Why Boston?

People who know me have been surprised at my choice of half-century holiday destination.

I don't like America.  When we took the kids to Florida (the obligatory middle-class Disney trip) I hated it.  I hated the fakeness.  I hated how slow the people were.  I hated the portion sizes and the lack of vegetables.  I hated the fact that they drove everywhere.  I hated how long it took to get there and how awful flying across time zones made you feel. So I resisted the temptation to travel to the States until the Long Suffering Husband wanted to go to New York for his 50th birthday.  I wasn't sure but as it was his choice I planned our trip with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker and I loved it.  The people were sharp and intelligent, they had normal sized portions in restaurants with vegetables, it was preferable to walk and it had the best park I've ever been in. 

Coming up to my birthday the LSH nagged. "We should go somewhere."

I pouted and flounced and sulked.  I crossed my arms and said, "I don't want to go anywhere.  I'm too tired.  I'm too old."

"You'll sulk more if we go nowhere.  I chose New York, remember," he pointed out, not unreasonably and despite my grumpiness he persisted until I agreed to think about it.

"Boston," I announced suddenly.

"Why, Boston?" he asked.

"I don't know, I just think it will be interesting.  I want to see some of the New England history. Everyone says you have to see New England in the fall."

Now that I'm back, tired, grumpy and jet lagged was it all worth it? 

It wasn't New York - I didn't love it but there were lots of things to like.

1. Duck Tour - A bonkers drive around the city in an amphibious craft that splashes into the Hudson river, with a guide who pretended to be from Boston, showing his accent, which he claimed we wouldn't understand.  Ducktor (Dr) Fabulous, claimed to be an old radio DJ had us quacking at passing vehicles told us about Henry Winkler's time at Emerson College, the two seasons of Boston (construction and winter), how Boston had the first female only radio station in the twenties and how Boston had the most Dunkin' Donuts because they started in a nearby town called Quincy (pronounced quinzy).
2. Leaves - "New England is so pretty in the fall," is what you hear on films.  You believe it is the only place that has pretty trees but old England has deciduous trees that have nice leaf colours.  The trees around the M25 are particularly stunning at the moment and getting to Heathrow will give you plenty of time to look at them because, well....M25!  However, just outside Boston in an area called Jamaica Hills is Harvard's tree collection, called the Arnold Arboretum and it is fabulous.  I like trees.
3.  Parks - I love a park, especially a city park.  There's something very special about a section of green amongst all that concrete.  Boston common and the public garden are next to each other and have cute animal statues that children enjoy making look huge.  There are nice trees, ponds and bridges,  What more could you want?
4. Witches - I like witches too.  I like the idea of strong women.  It's a shame that they were all killed and blamed for things that people at the time didn't understand.  Salem is quite a fake place.  It's almost like a theme park to all things spooky, which is a shame because the history is amazing.  We were killing (mainly) women in Britain since Henry VIII th's witchcraft act of 1542 but Salem went a little hysterical and killed 20 people in three months.  I was hoping to find out some of this history when we visited Salem but because the residents over the years had felt so ashamed they took down or burned the original buildings.  Luckily, being America they are able to move buildings and you will find several things that came from other places.  The memorial is quite poignant and reminds us to be tolerant and give people a chance, not shunning them for things we don't understand.
5. Walking - They say that Boston is the walking city.  We walked about 12 miles a day.  I like walking.
6. Freedom - Boston is very proud of it's freedom. They have a trail.  You follow the red brick road and look at all the buildings and hear about how awful the English were.  You hear about a man called Paul Revere,, who did everything: he was a horserider, a silversmith, a bell maker, a freemason, a politician, a dentist and he had a poem written about him. I like freedom.
7.  Dragons - Smoke rises from the pavements. The only possible explanation is that they keep dragons.

8. Students - Boston is like one huge campus.  It's quirky, full of coffee shops and there is smell of pot coming from every doorway.  There a so many Universities.  The posh students with moleskin notebooks hang out at Harvard, the nerds with maths t-shirts are in Cambridge at MIT, the theatricals are around Emerson by the common, the music students with their odd shaped cases are near symphony hall at Berklee, the would-be dentists are near Rose Kennedy Greenway at Tufts,  the normal students seem to be closer to Fenway park and go to Boston or Northeastern or Suffolk.  Then there are all the little colleges.  Forty places where you can get a degree is quite impressive for a place a bit smaller than Birmingham.  

9.Pumpkins - Unless you go in October then you won't get to see the pumpkins but what they do with pumpkins is fantastic. 

10. Beacon Hill - This is a brilliant area of Boston, with nice shops and good bistros. Why can you never find places like this until the last day of your holiday?

Ding dong I'll name that tune in one

Boston is a city of competitive bell ringing.

I'm certain that this is true, even though I can find no written confirmation in any guidebook or online.

Yesterday, (Saturday) we walked the Freedom Trail in the rain.  We followed the red brick road, clicked our heels and learnt about how awful the British were.  It was a trail of churches, burying grounds and recommended coffee stops.

We stood under the eaves of Park Street Church at midday, struggling into our waterproof trousers, when the bells began to chime. Not the clunky peel of parallel fifths, with the occasional mistimed note British campanologists manage. This was something else.
"What's that tune?" asked the Long Suffering Husband.
We both agreed we knew but couldn't quite name the piece, although we did think it was probably Mozart. It was seamless. No pauses. No indication that bells were played by individuals. We turned the corner and heard that the bells of King Street Chapel were playing a different tune, this time a hymn and the organ was playing it too; perfectly in time.

After 12 miles of walking in the 'worst rain we've seen in ages - it's  been manic' we sat in our hotel room, exhausted, staring at the wall, listening.
"Are those church bells really playing Ode to Joy, or am I hallucinating?"
They were. They ran through their whole repertoire, including Christmas carols and things I couldn't name for a whole hour.

It's not an easy thing to play tunes on Church bells. It's like that game I sometimes play with a class where they have to sing one note of a song around a circle. It rarely ends up right and even if it is recognisable your ear compensates for the lack of rhythmic accuracy.

I like to think that each church had drawn the best and brightest from across the river from the Harvard Colleges or MIT to compete with each other. I can imagine a tower full of particle physicists timing their rings to the nearest jiffy.

Politician

We're fed up of the politicians that we are used to.  The ones that are capable, intelligent, competent.  The ones who understand how to do the job.  The ones that think before they speak (sometimes even asking people who are better with words than they are to write out what to say for them).  The ones who know that they might need to compromise some of their beliefs when faced with the realisation that the budget just wont do it all. The ones that understand when we are being mean about them but roll up their sleeves and get on with the job, regardless.

No.

What we want are politicians who are more like us.  We want people who most of the time can't tell their ass from their elbow.  We want people who are a bit sexist or racist and are not scared to say so.  We want people who can't manage to buy their groceries without going overdrawn.  We want people who are stubborn and uncompromising.  We want people who lose their keys in the fridge or go to work in mismatching shoes.

It's the only explanation. The only way to explain Trump, Boris (why do we use his first name?), Corbyn, the local BNP candidate with the Thai wife and the lad that kept me entertained on Twitter today.

It was my daughter who first pointed him out to me.

"This boy thinks periods are like weeing, how sad," she texted, her journalistic nose quivering at the whiff of a story.

The lad, and I say lad because from his profile picture and the perspective of my ripe old age I thought he looked about 12, had tweeted that he didn't think tampons should be free and couldn't understand why people were saying they should be.  I've never heard that argument, only that they shouldn't be taxed as a luxury item.  He went on to say, "If u can't control ur bladder then that's not taxpayers problem!"

I was concerned for his education and imagined teachers who had tried to drum a few basic facts into the boy holding their heads in shame and mumbling, "I know you can't polish a turd but I wish we'd sprinkled a little more glitter on this one." I wondered if his parents had been the type to stop him participating in the sex education lessons, thinking they were protecting his innocence.  I imagined them reading his tweets and thinking, "Oh dear, maybe we were wrong."

He was unrepentant, though.  As more people tweeted him to explain the error of his thinking the more he stuck to his guns.  

"pay for ur own tampons if u can't hold it until u get to a toilet.  I don't urinate everywhere and expect free nappies," he tweeted.

Technically, if he had a bladder problem and needed nappies now that he is (hopefully) toilet trained he would be entitled to free pads.  There is a design flaw with us women.  Why can't we shed our uterine lining at will, like we do with other waste products?  Let's face it, we'd all prefer it, especially if it could be painless.   I wanted to suggest he slit his wrists and hold onto the blood until he was at a bathroom a mile away but I thought that might have been a bit aggressive.  I started to feel sorry for him, as I concluded that he had no women in his life.

He got quite upset that women were tweeting him to explain that his suggestion that they lacked #selfcontrol was......well they said lots of things but let's just say.....wrong. He accused them all of being crazy feminists. For him, feminist was obviously an insult. His Twitter bio stated that he was a mennist, which I think must mean that he would like men to have equal rights to women.  He's probably just angry that he can't continuously bleed for 7 out of every 28 days and live.  It also said that he was a politician and his linked instagram account showed pictures of his 19th birthday cake.

Several people asked what party he represented and his answer was, "The Brexit one." 

I told my daughter that I was sad for him and that he can't have any menstruating women in his life.  I imagined him in the care of an elderly, cruel grandmother, who dropped him on his head as a baby.  She agreed, telling me that his girlfriend doesn't bleed.

He had tweeted, "wow I gotta go, my girl waiting for me and I'm here reading all thise single bloody bitches tweets to me need to get my priorities right."

"yo I'm so lucky my girlfriend isn't crazy like these feminists and she never bleed lol always clean."

I was horrified. A pre-pubescent girlfriend.  

The novelist Joanne Harris had also spotted the story and was enjoying the idea of a boy dog politician being completely ignorant.  She replied to his tweet about his girlfriend. 

I imagined what would happen when he met his 'girl'.

Girl: You're late

BoyDog: yo sorry. I got caught up with some crazy bleeding feminists on twitter.

Girl:  Yes, I saw.

BoyDog: yo, it were so funny.  I'm so glad you're clean and not like that.

Girl:  Sit down.  I've got something to explain to you.

BoyDog: What?  You look so serious.  Don't tell me the communists have landed.

Girl:  Every 28 days, dear.  You know how I make an excuse not to see you and tell you about making my monthly visit to my granny?

BoyDog:  Yeah

Girl:  Well, you know my granny is dead, right?

BoyDog:  I thought that was strange

Girl:  Well, I'm not visiting granny.  It's the time of the month, I've got the rag, It's code red. I'm on the blob.

BoyDog:  Noooooo.  Not you too.  Are you a feminist?  I thought you were clean.

Girl: I'm a woman.  All women bleed.

BoyDog: But you hold onto it until you get to the toilet right?  You don't use tampons.  Please tell me that you have self control.

Girl: Look darling, I know you are a bit thick but really, no woman can hold back period blood.  Shall I draw you a picture of how it all works?  By the way, you're dumped.

Before he met her he had time to reply to those who agreed with him.  The hashtag 'I'm with Ryan' appeared, as did #vaginasarescary.  I think most were sarcastic and although sometimes sarcasm is hard to spot I'm fairly certain of this one, even if Ryan is not.

Even though I made up the above conversation I suspect that someone might have had a word, as the young man has now protected his tweets.  He'll make an excellent politician, if he can ever work out which party he is a member of.  

  

Love it or Hate it

The worst effect of Brexit (or the vote to leave the European Union, as I prefer to call it because Brexit is a stupid made up word that reporters and politicians mispronounce as bregsit) so far, is that it caused Tesco to remove Marmite from it's online sales for less than 24 hours. Not the fact that it has given licence to racists to shout abuse at strangers in the street, or the fact that it has divided families, or caused the pound to drop to it's lowest level since 1985, or made Boris 'Papua New Guinea style of orgies' Johnson Foreign Secretary, or caused a severe outbreak of tautologitis (I know.  I made that word up, but.....Brexit means Brexit)  No, it's the yeasty stuff that has caused old men to ring into radio shows in tears apologising to their 13 year old sons for stupidly voting to leave the EU.  

No one realised.  It never occurred to them that something as British as Marmite would be affected by a change in the trading relationship with the rest of Europe.  It's almost like being at war.  We knew those bloomin' foreigners couldn't be trusted.  Baton down the hatches, pull up the drawbridge, stockpile your favourites.  Is grandad's gas mask still in the loft?

My Grandmother never recovered from the war.  It wasn't the bombing, or the young men that were killed in droves, or the German Prisoners of war that she cooked for but the lack of sweetness in her life. To the day she died she had a larder full of sugar and she was never going to be without decent cake again.  I can understand that.  We would all really miss sugar.  If Brexit meant that we couldn't have sugar the 58% would probably be strung up.  However, Marmite isn't really like sugar.  A clever advertising campaign came up with the 'love it or hate it' slogan, forcing people to choose and Britain divided into those who couldn't stand it and those that couldn't live without it.  I guess it was probably 58/42 in favour of the brown spread.  

Truthfully though, Marmite is nothing like sugar.  Even people who like it can go for days, weeks or even years without eating it. It lasts forever and you can always seem to scrape a little more out of an empty pot. It's a spectrum; like many things. Society likes the binary choice. Dog person/cat person? Introvert/extrovert? Trump or Hillary: which one is good or bad? In or out of the EU? Masculine or feminine?  The problem with this is that once someone has made their choice they instantly think that everyone should agree with them and anyone who doesn't is a bad or horrible person.  

A comedian fell foul of this kind of thinking on Twitter today.  He tweeted that Brexit was like Marmite and someone replied that he was a weak-kneed hippy.  Whatever you feel about Marmite, it made Twitter a great place to hang out today if you like a laugh.

These were two of my favourites.

Who knew that hitting the Brexit button would also pull the Unilever?

I'm like Marmite, in the fact that I can only be found in Waitrose and my family hates me.

The number you are trying to reach is busy

I really don't understand my GP surgery. Seriously. I'm confused.  It might be because I'm a novice and have little experience and I'm sure other people understand it much better.

I've been struggling to not be anaemic.  It's my age.  It's common.  I've seen 4 different GPs on 4 occasions over about 3 years.  It's not enough to understand how it all works.  The first time I was sent for a blood test the Long Suffering Husband tutted and rolled his eyes at me, "You have to ring up to find out the results of the blood test," he said.  I had assumed that they would contact you if there was a problem and we argued about it.  He made me phone.
"Hello. I, erm, well I had a blood test and I'm ringing...."
"You want the results?"
"Er, yes please."
"You pressed the wrong number, you have to go through to tests and results, number 4."
"Oh,"
"I can try and put you through, if you want."
"That would be very helpful, thank you."
I heard a huge sigh as she pressed buttons before the phone rang again.
"Hello, test results."
"Oh, hello, erm, I had a blood test, I'm sure everything is OK because you'd have let me know but can I just check..."
I barked back my name and date of birth.
"Yes. Right.  Well, you have to see the doctor."
"Oh, really, why's that then?"
"The doctor wants to discuss the results with you."
"Yes, I get that but why?"
"I can't tell you that, you'll have to see the doctor."

When I saw the GP she wagged her finger at me, as if it were in my control, "You're anaemic and not just a little bit."
I wasn't surprised. I'd been taking iron tablets that I bought.
"That won't be good enough. You can't buy iron tablets that are strong enough. I have to prescribe them for you."

My iron levels have gone up and down. One GP decided to test for Ferritin (a protein that stores and helps convert iron). The tests and results lady told me that I was NOT anaemic because my Hb level was fine but the doctor wanted to see me.
"You are still anaemic," said the doctor, folding his arms and staring at me over his half-moon glasses.
"Oh, when I rang up they told me I wasn't."
"Your ferritin level is low.  It's 13, that's not enough. You have nothing in reserve."
I nodded, wisely.  That just about summed up how I felt; nothing in reserve.
"If you don't take iron you'll just get anaemic again."
I was confused.  I thought he'd said I was anaemic.
I asked the normal range, which was between 41 and 400, which seems a huge difference to me. No wonder the GP seemed unsure.

A few weeks ago I was running low on my prescribed iron and before I put in my repeat prescription I thought I'd go and have a blood test to check (the last GP had given me a form to use when I felt I needed it). Two days later I had a letter in the post telling me that my blood tests were back and I needed to make an appointment. This was a surprise to me and the LSH, he'd convinced me that you had to ring up.

I rang.
"Hello.  I've had a letter asking me to make an appointment about my blood test."
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"Excuse me?"
"You'll have to ring on the day. I'm booking into November."
"I am ringing on the day."
"You'll have to ring on the day. I have no appointments."
"It is the day.  Well, it's a day. What day should it be?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
"Hello? Can I make an appointment, or not?"
"You'll have to ring on the day."
"You said that but I don't understand."
A hefty sigh preceded a snapped, "Eight am," and the phone was put down.

The LSH rolled his eyes again, when I told him.  "You have to ring at eight on the morning you want the appointment, How can you not know that?"
My only defence is that I'm a novice.

I tried.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I became very familiar with the electronic woman but never got through before I had to leave for work.

I ran out of iron tablets, so put in my repeat prescription.

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

Every day.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy

The pharmacy rang.
"Hello.  It's about your repeat prescription.  Your surgery won't issue it until you've made an appointment with them."

I kept trying.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I didn't have to go to work
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I was patient
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I began to feel a little anxious
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

The anxiety turned to irritability.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.
The number you are trying to reach is busy.

I checked my watch. Thirty five minutes had passed. Just as I wasn't expecting it the phone rang.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I held
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I was patient
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I needed a wee but I held.
We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

I appreciated the addition of the extra word.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are  still busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

We are sorry for the delay. Our surgery lines are busy please hold and we will connect you as soon as possible.

Wait!  What had happened to my extra word?  I started to hyperventilate.  Doctors are meant to make you better not cause a breakdown.

Ring Ring   
Ring Ring
Ring Ring

I psyched myself up to talk to a real person.

You have reached the medical centre press one for appointments.
beep
Enter your date of birth
beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep
Enter your telephone number
beep..............

The receptionist seemed genuinely surprised at how grateful I was to talk to her; a real person, at last.
I had an appointment.

I saw another doctor I had never seen before.
"Hello, what can I do for you?"
"I've had a letter saying that you want to discuss my blood test results."
"Right.  What were they?"
I tried not to roll my eyes.
"I assume it was  because I'm anaemic but I'm not sure because you refused my repeat prescription."
She tapped the computer.
"Yes, you're anaemic.  It's 8 and you're not allowed to go below 7."
I did roll my eyes because I've been below 7 before.
"You've only got one to go. So, why are you anaemic.?"
I couldn't help thinking that she was meant to tell me that but I gave it my best guess and mumbled something about my age, menopause and avoiding hysterectomies.
"That's OK then," she smiled.  "What was it before?"
"I have no idea. Maybe you could look it up, as I don't keep numbers like that in my head."
I think I was polite but I'm not sure.
"I don't understand this.  It was normal.  Why were you prescribed iron in the first place?"
"It was because the ferritin level was low."
She suddenly looked interested, tapping at the computer and mumbling, 'ferritin,' over and over. "Were you given medication for it?"
"Iron tablets."
"Right, well, it's 3 now. I must write that down. Do you mind if I type while the machine takes your blood pressure?"

I took my prescription to the pharmacy and did some shopping while they got it ready. The pharmacist was very nice.
"I know you've paid the prescription charge but if you just buy these then they will cost you £3 less. Would you like to do that?"
"I didn't know you could just buy them."
"Oh yes.  It's only an iron supplement."
He confirmed that they were no different from the ones I had been taking before I started having confusing conversations with doctors.  I can't help feeling that my appointment could have gone to someone that really needed it.

Birth of an Archers fan

While we were eating dinner tonight the radio was still on in the kitchen.  Suddenly, it was seven o'clock and there was slow hand clapping coming not only from the radio but also from around our dinner table.  On the radio, it was the silents who were showing their displeasure at Rob the Rapist as they refused to have him on the cricket team.  In my kitchen, the clapping was accompanied by some rather choice language. None of the men in my house are fond of  Rob, including the dog who growls at his voice on the radio.

Fantastic drawing from the Guardian

"When I finally go to University, I might just listen to the first bit of the Archers, if I feel homesick," said my son. The Long Suffering Husband raised an eyebrow. He knew that I'd made an Archers listener, simultaneously disapproving of me and worrying about his boy's future.

The Archers finished and our conversation moved onto more mind blowing topics, like golf, maths and the probability of someone having the same fingerprints as you.  Apparently, there is a one in 64 million chance that two people could have the same fingerprint.  That sounds unlikely but the top Euro millions prize has an odds of winning of one in 140 million and people do win that.
"That's how they could deal with Rob," I said.
"Great idea.  Find his fingerprint twin and get them to commit a crime,"
"Yes,"I interrupted, excited that my son had instantly understood what I was thinking, "the fingerprint twin could murder Susan and leave fingerprints everywhere for PC Burns to find and that would be it, Rob could be locked up for life."
"Why Susan?" the LSH asked.
"Oh Dad, no one likes Susan,"
That might have been a mistake, thinking about it, because I do quite like Susan.  Not as a person but as a character and have been waiting patiently for the hilarity that will occur when everyone has peeled their stars off Miss October since the WI calendar photo shoot.

Twitter is pinning it's hopes on Rob having already murdered Stephan and stuffed him in a culvert but I think that's unlikely.  Rob only threatened him and he went home.  If he hadn't gone home then his family would have looked for him by now, starting at the last place he worked.

I like the fingerprint twin idea, though.  It could be great to see him convicted for a crime he didn't commit and not caring because we all know he 'deserved it'.
"They'd need to leave some of Rob's DNA at the scene too, just to seal the deal," my son said.
I thought Usha could help.
"No, she's too clean.  You'd never get her to help."
"What about the carpet at Blossom Hill Cottage?"
"Yeah, she could just give it to someone, or leave it somewhere. It does have Rob's blood on it from where Helen stabbed him."
"What if Charlie Thomas is Rob's fingerprint twin?"
He looked at me wide-eyed.  We both knew that would be amazing.

The LSH was visibly twitching, "I've got a suggestion," he said, flatly."
We both looked at him, waiting.
"It could just be in the script,"
We tilted our heads to one side and scratched around our ear in unison.
"The scriptwriter could just write, 'Rob leaves Ambridge in disgrace.'"

*Silence*

"I know," said my son, after a while, "He could be eaten by a flock of mad marauding sheep on Lakey Hill."

There's nothing wrong with your personality - it's your mind that's gone.

When you are a menopausal teacher life can be occasionally tricky, especially if you don't sleep and suffer from serious leg cramp.  I think it's important to carry on as normal, for life to be perfectly fine but every now and then holding it all together becomes impossible and you fall apart in front of the Long Suffering Husband.

He looks at you quizzically. He tries to work out what he can fix.  He looks for his menopausal wife manual and flicks through it's million pages but there is no diagram and he is stumped.  You try to help.  You explain through irrational tears, "It's just me.  Ignore me.  I'm fine.  I just need....*sob*....sorry..... I just need a new personality."
"There's nothing wrong with your personality.  It's your mind that's gone," he pronounces.
You laugh and cry at the same time.
He hugs you and says, "I can't work this one out.  Is it good or bad?  Have I said something wrong? But you seem to be laughing.  Or are you crying?"
You concede that you might be hysterical and curse that stupid wandering womb again.

The trouble is that he could be right.  I found the allotment keys in the fridge again and have started to shout out in public.

Last week watching Bridget Jones. Made complete fool of self in front of whole cinema. Just as character was about to throw phone out of  window I shouted, "Don't do it.  You'll need it later." V. mortifying.  It's a great film if there isn't a woman who has lost her mind in the cinema with you.  The worst part was that I felt such a fool I spent the rest of the film sobbing.

It's been a busy week at work.  The school band sounds awful because a few key players have left and those that remain are not very confident, which means my evenings and weekends are spent arranging new music.  Our choir are going to sing at the Royal Albert Hall in aid of Barnardo's and although it's a massed choir there is an opportunity for a few soloists.  Would-be-soloists have to send an audition tape.  19 out of 36 choir members wanted to audition, which meant that my breaks and lunchtimes were spent recording them.  Who needs to eat? The year 1/2 children are trying to sing around the world in 80 songs and we have reached Russia (Kalinka and Minka), which meant that my lessons were spent Kossak dancing, in a music room with the atmospheric conditions of a sauna.
For the Barnardo's concert we have been asked to provide a nativity scene.  I had visions of children dressing up and walking to their place to make a silent tableau.  My friend from another school said, "That's really cool but my head will be cross with me because she'll want to ask why we don't do things like that."
"Oh," I said, "I don't know why it's us.  They asked and I said, 'yes'
Apparently, that's where I'm going wrong.
Anyway, when I got home yesterday evening, I checked my emails.
"How's the nativity play coming on? Do you have a title and a list of cast yet?"
It blinked at me menacingly.  My fingers twitched over the keys as I thought about the only nativity-type story I've written.  Could I really ask primary school children to perform, "Mary was a slapper," in public? Marywas a slapper

Youth Orchestra Members claimed to have found my brain

The LSH came up with a plan. He decided that I needed a break so he took me to a bookshop and fed me.  It seemed to be working when I suddenly shouted, "Watch her!"
Everyone looked at me, as a small toddler headed for the door unseen.
The LSH looked at my son, nodded and said, "See?  Mind totally gone."