Surviving the C word (a music teacher's guide)

"Miss, Amy used the C word in her story!"

It's amazing how quiet a room full of breath-holding children can be.

"And it's only November."

The sigh of relief could be heard two miles away as the whole room relaxed and the teacher and the TA smiled at each other, knowingly.

"Oh, Christmas? No, you know the rules. Don't mention it."

An eruption of, "Oh, Miss, you used the C word!" followed.

This happened in a class of one of the best teacher's I've ever worked with and I would love to follow her rule but I'm a music teacher and Christmas has started.  There are concerts from now until the big day, where I probably have only one free evening.  Town lights need to be turned on, Churches need children for their Carol services, like some sacrificial rite, Schools have concerts, nativities and shopping events that couldn't run without a bit of singing. Charities raise all of their funds from the unpaid services of child and adult musicians and it all has to be done in the month before the big man squeezes himself down your chimney.

Tesco's advertising campaign has the strapline. "Right, let's do this," which seems a bit peculiar for a shop that is trying to sell things to make a happy family time happier but it is the perfect music teacher's motto.  "Right, let's do this," we cry, hoping we survive to do it all again next year.

If you are in a similar predicament then here are some survival tips from my many years of experience.

1. Sleep - Don't panic.  You can survive without sleep.  You will find it difficult to drop off after concerts (adrenaline will do that) and you will still be awake at 3am when the writing muse shows up or you are suddenly driven into anxious list making.  Make 'who needs sleep' by the Bare Naked Ladies your motto.  Sing it in your head at all times and you will know that there's a guy been awake since the Second World War.

2.  Caffeine - is your friend.  You have seen the pictures of the the kind of webs spiders make on caffeine and you are suspicious that it's not good for you.  You consider booking a brain scan but realise that you are just suffering from rebound withdrawal symptoms.  Just drink more.  It's temporary.  You can go cold turkey with the cold turkey.

3.  Eating - Forgetting to eat is fine. You don't need to worry.  Someone will always lob a mince pie or chocolate in your direction and an extra cookie from cookery club will accidentally fall into your mouth when you are not looking.  It's perfectly acceptable to eat yesterday's left over takeaway at 3am.  None of this will kill you.

4.  Chocolate - Choose the toffee if you want to keep your voice for the whole season but keep the wrappers.  Especially the orange ones.  There's not much that can't be improved by looking at life through clear orange cellophane.  Keep some in your handbag for extra challenging moments.

5.  Doors - are dangerous.  This is not normally something you would have to be reminded of but in your sleep deprived state you need to be extra vigilant. Doors open! Don't stand by the staffroom door waiting for your photocopying. It will open, suddenly.  If you walk down the corridor, singing your sleep song, mentally ticking off the instruments you need to take to that evening's concert the toilet door could suddenly open and you will walk straight into it knocking yourself and the school visitor out.  I've never heard of anyone being killed by a door but I'm sure it's possible.

6. Laughing - will keep you sane.  Laugh frequently. Laugh heartily. Tell children all your best/worst Christmas jokes. Small excited children often sing very badly but do not despair.  It's funny. Words get mumbled.  Sing  'A Wayne in a manger no crisps for his ted," with them.  Let them sing the wrong words but remind them that they must never wash their socks in church.  No matter how busy and stressed it all gets never be grumpy. If you are going to die from anything this Christmas season make it laughter.

7. Swimming - Just keep swimming. Never think you are too busy to swim.  Your waistline needs it to counteract the mince pies and toffee. Also, if you don't keep swimming you'll drown.

8.. Jingle Bells - Your car will resemble an instrument shop.  You will have loaded it with stands, music and various percussion instruments.  It can be quite soothing to have all your driving accompanied by a gentle jingle but make sure you strap them in.  An emergency stop could have a set of sleigh bells whistling towards the back of your head.  Imagine the headline in the local paper:

POPULAR LOCAL MUSIC TEACHER SLEIGHED BY BELLS

Follow this guide and say to yourself, "Right, lets do this," and you will survive to repeat it all again next year.

FC AGM

Walking the dog past the community centre I noticed the car park filling up at a surprising rate for early on a Monday morning. An elderly gentleman got out, his eyes twinkling as he nodded in my direction.  He stroked his long white beard and pulled his wooly hat down over his silvery hair. He started to waddle over the car park when a battered old mint green car threatened to mow him down. The driver pushed his little round glasses back up his nose and scratched his white beard in surprise.  He abandoned the car, sideways between two spaces  and got out.

"Alright Nick," he nodded at the first old man.
"Not so bad. Prostate been giving me a bit of gip but mustn't grumble.  Busy time of year, eh, Nicholas?"
"Sure is."

The men go went into the community centre together. I wondered what they were doing but continued my walk.

On the way back the dog ran away from me, heading back to the centre.  Sometimes he finds little pools of sick, which for some reason he finds delicious.  He seemed more excited than normal.  When I found him, he had a carrot and was happily sitting by the building munching his way through it. It was impossible not to look in through the window.  The room was filled with old men, all with a similar look. It was a room full of rotund, bewhiskered, frosty haired gentlemen. They all had notepads and were checking their lists. Some checked them twice.  Just then, another man cycled up on his bike, his gut escaping from between his trousers and jumper.
"Damn," he muttered to himself, "I bet they've started." He did a little double take as he saw me peeking through the window. "Ho, ho, ho.  Spying on the AGM, are you?"

I'm not sure he was very convinced by my panicked explanation of the dog and the carrot.  It could be coal for me this year, which could be quite useful, as the heating has broken again.

Because I'm Old

On Friday, a 4 year old looked at me, puzzling over something I had said and announced very seriously, "Well, yes, that's because you're old."

She wasn't being rude but simply stating a fact.  It became a bit of a joke in the staffroom.

"I can't remember what I came in for."

"That's because you're old."

"What does that say? I can't read it with these glasses."

"That's because you're old."

The teasing was affectionate and humorous.  

Age for me is quite like Schrodinger's cat.  I'm simultaneously old and not grown up.  My mind is about seven and my  knees feel their full years.  I have grown up children and I'm still a child to my own parents. I teach but I'm always learning.  I'm interested in politics and can fall into fits of giggles when someone tells a silly simple joke.  

This week a friend was tweeting from a conference and I had to restrain myself from replying in a childish way.  The tweet said, "Human Rights isn't black and white but shades of grey." It was a quote. Realising that I probably shouldn't reply publicly I sent her a private message, "50 Shades. Conference sounds interesting." 

"Don't make me laugh," she replied, sending me a picture of a very important looking panel in Geneva that she was sitting on.

Like a small child, I thought, "I've got a friend who is a proper grown up."

Then later in the week she died.  Well, she didn't actually die.  Someone with the same name died in tragic circumstances, which made the news but it was a shock nonetheless and I felt old because young people don't die (except that the person who did die with the same name was young)

My daughter moved in with her boyfriend this weekend.  The Long Suffering Husband  and I drove up to help. It was a shock. Our baby was all grown up and being excited about doing things her boring parents are expert at: a Saturday night film and pizza and a Sunday trip to Ikea followed by a Sunday roast and homemade crumble. Just as we are beginning to get bored of these things they start to excite her.  We felt old and young at the same time.  During the week one of her friends had a baby and she sent me a picture wondering if it felt weird that once she was my baby and now she's a fully grown adult. I told her I found it strange that she's a fully grown adult yet I'm not.

I gave my daughter a fluffy key ring as a housewarming gift.  It seems a little mean as it was a Superdrug freebie but it seemed so appropriate, as it had sparked the initial, "because you're old," comment.

I had put my keys on my desk and the little girl spotted it as she came into the room.  She picked it up and stroked it like a favourite pet. 

"You have to be careful.  Some are dangerous," she warned.

The adults in the room looked at each other.  I picked up my key ring to check for teeth.

"It came from Superdrug."

"Yes, that's where the dangerous ones are but maybe it's just some types of them."

"They only had pink or white."

"Some of them go off and make a sound and the police come and take you away."

She was looking at my key ring suspiciously, edging away in a sideways movement.

"I think I'll be alright," I reassured her, "I'm pretty good. I don't do many naughty things so the police probably wouldn't take me away."

That was when she told me that it was because I was old.

Even her fear of my key ring made me feel old and childish at the same time.  Childish because I hoped it was a terrifying creature that would make a noise like a siren causing the police to arrive demanding an explanation but old because I knew that the coveted key ring had caused her wonderful mother to tell her about shoplifting.  

Remoaning about politics

I've been trying to write this blog post since Donald Trump won the American election but I couldn't find the right tone.  The election reminded me of Brexit in so many ways, even Trump called it his 'Brexit plus plus plus moment'.  It also reminded me of how Corbyn was elected and I kept thinking that politics is properly screwed up.

The term 'remoaner' has been coined by the British press to describe anyone who hasn't wholeheartedly accepted the Brexit (another made up word) vote. Politics now seems to be so peculiar that the press have to make up words.

I have been wondering if I'm remoaner because I am still cross that the public were asked to make a decision about something without being told what that something actually was. It was like offering someone a chocolate cake when you don't have a chocolate cake and having no idea how to make or get one. I'm not one of those people who blames the general public because, well, who wouldn't want real chocolate cake but I do think there was some deliberate misleading going on. Personally, I have struggled to see how people couldn't have known how difficult it was going to be to leave the EU, even if it had been a huge majority decision to leave, it still would have been hard. However, I don't blame people who thought and still think leaving the EU is an answer to all the ills and hardships.  They still might be proved to be right.

I'm also aware of the I'm with Her hashtag on Twitter, which is being used to blame Hilary Clinton's inability to be elected on sexism.  This is something that I agree with.  During the campaign, I noticed that anyone who said anything bad about Trump prefaced it with, "I'm no fan of Hilary but.." I was confused. She seemed to have been a very successful Secretary of State, helping Obama to implement some of his most brilliant social change policies.  She was in politics a long time and although she couldn't work out which email account to use (who can?) her biggest crimes seemed to be things that wouldn't have mattered if she was a man.  She was blamed for things her husband had done, she was slightly cold, she didn't wear nice clothes, she looked old, she told business people what they wanted to hear. So instead, they vote for a man who is the same age (but looks older), has a wife no body is quite sure of, tells all people what they want to hear but has no experience of public office and is probably going to be charged with fiddling of a financial and sexual nature.  Women seem to need to be perfect for people to think they are any good, or they need to stay hidden and work behind the scenes.

When I first started to write this blog, I blamed everything on boredom. "Let's shake it up a bit," people cry. "Life has been too good, too dull. Let's make our politicians do something they don't want to. Serves them right for being good at their job." However, this that didn't feel right.

I had argued with my son, who felt that Hilary wasn't a good candidate.  I told him it was sexism and I wasn't prepared to listen to any other argument and then I thought about it. People hated Gordon Brown, who had been quite good at his job but was grumpy and dour and he was a man, so maybe my son had been right and the ancient by more smiley Bernie Sanders would have been a better candidate.

Thinking about whether I was a remoaner or not I thought that I don't approve of the people who take every dip and difficulty as an opportunity to make those who voted to leave the EU feel stupid. The social media commentators who write something like, "Breakfast cost me 20p more this morning. Hope you're happy Brexiteers," make me very uncomfortable. It's so dangerous to try and divide the world in two. A them and us policy can only increase tension.

I was struggling to publish the blog because I knew something about my anger and frustration was wrong. I knew it wouldn't help.  I thought about a taxi driver we had in Boston who said, "It's funny, America is supposedly the most free country in the world yet people are too frightened to be honest about who they are going to vote for."

Yesterday, I saw a rant doing the rounds on social media, where Jonathan Pie was talking about the American election.

He blame us. The educated guardian reading liberals who shut down any discussion. We tell men that they can't have an opinion of feminism or sexism, refuse to allow people to say they are distrustful of people with a different skin colour, tell people who vote for something we disagree with that they are stupid (or bored).  We do this with an air of superiority and shut the discussion down.  We lose an opportunity to change an opinion and instead people shut down, frightened of talking about their views.  We have to be right at all costs.  I still think that there was misogyny at work in the election but he has a point and it's worth watching.  

So I will carry on remoaning about political issues but I'm not trying to tell anyone what to think and I'm absolutely fine if you disagree with me because it might turn out that I am wrong after all.

Does it show?

Some of the men in my life have been having a bit of a rest.  The Long Suffering Husband has torn a calf muscle (I keep telling him that sport is bad for you) and my Dad has cashed in his frequent flier hospital miles points for a stay in a private room on a cardiac ward. I've been at work, leaping around trying to get small children to be enthusiastic about Christmas songs.

On the way back from visiting my Dad I stopped in at Sainsbury's, to fulfill the LSH's shopping list.  On the end of an aisle were 6 angel headbands for 50p each.  With a nativity to perform at the Royal Albert Hall that seemed like a bargain.  I picked them up and wandered around the store in a bit of a daze.  I hadn't got a basket because you don't need one for bread, butter and an elasticated bandage.  Absentmindedly checking out the Christmas decorations a woman caught my eye and smiled.
"Teacher?" she asked.
"Er, yes, I suppose I am," I replied wedging the butter more firmly under my arm pit.
She nodded, wisely and said, "Yes, I can tell."
I checked my hair.  No pencils wedged in my pony tail.  I glanced down to check my trousers for small handprints.  Nothing.
She nodded towards my hand.

"And the fact that you look knackered."
I couldn't disagree.
"I don't suppose you even know if you need them but you can't pass up a bargain like that near Christmas when there are nativities to do."
They are nice angel headbands, though.

Superpower

My superpower is invisibility.

I'm one of those people that can blend into a crowd and not be noticed. At school I was a skinny, shy, mousy thing; not someone people would be drawn to.  In class I would put my hand up to answer a question, the teacher would look at me for a few seconds and I would know that she couldn't remember my name.  She'd seen me in the class.  She knew I wasn't a problem, got on with my work but she just couldn't bring my name to the tip of her tongue.  If you teach then you know about these children.  I teach a Joseph (or is is Jacob?) that I have this problem with, even though he's been in a class I have taught for what will be 7 years this year.  Sometimes she would just wave her finger at me, raise an eyebrow and say, "Er, yes, you, what do you think?" and other times she would just resign herself to my invisibility and ask someone else.  I wasn't one of those children that got overlooked.  I was Mary in the school play, I sang solos, played the flute, got chosen for competitions and country dancing festivals, picked to tidy the classroom or be the one who used the scissors (I don't know why this was an important thing in my infant school, but it was.) On paper, all the teachers knew my name but somehow my actual physical presence didn't quite match their expectations and there was no recognition when they looked at me.

If you look at lists of the best and worst superpowers to have, invisibility always comes near the bottom.  People think it's a pointless power to have.  They say that the only people who choose it are teenage boys who want it to sneak into girls changing rooms to see them naked or people who want to know what people are thinking of them.  I like my superpower and it's not for either of those reasons.

Being invisible means that you can do what you like and no one notices.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  They notice the thing but they don't notice you and so you can go on and continue as normal.

My power doesn't work on children.  Children I have taught shout my name in the supermarket and tell their parents what I have in my trolley and even babies catch my eye and smile with recognition. One girl, who I had worked with for 20 minutes at a workshop three years before, told her grandad loudly that I was her flute teacher when I passed them in the High Street.

However, adults are completely susceptible to my power.  On Sunday, I had taken some children to a church service to sing and play the flute.  It had been a particularly funny service, with the lady leading it suggesting that my headteacher was full of hot air and then accusing him of having a 'limp one', as asked if she wanted him to tie it up.  Before the service we had been introduced and had shaken hands.  She was someone who I recognised and whose name I knew.  As soon as it was time to call the choir and flute group up I could tell that she had forgotten my name.  She looked at me as she said, "so I'd like to ask...err...whoever is responsible for the singing bit to come up." That evening, I went to see a concert and the same lady was in the room. I smiled and waved but there was that moment, a pause, and then she looked past me.  She sat across the row from me telling someone about the church service and how she'd had to make the headteacher behave because she knew he was going to let the balloon go.  True invisibility means that you don't have to hear what people think of you because they just haven't noticed you.  She did talk about how brilliant the children were and how much pressure she had felt with such a full church.

This morning I worried about losing my power.  Yesterday's blog had been shared a bit and I got scared that my life of eavesdropping and being able to do things without being noticed was over.  What happens to superheroes in comics when they lose their powers?  I did a bit of research and am relieved to say that I feel as though I can breathe again.  They always get them back.  Spiderman lost his through unrequited love and when the world needed him again he just focused very hard and they came back.  Luckily, the real invisible woman (Susan Storm of Fantastic Four fame) has never lost her powers and the likeness between us is uncanny.

Live

The Long Suffering Husband and I are now both over half a century old, our children are grown up, and we are left contemplating the meaning of our lives.

It's a peculiar time; the end of your reproductive years. You've lived at least half of your life (probably).  The first part of your life was spent learning, growing and stuffing enough knowledge into your head to survive.  The second part was about earning money, working and building a nest.  The third and longest was about children and then there is no instruction manual.  What next? You look round at people your age and older, desperate for role models.  "Who do I want to be like?" you ask yourself.  Our society is set up to sneer at all older people, except David Attenborough, obviously because he is like a God but we can't all be David.  I don't travel well, am not that keen on the smell of animals and don't like the cold.

"Do you ever feel that our lives are just passing us by," the LSH asked.  I could hear my heart in my ears, sweat beading on my forehead.  Was it a coincidental menopausal hot flush or was anxiety setting in, anticipating him suggest we take up bungee jumping or sky-diving?  That's what happens to a lot of people our age: they are all suddenly running marathons or throwing themselves off tall buildings for charity.  I want to shout, "What about your knees?" but I can see the appeal of feeling useful.  The other group are buying villas in Spain and planning a long life of nothing but sun and wine (actually sometimes they're the same people). I don't drink wine and have no desire to learn Spanish or be an ex-pat.

"We just need to get out more," he said, "Especially you.  I worry that if I suddenly drop down dead on the golf course, you'll be on your own."
"But I'll have my books," I interrupted.
"Hmm, yes books, but you'll not talk to anyone.  You'll only leave the house to go to work and walk the dog. And if the dog dies, you'll probably get cats and when you drop down dead no one would know and when they break in because of the smell they'd find that the cats had eaten half your face off."

Gulp.

So we went out.

Not far.

And I had a secret book in my handbag, just in case.

We went to a gig.  Real, live music with real jobbing musicians, who are making music because it's their passion, not because a record company (are they still called that?), a TV show, or Simon Cowell tells them to. Obviously, they still want to make a living - everyone needs to eat but the music comes first.

It's easy to think that unless something is in London or on the TV it's not worth seeing but that couldn't be further from the truth. Live music is so important.  It's important enough for the government to have put on the music curriculum for children under seven.

How most schools are supposed to get access to a range of good quality live music has baffled me for a long time.  You would think that with this addition to the curriculum there would be a budget to pay musicians to come and play or to take children to concerts but if anything the budget seems to have been cut. A friend of mine persuaded the local music hub to start a project where she and a group of other musicians went to schools, played some music and allowed the children to try out some of the instruments.  It was a popular thing and then the budget was cut further, the music hub started to charge schools £100 per visit and because a primary school music budget is about 50p the scheme ended.  (Whoops, sorry, I got sidetracked on a rant.)

So, anyway, live music.  It's important but even grown ups with lots of money aren't listening with concentration and understanding to a range of high-quality live music.  I know all the excuses: it's too expensive, all the best gigs are in London, which is just too far, don't like classical music, why bother when you don't even listen to the piped music in the lift, it's easier to just stick on Spotify or Amazon music, who needs music when there's X-factor?

Luckily, there are still people promoting high quality live music and I know some of them.  I've known the folk from macTheatre since our children were first in primary school.  I had just been involved in a PTA fund raising panto (I say involved but somehow managed to write, direct and act in the thing, which is amazing as I don't have any of those skills) and this lady came up to tell me how good she thought it was.Embarrassed, I gabbled on about how she should join us next year and how of course she would be able to do it because if I can then anyone can.  She was polite and smiled and surprisingly kept talking to me.  A week later, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me, as it turned out she was a professional card carrying actress. Although we became friends I still cringe at the memory every time I see her.

One thing I know about musicians is that they often go to drama school and so  macTheatre have many contacts, especially as Barrie spent some of his early career dabbling (his word, not mine) in folk bands and last night they were promoting a concert by Charlie Dore and Julian Littman.

I wasn't sure about going.  Folk isn't my favourite genre of music.  I knew that Julian Littman is a member of Steeleye Span and I bear a grudge, as they have made teaching the proper Latin pronunciation of Gaudete quite tricky.  Some child will always find their version and announce that you don't pronounce it veer-gin-ay after all. I needn't have worried, though because good quality live music is always brilliant, even if you'd rather be listening to a Mozart Aria, a scat singing jazz artist, or a thrash metal band.

Julian and Charlie are quite a team.  Their voices blend beautifully together and both have such an effortless pure tone, which is amazing for people who have been singing professionally for nearly 40 years.  As the concert progressed I realised what a treat we were being given.  To hear a live performance by artists who have been writing songs, not only for themselves but for others, such as Celine Dion, Paul Carrack and Jimmy Nail is very special.  When they sang Ain't No doubt we were in no doubt about their brilliance.  Charlie is not only a very beautiful woman but she is funny.  Her latest songs have been inspired by reading her partner's New Scientist magazine, which she doesn't really understand.  She explained that Pheromones were there to help us find a partner who could be a kidney donor and neutrinos were just particles, like breakfast cereal,  passing through space looking for love.  Then she floors you with a heart of butter and the language takes you to another place.  This is all delivered with humility so that when they are about to perform Pilot of the Airwaves they just say, "You'll know this."

Although it took some effort to go out but I think I will do it again. The LSH has agreed that live music might be the way to go to stop our lives passing us by.