Silly Season

I saw a tweet yesterday where a journalist was claiming that silly season had come early. Silly season is meant to be in August when all the politicians are sailing around the Greek islands on their million pound yachts with Robert Maxwell (oh wait, is he dead?), leaving the journalists who can't afford a wet week in Bognor Regis to fill pages with other stuff. Local papers are always a rich source of silly season material (which is why I love them so much) There are stories about Seagulls being misunderstood in the Brighton Argus, raccoons stealing cereal bars in Northampton and memorial services for a sheep called Nick Boing in the local Welsh press.

Nick Boing

Silly season could have come early because the politicians aren't saying anything we want to hear. Sensible reporters will be on the lookout for a good animal story or a sex scandal to fill their pages. My daughter's paper had a flasher visit their offices the other day, pleasuring himself with their paper. They don't even need to pick up the phone, never mind leave the office!

Silly season in the school staff room is always at this time of year. Reports are finally ready to go, SATs results are due, leavers shows and services are being practised, children are more bonkers than usual, sex ed has been squeezed in (yes, the boys are looking a little pale and shocked: "You mean I've got to...chase her around the bedroom with a feather?") and the funny staff room conversations about time tabling the videos have happened ("We can't have it in the morning." "I don't know, sometimes morning sex is good."). Teachers have gone past tired and because the end is in sight they are a bit giggly, bordering on the hysterical. There is a little more time for staff to gather and sit. Because so many have done other things in their life the conversations can be varied. They might have been triggered by something that happened in class but they can spiral off into so many different directions.

"Did you know that sheep can't fart?"
"What?"
"Yes, they just blow up."
"Exploding sheep? Why didn't I know that."
"No, not like kaboom, more like poof." The teacher makes an expanding round shape with her hands.
The other staff imagine huge round sheep like space hoppers.
"What happens to them then?" Teachers like to ask questions.
"They have to be popped," says the member of staff who used to be a veterinary nurse, acting out sticking a sharp object forcefully into the belly of a sheep.
"Farmers must carry pins around in their pockets just in case."
"If they don't explode then maybe they make that noise like a let-go balloon."
"And go whizzing off around the field."
"Maybe into the sky."
"Well yes, of course. That's how we get clouds."

Mascara was running, middle aged teachers were laughing so hard they had to cross their legs and they all agreed that silly season is well and truly with us.

If I could scream

I have a stupid little Minnie Mouse squeak of a voice at the moment. It is frustrating but I was chilled about it. It's one of those things. My colleagues laughed or sympathetically whispered (mostly laughed). The children just shrugged and said, "Again? I think you should get yourself a nice drink of water." The Long Suffering Husband suffers the most because he can't get answers to his questions by shouting from another room but I think it does him good to move a bit more.

 I thought that massage was my miracle cure: that I lost it due to tight muscles, so I cancelled choir and went along to be bruised by a sadist. There hasn't been much improvement yet but I'm hopeful.

Other people (I'm sure) would be wanting to scream but I am very laid back about it. I continue to work, creatively adapting my plans. I am more tired because you have to be so much more animated to teach without a voice. 

I want to scream too but not about my voice.

Last night, there was a news report about a school in Saffron Walden that has taken music off the curriculum for year 7 and 8. I would have shouted at the TV if I could. It's such a stupid, short sighted move. The head explained that it was due to cuts. One of his music teachers was going abroad to teach (no doubt to somewhere he'd be appreciated) and despite believing in a "broad and balanced curriculum" he had decided not to replace him and to cut the subject. His other music teacher will continue to teach the GCSE classes until no one wants to take music GCSE because they haven't been taught it before.

I'm not surprised.

Since the introduction of the Ebac it was inevitable. Music was one of the subjects not included, so 

children can't take it to count towards their qualifications. So, what's the point teaching it? Especially when it's so difficult. 

Well, what is the point?

Because you only have to look at our human response to the tragedies that have happened recently. People sang. They made charity records and held concerts. Music brings people together.

I could go on. I could rant and shout and swear but I've lost my voice, so I won't.

Desiccated Flip Flop

Sometimes when I write a blog I know exactly what I'm going to say and the title comes later.  Today, I have a title and nothing much.

It's a crazy time of year for a music teacher.

Most people in schools have decided that they want to or can do music now that the important work of testing children is over.  Concerts are organised, world record breaking attempts made, school fetes are opened and every ending must be celebrated in song.  Musicians who want to make a living rush round schools offering their services, giving workshops, being overly enthusiastic, covering enormous distances without hope of getting their mileage expenses covered and letting small children put snot on their instruments. Proper musicians spread themselves thinner than parchment.

The fakers, like me, do their best to accommodate all the musicians. A folk song workshop? Yes, why not? Steel Pans? That sounds exciting. A concert in a park? Oh yes, I have a spare Saturday. A singing workshop? Of course.  Welcome to my sauna.

We do this even though we are struggling to keep the lid on the bottle of songs buzzing around our heads.  Sometimes, in the Supermarket queue we can be heard singing, "Oh, I get by with a little help from our friends."  Walking the dog we get odd looks from dog walkers as we sing our modified version of Seven Years.  At 3am we wake in a cold sweat with all the lyrics to the end of year show running through our heads.  This morning I woke singing, "Our enemies and nemeses to use a metaphor." I followed this by shouting, "Ah, ha a metaphor that's something we've learnt.!"
The Long Suffering Husband snored and turned over. At least I wasn't going to have to explain my outburst.  This particular line in one of the end of year show songs has been bothering me. I'm not quite sure enemies and nemeses are metaphors.  I've been waiting for someone to ask the question with dread.  Someone has put their hand up and said, "Miss, what's a nemesis?" When I said that it's just another word for an enemy but stronger they were confused about why they needed to use two words but they didn't mention the metaphor question. They decided that it was because it rhymed and rhyming is important in music.  Metaphors are important in music. In fact most music is a metaphor except Cage, which is a sermon (I don't know whose quote that is). Maybe the reason I can't identify enemies and nemeses as metaphors is that my life is full of better ones.

When the visiting musician came to give a singing workshop that made one member of my choir say, "That was amazing, I don't even sound like me anymore," I took him through to the music room and said, "Welcome to the sauna." This is a metaphor. It's just a hot room that makes me sweat and causes children to cry because they have a 'really bad headache'. The musician laughed and thought that he had encountered another grumpy primary school teacher.  However, after two songs he was sweating, children were crying and he looked at me and said, "Blimey, it is hot in here.  I'm as dry as a desiccated flip-flop."

I had a title for a blog but didn't know what to write. There's probably a metaphor for that.

Twenty percent off Brazilian

 When it gets hot, the dog and I usually lose our appetites. He mooches around the garden, existing on flies and anything tasty that falls from a human plate but sniffs at his bowl as if the contents are toxic. I'm pretty much the same. I can't be bothered to cook but will happily pick from a bowl of crisps or eat delicious tasty morsels cooked by someone else.  In the Summer we usually both lose a little weight and the vet is happy. We go for his boosters and the vet beams, "That's less than last time," forgetting that at the Christmas check up he sucked his teeth and said, "He's put on a bit." And so I remind him, "Yes we both lose a little bit of weight in the Summer and put it back on in the winter. I expect we walk more and eat less when the weather is good." This year the vet might not be so happy. I am unlikely to lose weight because I keep eating out.

I will still look at a large plate of hot food and sniff its toxicity before turning my nose up but restaurants have tasty morsels and salads on the menu and I seem to be able to eat loads of those when someone else has made them.

Yesterday we went to a pub with friends. As it was world Tessellation day I took a photo of the chair.

The menu included some very tasty morsels for starters and there was a salad on the main menu. I quite like to order a vegetarian tart, if it's on the menu just for the comedy value of saying, "I'm the tart," when the waitress brings the food. You can imagine my excitement when I noticed the salad.


Brazilian - Salad with orange, beetroot and pine nuts with a reduced red wine dressing served on a bed of cous cous.

"I'll have a Brazilian please!"

I should have known really. Although I've never had a Brazilian (no one is coming near my nether regions with a wax strip) I can't imagine that they are pleasant.  My grandma nearly had one a few years ago. She had a leaflet through the door from a mobile hairdresser/beauty therapist and was so excited, at ninety, to have her hair done in her own home.
"I'm going to ask for a Brazilian blow-dry," she told us.

The Brazilian salad, was grim. Poorly described as salad, it was, in fact, a large bowl of hot, over-cooked, bland cous-cous with small garnish of wilted arugula,  ten pine nuts, two segments of orange and a few slivers of beetroot.  I had ordered it with extra goat's cheese (2.50 supplement) and I have to say that the 5 pearls of goats cheese were the dish's saviour. The Long Suffering Husband had more salad on his plate of ribs and chips. I'm normally the last person to complain but I would have sent it back if anyone had asked if everything was alright.

At the end of the meal the waitress said,
"Have you finished?"
We all nodded. I, feeling slightly guilty that my poor choice had spoilt everyone else's enjoyment of their meals, which probably tasted nice (if my starter was anything to go by).
"But, it was all good?" she said, picking up my plate.
I'm not good at complaining so I said, "No, actually, I really didn't like that. It wasn't nice."
"But there wasn't anything wrong with it, was there?" she said optimistically.
"Well, it wasn't a salad, was it?" I was getting bolder. "It was described as salad but it was a large bowl of hot cous-cous. No one could eat that much cous-cous and it didn't taste nice."
"Oh," she said, "I'll have a word with Chef."
We wondered what Chef might say to that.  If I was Chef I might be wondering why the waiting staff had let it get to the end of the meal before they noticed that one diner had stuck their fork in the middle of their bowl and was wandering back and forth to the toilet to fill the time. She never told us but when the bill came we noticed that they had taken 20% off the Brazilian.

A Brazilian with 20% off.  Now is that a Hollywood or a Desert Island?

Are We Having Fun Yet?

It's been a while since I last wrote a blog.

In that time there have been terrorist attacks, a messed up general election and hideous social media.
I've been anaemic and depressed and as soon as I thought of anything to write everything changed and it didn't seem relevant anymore.

As I watched the coverage of the election a phrase from my childhood kept running through my head: "Are we having fun yet?".  Normally, I love an election.  It appeals to my geeky, spreadsheet loving side.  Right from letting the dog have a wee up the polling station sign first thing, to seeing more people walking, to the smell of the wobbly booths and short stubby pencils on string (honestly, who would steal that pencil?) the whole election day feels like it could be the start of something exciting and then the results come in and it's.....well. it's just nothing.  It should be settled but it's not.
In the early eighties everyone sarcastically said, "Are we having fun yet," anytime you did anything slightly dull.  People wore Garfield T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan and would point at their chest and wink knowingly.  I was trying to remember if the phrase came from a TV programme or a sitcom but a google search tells me it was this cartoon from 1979.

It's not a cartoon I remember and probably not one I understand. As songs go, it seems to have as many lyrics as are currently popular and the audience say they like it. Obviously, the violin playing is squeaky because he is bowing in completely the wrong place.

This year, it would be fair to say that I have lost some of my bounce and I haven't been having fun.

When Dad and I started the Youth Orchestra the one thing we were both insistent on was that it had to be fun. It became a mantra.  He would often quote our aim, "to enable children of all ages and abilities to have fun making music together," randomly whenever we were together (driving my mum mad).  It became my philosophy when I started working in school, as well. 

Yesterday, at a music teacher conference we were asked to discuss what we value in teaching music.  The room of music teachers came out with a whole list of things like having fun, teaching things that were relevant to the children, encouraging good quality, performing skills, confidence.  Few of them mentioned the things that they actually measure. The session was taken by an academic (using us for his research) and many teachers came out frustrated that they hadn't been given a 'how to' session on assessment.  Teaching has become so focused on weighing the pig that we have forgotten that feeding it is important. Teachers who aren't constantly measuring feel guilty (or if they are like me, rebellious).  He then asked us if we planned our lessons around the things we value.

For most of the teachers the answer was a resounding, 'no'. Most couldn't wait until something was over (exams, assemblies, shows) so that they could get back to having 'fun' lessons.  I felt differently. I told the group I was working with that I always planned with the idea that the lesson had to be fun.  I said, "If the children aren't going to enjoy it, there's no point doing it."

One lady got quite cross with me.  "That's ridiculous," she said, "Not everything can be fun."

I explained that I was only talking about me. I value fun and I plan from a point of fun but she wasn't going to let me off the hook that easily. She wanted me to know that I had to 'teach' theory first and children needed a set of knowledge that they had to be indoctrinated with if they were to succeed.

Maybe she was thinking that my idea of fun was letting the kids run riot around the classroom, doing nothing.  One of the senior school teachers explained that it wasn't an option for them, as they had exams to get their children through and I said that I would argue that not passing exams isn't fun but passing exams is. The children I work with take exams and perform in concerts in a way that isn't stressful.  They are properly prepared and are going along to show just how brilliant they are and to share their enjoyment with other people.

It was nice to be reminded of my motivation.

This week is our school summer music concert and it could be stressful because I'm not as prepared as usual.  People who say things like, "Oh well, it doesn't matter.  Parents just love it whatever they do," are missing the point.  It's no fun if everyone knows it's bad. So, over the next few days we will work our socks off, talking about what we are going to wear, how we will receive our applause and enjoying the excitement. If I seem a little stressed then just ask me, "Are we having fun yet?"

Politicians are people too

Why would anyone go into politics?

If you were to write a job description it might go something like this:

Person required to sit through lots of boring meetings, read many boring documents and get shouted at on a daily basis. Must be of above average intelligence and also be prepared to be called stupid by colleagues and general public (who might actually be stupid). Will have to make tough decisions that people think are easy. Your personal life will be made public: your children ridiculed, parents sent death threats and people will be allowed to say vile things about you on social media. If you have sex you must graciously accept that pictures could be printed in a paper. Whatever you wear will be criticised. The public will expect you to be an upright citizen but mock you if the worst thing you can remember doing is running through fields of wheat. Whilst your personal life will be public knowledge, no exceptions will be made for your circumstances: cancer, childbirth, death of loved ones will not be acceptable excuses for not appearing on a TV show or giving your Sunday up to stuff unwanted leaflets through letterboxes.
You will, however, be able to give yourself an 11% pay rise, while telling everyone else they can't have any more money (we said there'd be tough decisions)

I have read some absolutely foul things about politicians recently and it's awful. I know there's an election tomorrow but could we please try to remember that politicians are actually people?

24 Shades of Blue (A Holiday Blog)

"It's time you left your knitting nest," said the Long Suffering Husband, head cocked to one side and trying not to tut.
I looked up, briefly, opened my mouth to say something and changed my mind.
"It's just that you are making a permanent dent in the sofa, " he continued, "I think you need a holiday."
I wasn't sure. The problem was me, not the sofa.  He could prize me off my spot but I'd still be taking myself with me. "I don't know," I said, "I'm just feeling rather blue."
"Then you need to get somewhere warm," he said, knowing that my skin often goes blue when I'm cold.

Skiathos, like all the Greek Islands is very blue. There's green too. with olive groves, pine forests, vines creeping over pergolas outside tavernas and beautiful gardens but it's the blue that strikes you. So much blue.

1. Pigeon Blue: The sky when we arrive is dramatically filled with thunder clouds. Lightening streaks across the sky and more rain falls than they have ever seen in May.  People always say that when we go on holiday but the clouds were not the usual grey. No battleship but the blue tinged grey of a pigeon's breast.
2.  Royal Blue: The colour of the umbrellas the hotel gave us. We had waterproofs but you should never pass up the use of a free blue umbrella. We stood on the beach, laughing in the rain.
3.  Independence Blue:  The sky darkened and rain fell in huge puddles and splashes for three days. We talked to the staff, who wondered why we weren't hiding inside, or complaining,  like all the other Brits.
4.  Navy Blue: The colour of Nikos' polo shirt.  The other staff all wore white and beige chinos but his denim jeans and polo shirt marked him out, as a rebel.
5.  Turquoise - The colour of the sea as it laps the water edge. Great for paddling, even when it's raining.
6.  Sky blue: The clouds started to break and a blue sky peeped out. A tentative blue, that we are used to, punctuated with occasional puffy white candyfloss balls.
7.  Egyptian Blue: A hotel with free blue cotton beach towels and comfortable sun beds, with a buzzer to press on the straw sun umbrella should you need anything.
8.  Baby - The sky, finally hits the colour everyone has been waiting for
9.  Electric Blue: Demitris' apple watch, vibrated when anyone pressed their buzzer and he would come running to bring them things.  He got quite upset if you went to the bar yourself but was always polite and friendly (even when he shouldn't have been).  He needed his 9 hour a day, 7 day a week job.
10.  Teal - Just as you start swimming the sea darkens.
11.  Prussian - The colour of the sea just as you've swum far enough to feel warm, where you can't see the fish anymore.
12.  Space Blue - The inky blackness that creeps into the sea when you have swum far enough from the shore to make the LSH think you've been run over by a passing boat.
13.  Cornflower - My favourite sun dress. Impossible to wear in Britain but perfect in Greece.
14.  Yale - The colour of the sky after it has been flecked with pink and you can lie on the beach looking at stars.
15.  Azure - Tables, chairs, window frames of Tavernas are painted this colour. Mouths water, imagining feta cheese, olives, slow cooked meet, filo pastry, olive oil, yogurt, garlic, cucumber and tomatoes.
16.  Carolina - The sky is now consistently bright.  The sun is strong and warm.
17.  Sapphire - My flip flops. Feet exfoliated by sand and salt water.
18.  Olypmic - Blue of the Greek flag, refusing to flutter in the wind but hanging limply from the side of buildings.
19.  Maya - Sophia (3 tomorrow) has a bucket and spade that she is using in the shade of a bar to build an imaginary sandcastle. She doesn't enjoy the music piped in and complains that Adele is 'whiny'. We talk about dogs and she kicks her crawling baby sister up the bottom when no one is looking. "It's to help her go faster," she tells me with her hands on her hips.
20.  Turkish - The bus that runs all the way along the island for less than 3 Euros. Skiathos is negotiated by bus stop numbers. We get off at number eight.
21.  Steel - The colour of the bins where people happily drop their empty bottles.  Ouzo bottles carefully matched to the colour of the bins.
22.  Tiffany - The icing on the coconut cake in the evening buffet.  You comment on the strange colour and the woman (who is a bit of a feeder) tells you that you really must try is and that it goes really well with the four other desserts she has persuaded you to have.
23.  Air Force - the colour of the bruises that I get on my legs from being bounced along dirt tracks and beaches on the back of a motorbike.
24.  Powder - the colour the airplane appears to be as we see it coming in to land, followed by swallows, determined to show it how to fly.

With all the blue around me I felt less blue.

I would like to say that it had lasted but the LSH was at least temporarily right. (He's always right, he tells me.)