before?"

Any sane person would treat themselves, right? So we pushed the boat out and booked a Premier Inn Summer Special parking package. 

You won't get a better night's sleep, anywhere. Lenny Henry recommends the beds. The LSH does a Princess and the Pea impression, complaining about how high and hard the mattress is. The hotel has thought about the aircraft noise and hired a troupe of Tyrollean clog dancers to stay in the room above you and drown out the engine noises.

The alarm goes off at 4am and you sit up and say, "Thank goodness for that. It's finally morning."

You both swear that the other did get some sleep because you heard snoring, although that could have been the clog dancers. 

Luckily, the half hour bus journey from the car park to the airport gives the LSH a chance for a good sleep.

The bus arrives at the North Terminal. You get off and check your boarding passes that you printed off yourself for a small extra cost. South Terminal!  Phew! There's a shuttle train! What luxury! You don't even have to sit down.

A small queue (how we love to queue) at security. People are complaining about having to give the contents of their hip flasks to the security guards and saying things like, "I can't go to France without my deodorant. What do you mean by saying I can buy some? Do they even have deodorant in France?" The man behind me walks through the metal detector with his hands in the air and his trousers slip to his thighs. He's not quite sure if he's allowed to hoik them up again and so he clamps his knees together and waddles through. The female security guard rolls her eyes and I laugh. The man behind me (who isn't the LSH because he is still struggling to get his belt off) is arguing about removing his coat.

"Why do I have to take it off?"

"It's a good idea,sir."

"It's weird, though. I'd rather just keep it on."

"You can if you want, Sir but the metal studs on it will set off the metal detector."

He decides to leave it on. Lights flash and he has to take it off, go through again and he still gets a friendly pat down.

"I don't get it ," says the LSH 

"Maybe he longed for human contact."

"I don't see why people have to argue; belts, coats shoes, what does it matter?. Just take it all off."

That would certainly make security more interesting. Strip naked. Walk through with your hands in the air shouting, "Nothing to declare."

Included in the extra charges for an Easy-jet flight is a health premium. Their boarding gates are always the furthest away and you have paid for the privilege of that extra walking time. You wave to the North Terminal as you walk past. 

Due to good planning we arrive at gate 2448 ten minutes before 6.20 and sit, watching the parents placing their children in the baggage check cages to make sure that they will fit into the overhead lockers. At 6.45 they call our flight and people run to get into the queue.

"Quick, we're already late, we might miss it."

Every woman who gets to the front of the queue panics and tries to shove her handbag into her luggage. 

The wife of the actor from New Tricks tries to argue the toss. 

"Forty five pounds for a handbag."

We suspect she is an actor too. The woman would be great in The Importance of Being Ernest. I was planning to do my coat up over my bag and suffer the indignation of the cabin crew asking when my menopause-baby was due but when we heard the reply I decided to shove it in my backpack.

"We don't agree with it either madam but we don't make the rules. No, I can't pretend I haven't seen it if you hide it under your coat."

It was a bit of a squeeze but in it went  and we smugly passed through the gate with only one sideways look at my passport photo. I could tell she was thinking, "Are you sure this I your passport? This photo looks like the babysitter bandit from the Simpsons," but she was only programmed to challenge handbags. 

Being in the back of the airplane gives another added bonus for Easy-jet customers: that wonderful smell of engine fuel, as you have to step onto the Tarmac and climb the steps. No tunnel entrance to the plane for you. When your backpack is full to bursting the zip will work its way loose and you will leave a trail of those extra large sanitary towels (that you carry everywhere when you reach that unpredictable age) until a nice Polish man politely taps you on the shoulder and tells you that your bag is open. Before we are on the plane all the women have taken their handbags out of their other luggage and retrieved their lost items from the runway.

Flying can be a trauma for the anxious (which I'm not) and for people who think too much (which I am). The improbability of getting that great metal thing full of people into the sky never fails to cross my mind. The toilet at the back is out of order and I fear that the queue of people for the front one will cause the plane to tip forward. The flap on the wing gives me a little wave of reassurance. 

Why is there writing on the wing warning you not to walk on that part?

Then there's the noise of the electric screwdriver and although you 'know' that they are removing the staircase you can't help wondering, as it's Easy-jet, if something has fallen off that they must hastily fix. The Captain comes on the tannoy to tell us that he's sorry that we boarded late but he's certain that he can make the time up if he "doesn't spare the horses." Binty, behind us, (yes, really - Binty) frets that she doesn't want him speeding. Parents, who haven't managed to stow their babies safely in the overhead lockers spend the whole flight doing the two foot shuffle, moving further back in the plane to avoid the toilet queue.

Someone opens the overhead locker to remove their baby and can't get the bag back in. The LSH comments on how to manoeuvre the bags for a perfect fit but the stewardess comes to the rescue.

"You could be a flight attendant with those skills," I suggest.

"Yes. Except I couldn't wear the heels," he agrees

"Or put your hair in a bun."

You finally arrive in Vienna and can't wait to do it all again, in reverse in two days time.

EU make me laugh

Next week I will have been married to the Long Suffering Husband for 25 years. We are planning a trip to Vienna and neither of us can get excited about it because we are both too old and tired.  We thought a trip to a place whose history resonates with Nazi occupation would be the perfect celebration of 25 years of marriage. We did consider Berlin but we didn't want to join the politicians making topical Hitler references.

The plan was to go in half term but I checked my diary and we are going next weekend. I'm not sure how this happened and although I have tried blaming the LSH, he helpfully reminded me that I booked the flights and hotel. This is what happens. To quote Victoria Wood on menopause, "there's only 17 minutes in any month when anyone can get any sense out of me."

So here we are, neither of us looking forward to a trip away; me, with my hot flushes, other unmentionable menopause symptoms and a tendency to wet myself when I laugh or sneeze; him, with his back, general tiredness and the wrong glasses for any occasion; about to go to another European Country when the rest of England is talking about cutting ourselves off from Europe, hoping to take themselves back to a 1950's style utopian bubble.

Our local pub has suddenly decorated itself with a flag, which could have been placed there by it's current unhappy customers as a message to the unpopular owner but I am taking as a personal message to drink somewhere else.

Watching the EU referendum campaign play out on social media is funny and terrifying in equal measures. The LSH keeps reminding me that the politicians only promised a vote and they don't have  act in the outcome and I remember that Greece voted to leave but still seem to be very much part of the EU.

There is something about the campaign that is bringing out the nutters. #BorisisBananas has been trending on Twitter for two days and my Facebook feed is filled with pictures like this:

"Oh dear people who want to leave the EU really are silly, aren't they?" I said waving my phone in the LSH's direction.

He sighed. "Wait a minuite, I've got the wrong glasses."

"Because Indian trains  so run in Europe," I persisted, not bothering to wait for him to find the right pair.

"Mmmmm. Probably the wrong 

gauge."

He is quite funny. 

Come Together (part 2)

Live blog (no editing) of 'entertainment' and voting from Eurovision 2016

Justin Trousersnake. *Women in the audience faint*  How strong is his aftershave?

Sweden has had lots of hits and we only think of ABBA.

This is where the whole of Twitter implodes with people asking if they can vote for JT.  He is cool.  He can just move his hips a millimeter and he's dancing.

UK Twitter seems to be voting for Belgium.  I think that's because it's the only one they heard while they were still sober.

I preferred the green dress.

This guide to winning is good.  Oiled up drummers.  Grandmothers.  Violins.  DJ's.  Costumes.  At last they've ripped off some clothes.  Peace. This song is brilliant.  Smile and they will vote for me.  It's time for the chorus.  Love love peace women baking bread.  Love love piece and a burning fake piano.  More tricks in a hamster wheel.  And win the Eurovision Contest.  ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT!!!!!!

This woman from the EBU is funny.

We, and half of Twitter want to go to Sweden.  The other half are cringing and have absolutely no sense of humour.

Lines are now closed.

This group are on hoverboard.  It's a good job they're not on carpet.  He must be knackered.  Loads of singing and presenting all night.  That was a good song.  No wonder it won last year.  And there's the stickman, who actually won it last year.

Voting.

A new way of presenting the voting.  Don't explain it.  I'll fall asleep.

Austria:  She's dressed as the Crysler building.  12 points to Australia
Iceland:  Wriggly dog.  12 points to Netherlands.
Azerbaijan:  He's creepy.  Weird eyes.  12 points to Russia.
San Marino:  His cap doesn't fit.  We've got 8 points.  We like San Marino.  12 points to Ukraine
Czech Republic: Another 4 points for UK.  12 points Sweden.  She's elegant.
Ireland.  Another 7.  We expect that from Ireland.  Belgium 12 points (the Irish were drunk too!)
Georgia:  They have vampires in Georgia.  Threatening the trousersnake.  12 points to Ukraine (no surprise) neighbours.
Bosnia & Herzegovina:  Sorry about calling?  Sarajevo calling! 12 points Ukraine
Malta:  12 points to UK.  YAY!!!!!!
Spain:  The fountain has a prostate problem.  12 points to Armenia.  The woman dressed as the London Gherkin.
Finland:  Pink bow tie and shirt.  12 points to Sweden.
Switzerland:  A whistler.  12 points to Australia
Denmark:  3 point to UK.  I like that dress.  12 point to Ukraine.

Our dog is singing.  Will someone tell him the competition is over and he can't win.

France:  In front of the Blackpool tower.  12 points to Italy.
Moldova:  An Uber driver, oh Graham, you wit!  12 points to Ukraine.

If the LSH says, "1944?  What's that about?" again I might resort to violence.

Armenia:  Another creepy man 12 points to France.
Cyprus:  Who will they give their 12 points to if they can't vote for Greece?  Oh Russia, good choice.
Bulgaria:  She's up high.  12 points to Armenia.
Netherlands:  Haven't seen shoulder pads like that since 1988.  12 points Australia
Latvia:  A badge collector making the lovely lady from Sweden feel uncomfortable.  12 points to Ukraine.

*Thrown a peanut at the LSH*

Who will Australia ask to host Eurovision for them?  Will it be us?

High praise there from the Ukraine.  "Quite good"

Israel:  Always a bow tie.  12 points to Ukraine.
Belarus:  Give that man a brownie.  He's swaying.  12 points to Russia.
Germany: Power dressing.  12 points to Israel
Russia:  We were looking at the dress.  I think we got more points.  12 points to Armenia
Norway.  Miss Piggy. 12 points to Italy.  They didn't give Sweden any points
Australia:  "Oh my God, they've dug her up," says the LSH.  They gave us points.  12 points to Belgium: Penfold.  12 points to Australia
UK:  Pointless.  12 points to Georgia.  UK jury stocked by good musicians, obviously.
Croatia:  Pretty lights.  12 points to Australia.
Greece:  Will they give their 12 points to Cyprus?  Only 8.  12 points to Russia.  I'm not sure why he thinks Greece contributed most to the success of the song.
Lithuania:  Another vampire in disguise.  We haven't been more ready.  12 points to Australia.
Serbia:  More points.  12 points to Ukraine.  The peanut worked.  He's stopped saying it.
FYR Macedonia:  Mama Mia joke.  12 points to Ukraine.
Albania:  Yay 5 points.  We were looking at his house.  12 points Australia.
Estonia:  More points.  Will we get onto the left side of the board?  12 points to Sweden.
Ukraine:  The best outfits of the night. I want to know the taxi story.  12 points to Lithuania.
Italy:  Oh a bead issue.  Thoroughly Modern Millie.  12 points to Spain
Poland:  Pretty dress.  12 points to Ukraine.
Slovenia: Don't sing. Headphones.  Ukraine 12 points
Hungary:  That's a bright yellow:  12 points to Australia
Montenegro:  What language is he speaking?  12 points to Malta.  Really?
Sweden:  Show off.  Never brag a bout how much money you have in Europe.  12 points Australia.

Public vote:  It could all change now.  You know how the public vote.  They are very surprised that the televoting has gone to plan.  He's a very lachrymose man isn't he?
All of our points have been added together.  I wonder if they will publish a breakdown anywhere.
Suspense.
0 Czech republic
8 points UK
16 Malta
24 Georgia
33 Croatia
34 Italy
39 Netherlands
51 Belgium
53 Cyprus
56 Hungary
63 Latvia
73 Azerbaijan
80 Serbia
96 Lithuania
109 France
120 Austria

The world hates the UK

134 Armenia
139 Sweden
180 Bulgaria

This is insane

191 Australia

That's interesting.  Ukraine could win.

222 Poland
323 Ukraine

Ukraine has won.  Oh, people liked that.

361 Russia

Not enough.  3rd but the public love Russia.

We love this voting system.  That was so exciting.

"1944!  What's that about?"

We gave our 12 points to Lithuania.  What?  Just proved that the British public shouldn't be allowed to vote.

Oh no.  We've got to listen to it again.

Come Together (part 1)

Live blog of the Eurovision contest (no editing, so excuse any SPAG errors)

Come together?  Who thought of that title?  Did they do it just for those of us who like an innuendo?

Belgium.

Back to the Seventies.  Disco lives.  Nice sparkly shorts.  Quite like a disco song.  "This is fection."  Rots the Pressure.  She's pretty.  Nice dancing good swaying, make it look easy.  Singing a bit flat but she did go first.  It's horrible going first.  Our choir
Katy's score: 13/40


Czech Rebublic

What was the name of the the game with the triangles?  I don't think anyone is winning.  Don't like the dress and it's one of those horrible wailing songs that makes your ears bleed.  Interesting twist, with the costume take your hair down and your skirt lights up.

Katy's score 9/40

Netherlands

Dour Bob.  He sounds quite upbeat for a dour chap but he is going nowhere fast. He's just lost points for looking directly at the camera - that's always a bit creepy.  "Every day I wake up and it's hard." That probably explains why he's a bit more upbeat.   He looks a like as though he's smoked too many joints.  Ugh.  Don't mouth "I love you at the camera" and stop.

Katy's score 9/40

Azerbaijan

Walking away.. Gonna take miracle.  You are so right there girl. The LSH is impressed with her bosoms. I'm impressed with the catsuit, always envious of a woman who can carry off a catsuit.  Extra marks for the fire and dancers.  I wouldn't like to be standing under those bits of falling fire, Imagine the hairspray going up in flames.  It's very Eurovision.

Katy's score 15/40

Hungary

Sore throat?  Love a big drum.  They are, at least clapping in time.  Whistling!  They've cracked the floor.  They all look as though they've been partying for several days. I'm not sure they're going to get many points for that dancing - weird knee bends.  The first to use a proper instrument.  We like a proper instrument.  He's quite pretty isn't he?  The LSH's favourite so far.
I am hungry.  Might take a cheese break.

Katy's score 19/40

Italy

A number one son in their own country.  "Oh, it's in Italian, that's no good is it," The LSH gives his verdict.  Same joke every year.  Bad blusher blending.  Weird set.  Why are there sunglasses and balloons hanging in mid air?  It' all looks sweet but she's angry.  It's in English now. "There's no degree of seperation." Is she trying to tell us something.  A poison apple for the English voting Brexit.

Katy's score:  13/40

Israel

With a temperamental mighty hoop.  He has a lovely voice.  Quite llike a man in make up with flock of seaguls hair.  There are people in his temperamental hoop.  We're wishing them to go spinning out of control and take out the front row of the audience.  He has to get extra points for an air guitar.  The hoop lights up!  Fire and hairspray disaster waiting to happen.  Ending with a Disney message.  Go Israel.

Katy's score:  22/40

Bulgaria

Pretty eyeshadow.  Darth Vader meets 1960's Mod. Love is a crime. This song could be a crime but I think it will do really well.  It's popular dance music.  She's having a great time.  She only needs live instruments.  She lights up.

Katy's score: 25/40

SONG 9  - DRINK TO TERRY.  CHEERS MR WOGAN.  Feel a bit tearful.

Sweden 

There's a lot of apologising this year.  What's he sorry for?  The song?  A vow of silence.  He don't need to go that far.  It's terrible that words like "Stop" appear behind him.  "Devil"  Poor chap.  He does look young.  He's having a good time too.  They've all relaxed now.  He is only 17.  It's Graham's earworm. The crowd like it too but they are in Sweden.

Katy's score: 15/40

Germany

I'm looking forward to this.  It annoys Graham Norton.  Look at what she's wearing.  She could be dressed up for World Book Day.  I looked less silly for Alien Day.  She has a nice voice but it's a rubbish song.  She's a bit intense.

Katy's score: 13/40

France

J'ai Cherche.  What's he looking for?  A comb? No points for white trainers with a suit.  We like the moon but look at his teeth, so white.  He's like a star on the moon.  He's making us smile.  He's having so much fun. He's not going to get many points, though because there were no instruments, dancers and fireworks.

Katy's score:  21 + 3 for teeth.

Poland

That's the longest hair I've ever seen on a man.  They've real instruments, extra points for light up strings. that match his suit.  No socks.  I like that suit: Love a bright red military jacket with  tassles on the epileps and brass buttons.
Your life.  Nice voice.  We always like Poland.

Katy's score: 18/40

And a woman stopped from doing her job properly by high heels!!!!!!!  Wear flats then!!

Australia

Still don't understand why they are in but they were good last year.
She has an amazing voice and it's a good song.  We all think we've heard it before.  The graphics are cool.  We want to see her jump off the pedestal.  How did we miss that?  It must have gone down.  It might be too good.  Her singing is giving me the hairs on the back of the neck stuff.  If she ripped the skirt off it would be a winner.
What if Eurovision was held in Australia next year?

Katy's score:  21/40

Cyprus

Greasy rockers.  Sounds like the Killers.  Men in cages.  A tip for everyone:  always keep your drummer in a cage and don't feed them after dark.  He's a bit creepy.  I don't think Eurovision are going to go for rock.  I like his frock though and we can see his nipples, better on a man.  Wolf howling.  A bald drummer with dreadlocks.  We are arguing now about whether is need to be a musical master piece for Eurovision

Katy's score: 22 /40 (she gets more generous as she goes on.  I think it was the instruments that gave it such a big score)

Serbia

Domestic abuse theme.  Have they been listening to the Archers?   Free the Blossom Hill One!  The LSH feels sorry for the person who had to put all those hair clips in.  She has a huge mouth.  I hope she gives the creepy guy trying to kiss her a smack.  Go sisters!  I like this.

Katy's score: 14/40

Lithuania

He looks young too.  Pick your feet up! Do his shoes change colour or is it just the floor?  I can't listen to the song because I'm looking at those turquioise sparking shoes and the floor, which has erupted.  I think it's quite a catchy song.

Katy's score:  17/40

Croatia

  Yes Graham, Just a little bit of weight.  She's a bit Bjork.    She's gotta whip that dress off.
That's not impressive. Terrible costume change.  There are dementors in the background.  Quick, pass the chocolate.    Ooooooooh   OOOOOOOOooooohhhhhh.

Katy's score:  13/40

Russia

The bookies favourite.  Poodle strudel.  The best fact ever.  He's got to win just for that.  Wow.  Like his wings.  Thunder and Lightening it's scary exciting.  It's got everything for Eurovision winner.  Graphics are brilliant.  Look at those steps  but there is so much that  could go wrong.  We secretly want him to miss a step.  I've just asked the LSH if we can go to Russia to watch it if it wins.  He said, "Yeah, why not?"  I'm writing it down so I've got proof.  Shame there were no instruments.  It could have got nearly full marks on the Katy score:

Katy's score:  26/40

Spain

She could have brushed her hair.  La la la lyrics work for every country.  Did she fall over and they turned the lights off so that we didn't see her knickers.  It's a cheerful song.  Come on and raise your body parts?  How do you do that?  This could win.  There's two of her.  Am I seeing double?  Too much cheese.

Katy's score:  21/40

Latvia

He can play instruments.  I'd quite like to work at his alternative music school.  He needs new jeans (mum joke!).  This is a bit forgettable. Why didn't he have a guitar?  He can sing but it's not enough is it?  He tired hard.

Katy's score:  14/40

Ukraine

Was she born in 1944?  Oh it's about the war.  I like to see a woman in jeans who's not flashing her knickers.  It's scary. "Chilling," says the journalist daughter (so much better with words than me).  It's making me feel a bit sick. We are looking up the lyrics, it's about the the millions of potatoes that were deported.

Katy's score:  14/40

Malta

Maternity wear.  Can't wait.  Only a head. She's not hugely pregnant. We like this dress.  Extra points for a baby performing at Eurovision.  Does she look like Liz Hurley?  That dancers knees must hurt doing that. Wind machine.  The dancer has died.

Katy's score: 18/40

Georgia

Another rock song.  I like this voice.  It's unique.  It's a little Oasis.  Seeing double.  Now seeing quadruple.  Must.  Stop.  Eating.   Cheese.  It's very flashy.  Proper instruments.  Extra points for wishing his mum happy birthday.  He's my favourite so he won't win.

Katy's score:  19/40

Austria

Another woman with a huge mouth.  She's very smiley.  I had a bridesmaids dress like that one.  I wonder if she has a toilet roll under her skirt? Sickly sweet.  It's all too pretty.

Katy's score:  12/40

UK

Thank God we can't vote for our own.  It would just be embarrassing, wouldn't it?  Instruments.  We're in this together but we'd like to leave the EU.  Jake, or is it Joe has permanently surprised eyebrows. I think it's catchy but is that because I've heard it before?  Like the tempo changes.  Fireworks, dancing, cute young boys hugging.  That's getting a good reaction.  If it wasn't for the fact that everyone hates the UK they could do quite well.

Katy's score:  24/40

Armenia

The last song.  Back to the Seventies again.  A whisper start, Farrah Fawcett hair., a see through leotard.  Now I can see eight of them.  I give up.  Pass the cheese.

Katy's score: 12/40

My vote goes to Russia, Australia or Spain
LSH can only narrow it down to 5.  Spain, Russia, Israel, Bulgaria and UK.

Happy Birthday

"Six, seven, eight, nine.......and ten. I'd just like to warn you that I've had three hours sleep," I said to a male colleague who had made a only very slightly sexist comment.

"I don't know how you do it. I'd be so tired I wouldn't be able to function," he said.

Sleep is an odd thing. In phases of lots of sleep I can be more tired than when I have normal sleep but in these very restless nights there's a manic element to my waking day. I seem to fit so much more in. I get up at 3am, write, read, bake a cake and walk the dog and I have weird ideas and grand plans. It's on days like these I seriously consider entering the choir for the Songs of Praise Choir of the Year. 

Today, someone put on Twitter that it is sixty years since the registration of the trademark Velcro (both a blessing and a curse to any teacher). What teacher isn't grateful for not having to tie and re-tie thirty sets of shoe laces? But we have all been driven mad by the sound of ripping Velcro or had a child who is stuck to the carpet or another child by their shoe.

In my manic sleep deprived state I have come up with a lesson plan. A performance of Happy Birthday just using shoe and book bag velcro. It would be a brilliant post-SATs year 6 lesson. We could film it and send the performance to the Cheif Executive of Velcro Industries and to Nicky Morgan to prove that we are just carrying on with normal lessons rather than putting 'pressure on children' by letting them have any fun when the tests are over.

Get a grip

Exams are pants.  We can all agree on that.  They've always been horrible but they are a tiny part of education, or they should be.

If you listen to some parents, teachers, schools or the media at the moment you could be forgiven for thinking that the SATs tests that the current year sixes are sitting are everything about school and these children.

I had a couple of days of appointments at the beginning of the week and saw more people than I usually talk to in a month. All the women wanted to talk about SATs. Not the men. The men couldn't care less.
Constant press reports that children taking SATs are suicidal or leaving exam rooms in tears, are just causing more stress.

The one man who did want to talk about these exams said, "It's ridiculous, that stuff in the papers, six year old's can't be stressed." The mums seemed to think differently when I told them his opinion later. 

"Ha! He's never tried to wrestle a buttered-up badger who doesn't want to do a test into a pair of school shoes then?" One suggested. Anyone doing the school run knows that some children get anxious about the day ahead and can be difficult to get to school. They may not be trudging off to the GP and demanding Prozac but their mental health is no less important.  However, the press aren't helping.

"I've suddenly developed an admiration for Peirs Morgan," said my hairdresser, looking quite sheepish at the thought. She hadn't developed a strange crush on potty-mouthed square faced men but was referring to the fact that he had tried to silence his female co-host (his speciality, I believe) when she was on a rant about how the SATs were causing suicide. Her year six son's face had frozen and his eyes widened in shock as she rushed for the off button before Piers saved the day. There is a problem here.  Children could have been wondering if they are 'normal' if they don't feel the needto kill themselves over a few tests. Piers wondered if everyone needed to 'get a grip.'

At another appointment, a women with children the same age as mine complained about her social media timeline.

"It's all about SATs. I just don't get it. And you know who are the worst? Teachers! Teachers who now have children in year six. They were more than happy to put our children through it until it was the turn of their own precious darlings."

I wondered if there were a higher proportion of teachers (and maybe journalists) who were taking the exams this year. 

The government have made an almighty cock-up with this year's tests.  They know it.  We know it.  Even the children know it.  They have tried to make unpopular changes too quickly, ignoring advice they have received from consultation.  They are under pressure and know that their SPaG paper is causing most adults to get that 'exploding brain' feeling.  Muphry's law also makes them very vulnerable.  (Muphry's law: when commenting on someone's spelling or grammar you will make a spelling or gramatical error).  

"I'm a bit of a conspiracy theorist,me."

I was intrigued.

"One leak could be a mistake but two....well."

I had thought much the same myself. If they accidentally on purpose made administrative errors and the results turn out to be as bad as they think they are going to be then they can claim that the test was compromised, rather than admit that they made them too hard or didn't give teachers enough information to accurately prepare their students for the tests. Although, I see no need for that as they had clearly decided what the results would be way back in March when Nicky Morgan said that she could guarantee that only 1% of schools would get lower literacy results.

The government made teachers feel confused and vulnerable by changing their job description but failing to tell them exactly what they expected them to have teach.  They also asked them to teach things they had never learnt themselves. No wonder teachers have been complaining. You try to cram in several years of grammar study to get to a level where you can teach it while playing metaphorical whac-a-mole with a class of thirty,  turning them into numbers 

and inputting the data into a computer with a poxy server. Teacher (and parent) stress is the cause of the anxiety that pupils feel as emotions are a bit like measles. 

"Parents are just so stressy," said another person I met on my day of appointments. "There's a lot of pressure to keep up. My friends' children have been to all the booster classes. She went to the Easter holiday session has been starting at eight every morning but I let her miss the Saturday school because she does dancing. Abigail's mum said, 'what if she doesn't make it? You'll feel like it's all your fault that she's such a failure,' and she could be right."

I bit my tongue so hard I made it bleed. 

"She's not a failure. SATs aren't everything."

"Try telling that to her school."

I adopted a masculine, slouched stance and summoned the spirit of Piers Morgan. "Well your school needs to get a grip then, don't they?"

SATs are not new. They were first introduced in 1991 and have been through several incarnations. Governments agree that they want a reliable measure of how children are doing. They want to be sure that teachers are doing their job properly but they just can't quite decide on the tests. In many ways, this year's tests should have been easier on the children than in previous years. There are no science papers, no writing paper and no level six papers for the more able children, although they have mixed the harder questions in, rather than having them at the end, which will make a difference to lots of children.

I blame the publication of the results. If the government want to stop the pressure they could just keep the results private. They would still know how schools are doing and be able to send help (if Ofsted can ever be called help) to struggling schools but schools, teachers and parents won't be able to compare. If there is no competition then everyone can go back to doing what is best for the children. 

 

Brocialist (part 2)

If you are reading this hoping to find out more about the insult that journo-twitterati feminists are throwing around then you are going to be disappointed. Today's definition of the word Brocialist is for the people who were disappointed with the formal definition.

I have had my allotment for sixteen years and in that time I've become something of a bocialist.  I've grown white sprouting, purple sprouting and various varieties of calabrese.  I've grown brokoli and romanesco, which looks like green cauliflower.

I've sown seeds in pots and trays on the windowsill, sown them directly into the soil (not very successfully) and even made containers for them out of newspaper.

I've lost whole crops to green or striped caterpillars or pigeons.

Broccoli has never been one of the foods that I've had to get creative with.  I have hidden it in soup but unlike the courgette which can be peeled, grated and hidden in everything from cake to bolognese to fool even the pickiest eaters I have never been able to get broccoli past my daughter without her tasting it.  Luckily, I've never grown more of it than I can use.

I have given it away, though.  I am generous with the  produce from my allotment.  Purple sprouting broccoli is the best.  It's the only vegetable you can eat in March.  Everything else has finished and most of the plot is being dug over for the new season but good old purple sprouting keeps going, not taking up too much space and it looks like flowers.  Once, in the days when I was younger and more sociable I was going out for a friends birthday and I decided to take her a big bunch of purple sprouting broccoli tied with a lilac bow as a present.  I know it sounds a bit weird but my friends loved my allotment gifts.  My rude Christmas parsnips were always a talking point in the pub on Christmas Eve.  My friend was thrilled.
"Ohh, it's soooo pretty," she cooed grabbing me around the neck and breathing white wine spritzer fumes all over me, "No one has ever given me such a wonderful gift."
She put the bunch carefully in her Givenchy bag that her boyfriend had bought her.

A few weeks later she confessed that she had got so drunk that night that she had forgotten about the broccoli and found a slimy rotten mess at the bottom of her lovely new designer bag when she went to use it again on the following weekend.

Brocialist

I learnt a new word today.  If it is, in fact, a word and not one of those made up things that Ofsted invented to catch out six year old children who think they can read.  I saw it on a tweet, which said something like, 'the brocialists are out in force to tell me what is sexist or not.'

Wow.  "That's handy.  There are people called brocialists who know what is and is not sexist," I thought.  Because it can be so hard to tell, can't it?  Sometimes you find that you have been unintentionally sexist without even knowing.

A friend and I sent each other pictures of people we hoped would be on the Police Commissioner ballot last Thursday.  We went through everyone from Frank Drebbin to Officer Dibble.  Everyone except Jane Tennison, Scott and Bailey, Cagney and Lacey, the woman from the Gentle Touch and any other female TV cop.  After the excitement of the wobbly wooden booth and stubby pencil on the string and after the Long Suffering Husband had complained that the pencil had run out and the string was too short to vote to cheer up the bored election officers, we were cross with ourselves for not even considering a woman.  When we saw each other we discussed our disgusting betrayal of the female role models and our abandoning them in preference for the men.  She told me about a friend of hers, who is a politician, who had not won the seat she had contested.  This politician had sent in her nomination papers without telling her husband.  We laughed that not winning had probably saved her marriage.  Later, I started to wonder why we had thought that was funny.  Surely men apply for jobs without telling their wives all the time?  Most of the the time I expect that even wives who are unhappy about it will go along with the idea and those who don't will be accused of unfairly holding him back.  Why, I wonder, do we think women should ask permission?

I was thinking about how I might have been unintentionally sexist when my Facebook timeline filled with people signing a petition to get Laura Kuenssberg sacked.  Ms Kuenssberg is the Political Editor of the BBC and people think she has shown a lack of impartiality in her reporting of the the local election results.  The facts are that Labour won lots of seats and Jeremy Corbyn is the leader of the Labour party.  The BBC reporting has focused on whether that is enough and whether the results are an endorsement of Mr Corbyn's leadership.  Whilst I agree that it would have been nice if the BBC had reported the results in a more positive way before undertaking any analysis I'm not sure it's a sacking offence.   I listened to her analysis, which was quite anti-Corbyn and thought that I disagreed with almost everything she said but couldn't help be impressed by the way the words were put together.

People in positions of power (and BBC Political Editor is a position of power) often come in for public criticism and people will often call for them to be sacked when they don't agree with them. The thought occurred to me that people were being harsher with Ms Kuenssberg than they had been with anyone else they disagreed with and I wondered if it was because she was a woman.  This wasn't the first time I heard people say things about her.  I heard two women talking in a coffee shop.
"That Laura Kuenssberg"
"Oh, I hate her."
"Me too.  She has such a funny mouth."
"And I can't be doing with her accent."
"Who does she think she is, anyway?"
"I know.  Always on TV, flicking her hair and telling us what to think."
I wanted to say that she thinks that she's the BBC's political editor and that apart from the hair flicking (which I had never seen) it was her job to tell us what to think.  I could have pointed out that it's their job to decide whether to agree with her or not.  I didn't because it wouldn't have been polite to show that I had written down their whole conversation. They continued,
"I don't expect she has children."
"No she can't have.  She's probably a lesbian."
"Do you think?  Well, it would be very difficult to have a husband when you are on the telly all the time."
"It's a good thing then.  Think of her poor children if she did have them."


The language around this petition had the air of a 'witch hunt' Twitterers post things like, "She seems such an awful, horrifying person but it's her lack of bias that warrants her dismissal."  The attack seems personal.

But I wasn't sure.  Some Corbyn supporters see quite angry.  Maybe they would be just as personal about a man who said anything nasty about Jeremy.

If only there was someone who could tell me whether it was a campaign based, partly, in sexism.

It was time to find out more about the Brocalists.

How disappointing! There is no group of people who have the answers on sexism, rather brocalism is an invented insult word that combines the word Bro and Socialist (I think) and describes a male socialist who believes in equality and fairness for everyone but still treats women like sex objects and belittles their thoughts.  I found this definition: Richard Seymour: My experience is that ‘brocialists' don’t openly embrace patriarchy; they deny it’s a problem. Or they minimise it. They direct your attention elsewhere: you should be focusing on class. You’re being divisive. You’re just middle class (quelle horreur!). Or they attack a straw ‘feminism’ that is supposedly ‘bourgeois’ and has nothing to say about class or other axes of oppression. Or they just ignore it. To me that’s quite straightforward. Obviously it would be difficult, given their egalitarian commitments, to openly defend a gendered hierarchy; but their defensiveness about this issue suggests they associate a challenge to patriarchy with some sort of ‘loss’ for themselves. The question is, what do they have to lose? 

So, if I asked the Brocalists they would say that I'm making it up.  Laura Kuenssberg isn't being picked on because she's a woman, that people, of course treat women in the same way as they do men.  The problem is because I'm looking at the wrong thing.  I should be looking at class and how the middle classes, like Laura, are not taking Jeremy Corbyn's desire to protect the working class seriously.  They will tell me that there have been petitions to sack other BBC political editors, which is true. The one to sack Nick Robinson received 1600 votes in it's lifetime, while the one for Laura currently stands at 30,625 and is rising.  I'd love to live in a world where men and women are treated equally but for now I will just think carefully about all the possible  reasons we are being asked to sign a petition.

The education handcart to hell

What happens when a school reduces the A levels it offers?

You shrug.  It doesn't matter, does it? The students can choose something else, can't they?

Yes.  They could.  If they wanted to be a writer they could take English Literature instead of English Language; there is definitely something to be said for studying other authors before you do your own writing.  A mathematician could take Physics as their second subject rather than further maths.  Never mind that Universities make lower offers to students that study further maths. Fluent Spanish speakers could easily swap to French, one foreign language is much like any other.  But what if it was music A level and they were planning a career as a musician?  Would dance be just as good?

It's still not a problem, is it? They could go to a different school or a sixth form college.  A daily bus ride and associated cost of about £250 a term is manageable for every student, right?  But what happens when the school withdraws these options long after the deadline for applying to other sixth forms has passed?  Surely, that is immoral.

Ah, but think of the school, you say.  They school has a budget to manage.  They can't possibly be expected to run a subject if there aren't enough students taking it.  Imagine a school with spare music teachers floating around, singing in corridors and playing the piano, it would cause havoc. I mean if they only have eight students (a 166% increase on the year my daughter took the subject) they would have so much free time, they might even be able to speak to their families in term time and we all know that teacher's own children need protecting from their parent.

Call me cynical but I can't help thinking this is all a very clever strategy, marking the beginning of the end of the subject that aren't in the right buckets.  If you have no students taking A level music your inspirational players have gone from the school.  You can stop offering it at GCSE and then, well anyone can do a bit of singing with the year sevens and eights in their (bizarrely) still compulsory music lesson; the school principal has heard the ladies in the canteen sing and part time workers are so much more expensive. 

If you've read any other of my blogs you will know that I am passionate about music education.  It is such a brilliant, all round subject that trains and tests so many areas of the brain at once and it can be fun too.  What kind of hell is education without music going to be?