Podium Pete

 Every morning Pete arrives at the gates that block the public from the street where he works. He’s been there so often that every Police officer on duty knows his name. His reputation proceeds him, as does his nickname and this morning an officer he has never seen before touches his hat, winks and says, “Morning pee pee,” as he opens the gate.

Pete shuffles through, sighing deeply. He does wish they wouldn’t call him that.as it makes him sound incontinent, which given his advancing years and growing prostate might not be entirely inaccurate but he knows that it’s just the initials of his nickname.

“Busy day for you, mate.”

The copper is still trying to make conversation. Pete isn’t feeling particularly chatty today. Some days he loves nothing better than to stop and discuss his treasures but as the lad had said today was going to be a busy day. Again. Another busy day. So soon after the last one. 

The faint smell of beeswax polish follows him into the building and all the way down into the basement where he spends his days with his precious collection. He moves between the 245 pieces of unique furniture in his care, stroking and naming each one. He pats a light oak one with a twisted base that reminds him of a Jenga game.

“Sorry Bessie. Last time out for you, old girl. I know, I know, it’s not surprising, given what’s happened but it is a shame. You really are a beauty.”

Pete spends a little extra time waxing and polishing before two boys in black jeans and T-shirts come to take her outside. Pete suspects they spend too much time in the gym, looking at themselves and other pretty boys in the mirror.

He wanders around, muttering to himself, trying to make the right choice. 

“Too dark, Bert. Too fussy, Herbert. Too tall, Brenda.”

He stops before a sleek beechwood specimen, with square bevelled edges and says, “Oh Alan, you’ll be perfect.”

The muscled lads bring Bessie back and take Alan and Pete talks in a soft calming voice to the returning movable, tending to the piece with polish and cloth until Alan is also returned to him.

“Let’s hope you’re not needed too often, Al,” Pete says dipping his cloth into a special pot of ting oil and beginning to work in small circles over the item of furniture.

When he leaves, Pete notices that the officer on duty is Rosie. She’s one of his favourites; always happy to chat and often tells him how his tips have saved her coffee table from coffee rings (a cool iron and tissue paper) , red wine (salt) and nail polish(hairspray). He does wonder how she can be so clumsy. 

“Hey Pete. You’re famous. It’s all over Twitter. With so many changes of Prime Minister. They’ve finally noticed Podium Pete. Obviously not as famous as ‘hot podium guy’ but your work has been noticed.

“You do know, it’s a lectern, don’t you Rosie?”

“Oh I know, a podium is something you stand on. Rishi could do with one, don’t you think?”

“I was just checking, you know, because you do call me Podium Pete.”

“Yeah, right, I know. But Peter, Keeper of the Lecterns  is such a mouthful .”

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, alive or dead is pure co-incidence.

(Is that OK, Pete?)

Family

 ‘Boris has pulled out.’

The push news notification came through on the nation’s collective phones and the world spun a little on it’s axis as everyone made the same, slightly rude, joke at the same time. At least he won’t be making any more family, they thought.

We were back from a family wedding and I was pinned to the sofa by the dog, who had decided that I was never leaving him again. I was thinking about what a lovely weekend we had and pondering the nature of families.

Before we went, I was worried. We have been terrible family. The Long Suffering Husband and his sister only stay in touch with occasional emails, that, as far as I am aware, talk about cars and holidays. We worked out that it had been 13 years since we saw the boys and here we were, being invited to the wedding. 

I had imagined the conversation.

“But we never see them?”

“It’s my brother!”

“Weddings are expensive.”

“I know but he’s my brother. It’s how it’s done. Weddings and funerals.”

I felt guilty.

Guilty for all the years I hadn’t made more of an effort to be a family. I hadn’t even sent birthday cards, even though both boy’s birthdates are etched into my memory, as though from acid on glass. We discussed whether it was the right thing to go. Would a polite refusal be better? Cheaper for the bride and groom, certainly but heartbreaking for the LSH’s sister.

I grew up with enormous extended family, that we stayed in touch with. We didn’t see all of my Dad’s as much; a couple of siblings were in New Zealand, another in Suffolk (which seemed just as far) and there was a generational age gap between my Dad and his oldest brother. We still all saw each other at weddings and funerals, though and with such a large family, there were lots of those. 

The LSH didn’t have that relationship with his extended family, even though it was also large. He was the last of the cousins to be born, just as most of the cousins were having children. He might have been to weddings and funerals but he doesn’t remember them. In fact, for a man who seems to remember everything now, his early memory is shocking. 

I had just started dating the LSH when the boys were born and never really became Aunty. I used to (and still do) sign the cards (that I buy, write and send) the from (uncle) LSH and Julia. 

I felt guilty about that too. I remember, as a child, feeling the pressure of family to be overwhelming. The duty and responsibility all tied up with a constant need to be sociable. I found family parties awkward and draining. You weren’t allowed to read your book and then there was all that kissing! Maybe I kept the LSH’s family apart on purpose. 

But the need for familial connection is strong and so we went to the wedding. Of course we did. And it was beautiful. And heartwarming. It was everything weddings are supposed to be. We sat with the bride’s grandad who greeted the LSH, with, “ I thought you were dead.” before keeping us all thoroughly entertained and drinking us under the table. 

We spent time reminiscing; always a balm for the soul. Watercress soup at Christmas, shared holidays for the LSH and his sister, memories of the groom’s grandparents. The deceased grandparents are always at the weddings of their grandchildren, which is pleasing to know.

These conversations with my nephews (look, I said it) were like talking to my own children and made me vow to allow them to know each other.

“Let’s not leave it so long, next time,” we all say, air kissing and hugging as we leave.

I’d like to think that I’ll be better but the list of people I should stay in touch with seems to be growing almost as fast as the list of books I want to read and although it’s an outrageous admission, I think the books might win. If you are reading this and think you might be on the other list, then you almost certainly are and my books and I would like to apologise. 

Living through history is tiring

 Liz left. The lettuce claimed it had won and for her 44 days in office, where she did nothing because the Queen died, then crashed the economy and hid under her desk,  she now receives £115,000 a year public duty payment for the rest of her life. That is extra to anything she earns as an ordinary MP. Whether you care about pork markets or not, that.is.a.disgrace!

This, ‘feel sorry for Maggie Thatcher’ payment feels so wrong now.

Except that it’s not a payment but a maximum amount that can be claimed in expenses for setting up and running an office to continue the work that you might be asked to do as an ex-prime minister but let’s not let the truth spoil our fun. 

The situation is so bonkers that Question Time moved to a Panorama slot, rather than the drift-off-on-the-sofa slot. It’s all people wanted to talk about. Another distraction from the real problems happening right now. Post Brexit, post pandemic, cost of living crisis, War in Ukraine, half the world covered in flood water or baked dry. Nobody can think about any of these things because we are stuck in some kind of endless horror film loop. “Thank God! The grown ups are in charge. Wow! Those grown ups are childish. They must go. Thank God! The grown ups are in charge.”

While the Conservative party choose a new leader, who instantly becomes Prime Minister, nothing happens, except more childish squabbling. 

The Question Time audience were almost unanimous.

WE NEED A GENERAL ELECTION

It was a tough message.

What they said to the Conservatives was, ‘ We want you out’ - NOW!

Because they don’t even care who they elect as their next leader. People are so fed up they just want/need to vote for someone else. They’d actually prefer the Conservatives not to be on the ballot paper, distracting them with their promises that turn out to be lies. 

It won’t/ can’t work like that. We are in for a pause of at least six months while campaigning happens. Norfolk just fell into the sea. Don’t worry, that was Liz Truss’ constituency it won’t be missed. 

Meanwhile, it is rumoured that Boris Johnson is going to stand for PM again. The judgement hasn’t actually been finalised about whether he lied to parliament so he could be re-instated and immediately sacked when they conclude their investigation. I’ve never understood the appeal of a boy like Boris, hitting their classmates, turning their big blue eyes to innocent mode, tossing their blond locks and always just about getting away with it. Even less comprehensible is the fact that everyone wants to be their friend, despite the risk of frequent bruising. People will argue it’s fear that makes them want to keep the enemy close but with Boris types the affection always seems genuine. People surely can’t have forgotten that he started all this with his lies about partygate and mishandling of a sexual abuse investigation? It was a whole year ago but no one has that short a memory, surely?

Whatever happens next, the turmoil is far from over. I’m expecting that the Daily Star journalist has a radish lined up for Rishi, a pineapple for Penny, a bean for Ben, a brussel sprout for Boris, a kiwi for Kemi and, just in case, a melon for Michael. 

My daughter has finally made a full and frank apology. All of this is her fault. As a child she kept saying that she would like to live through History. I warned her to be careful what she wished for and reminded her of the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” She was adamant, though, and insisted on wanting to record it. Yesterday, though, she texted to apologise. 

It’s a fracking disaster

 It was fun at the beginning. 

Watching a political party, you are ideologically at odds with, implode was fun at first. Now, even the hardy journalists who love this sort of thing are finding it so hard to watch they are focusing on a lettuce.

Yesterday Home Secretary, the poisonous Suella Braveman resigned, saying it was because she made a mistake. The Daily Mail has reported that this resignation followed a 90 minute shouting match.

A conservative back bench MP of 17 years standing was interviewed live, shaking with fury said, “I think it’s a shambles and a disgrace. It’s utterly appalling.”

And the thing that made him so furious?

A vote on fracking.

A fracking distraction to the real issue of climate change. Jacob Rees-Mogg decided to allow the North of the country to be plunged into years of earthquakes to extract gas that we shouldn’t be using. He wants this because he doesn’t want to believe in climate change. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care how much he destabilises the country because he knows how to use this to make a lot of money.

Most of the conservative government disagree. They have been elected on promises to protect the environment. Labour, cleverly, put forward a motion to ban fracking. The government can’t be seen to lose when they have a large majority, so they make it a three line whip and suggest it’s a vote of confidence. No one has confidence. Even the lettuce is scared (the lettuce in the Daily Star journalist’s bedroom, which he is suggesting will last longer than Liz Truss). But they forget to tell everyone, or nobody believes it and the government nearly loses the vote (which they should have because it was the right thing) which makes them look weak against Labour. It believed that even the Prime Minister didn’t vote against the motion to ban fracking but that is probably irrelevant because they are calling her PINO (Pm in name only). Then they say that there wasn’t a three line whip and the chief whip and deputy chief whip resign. Then they unresign and they say that there was and all the MPs who voted against or abstained will be disciplined. 

Meanwhile, inflation has gone into double figures (the first time since the eighties), more people are using food banks……

“Can we just turn the News off?” the Long Suffering Husband asks. It’s all very depressing.

It’s not just depressing it’s a fracking disaster and it’s not fun to watch anymore.

Menopause Day

 Yesterday was World Menopause Day.

Now, I’m going to say something unpopular.

Menopause is great.

It’s not just great, it’s bloody fantastic. I use the word bloody on purpose because bloody is less a feature of your life.

I was lucky enough to go through menopause at the normal time, meaning that my fertile period had been effectively utilised. As transitions go, it wasn’t the easiest but the other side is fantastic. The problem with menopause being at the normal time is that it comes with a whole load of other transitions. Life changes for mothers and people with parents at around the age of 50 in more ways than is actually comfortable. 

But the benefits.

Not only can I now wear white trousers without suddenly looking like the Japanese flag but my mood is more my own. If I’m grumpy now, it’s because I’m grumpy rather than a sudden dip in progesterone. Obviously, I’m more irritable than I’d like because I’m getting older and my patience for things has worn out. My joints ache and my eyesight has got worse but doing all this without the monthly hormone party and anaemia inducing blood loss is something that should be celebrated. And while we’re at it let’s mention that cramping pain that had you doubled over every month, pretending everything was fine - gone!

Soon, a new celebrity will take over from Davina McCall, pronouncing that no one talks about menopause. She will be incandescent and say all the things that all the celebs have said before. Meanwhile, Davina will be having a great life in her white trousers, forgetting to mention how bloody fantastic the other side is.

Cock-eyed Hell

 Can someone just switch everything off and back on again? Maybe the three pin reset (as my Dad used to call it) would work. It just feels like everything is broken.

Whether you like Liz Truss or not (clue: no one likes Liz Truss) it has to be agreed that her premiership is nothing short of a disaster. I don’t see how anyone’s mental health could survive what she is going through. When your friends stand up and say, “She is not under a desk,” you know you’re screwed. Looking like a hostage with wide blinking eyes she showed the BBC political reporter some paintings and said ‘deliver’ more often than the Post Office. The attempt to look calm and in control failed. It failed so badly that when the beeb went onto the street for vox pops someone said, “What the cock-eyed hell is going on?” The markets are temporarily calmed as a misogynist in a shiny suit appears to take over and people comment that a ‘grown up’ is in charge. Remember though, that this grown up couldn’t work a hand bell and was a fierce advocate for austerity.

The last thing we need now is even less spending on public services.

I made a visit to a GP surgery yesterday - a very rare event and although I was just accompanying someone I came away deeply fearful for anyone who works in the NHS right now. The system has broken and it is people who are taking the brunt of the anger. Receptionists with tears in their eyes as they tell people that they are not allowed to give them an appointment, pharmacists with a sudden seven-fold increase in their work, doctors who look so ill themselves they can barely stand upright. And anything these people miss or don’t have time for can lead to a death.

Post pandemic, how can the government’s answer be to cut the funding? It’s not even as though the defence budget could take a temporary hit. There’s a war between Russia and Ukraine that we are supporting. What about education, or social care or the environment? Nope. These are all broken too. 

Especially the environment. 

Acorns are falling off trees without their hats. I don’t know if this is significant but it feels like a worry. When I looked up into my favourite oak tree and saw the hats still on the tree I said to myself, “What the cock-eyed hell is this?”

It’s my birthday

 It’s my birthday and so I’m going to treat myself by writing a blog about innuendo.

I love to laugh. The quirky, the misheard and the misunderstood are my favourite things. Although we have been married a long time, the Long Suffering Husband can still buy the best birthday card. 

The great thing about enjoying smuttiness is that because my Friday afternoons are spent working with year 6 children my week nearly always ends with an ‘only here’ moment.

There are a small group of boys who are obsessed with sausages. They work ‘sausage’ into almost every answer they give me. It started with the register. I asked them to answer with their favourite food and for some reason all the year 6 boys enjoy a sausage. I didn’t laugh but the corners of my eyes might have twitched.

The week after I asked them to answer with their favourite fruit. This prompted a bittersweet memory of my dad. One of his many (unexplainable) catchphrases was, “Sausages are my favourite fruit.” When he said it, though, it was never followed by sniggering and side-eye checking for approval from the other boys in the room. 

The week after, they were bolder and asked if the question could be “What’s your favourite sausage?” I suppose I should have shut it down there but I wanted to see. I knew that none of them would be brave enough to name their own sausage.

“My favourite sausage is the one I keep in my trousers, Miss.”

It is what they are doing though. Extra long, big, fat and  juicy are frequently mentioned. 

This week I decided that the ring leader could choose and ask the question. It can be interesting for them to see how it feels. I was wondering if he would try to take a serious register but he went for chaos.

“Do you like sausages?” he asked.

Most of the girls picked up the cue and quietly  answered “No”. The boys revelled in their answer, “Why wouldn’t I? What’s not to like about a sausage?”

One girl though, loudly and proudly, made me want to laugh.

“I only like German sausages!” she announced.

I vowed to shut down the sausage talk because it’s embarrassing the girls and the boys don’t really realise what they are saying.

For the rest of the music lesson we were using straws to act as double reeds to make a pavane with a recorder tune over the top. It was complicated composing that required an understanding of rhythm notation, pulse, pitch and texture. It also took the technical skill of being able to play the recorder and get a sound from the double reed straw. 

Double reed straws cause a lot of excitement. Two classes had tried them the week before (the classes who hadn’t wasted a lot of time on sausages). One boy had got it really quickly and asked to go to the toilet. 

“But Miss, he’s already been to the toilet,” the other’s complained when I said he could go.

I thought but luckily didn’t say, “I know but he wants to go and blow his thing in private.” He did but not how I made it sound in my head. So I just shrugged.

“He probably needs a poo,” they told me.

Too much information.

This week when I gave out the straws one of the sausage boys said, “Oh good, we get the blow jobs this week.”

If it hadn’t been a sausage boy I would have assumed it was a slip of the tongue (so to speak) but he was obviously asked to leave the room until I had finished the input.

When I went to speak to him he was shamefaced. 

“Just. Not. Appropriate.” I said.

“I don’t know what it means,” he said.

“Whether that’s true or not, you can come back in but don’t say it again.”

He didn’t take the opportunity to draw a line under it. 

“People in the playground last week said that they were called a blow job.”

“Well, they’re not,” I said, thinking, “Oh great! What did children tell their parents I’d given out last week?”

I’m the first Prime Minister

 You watched the news. You saw the speech. You know the world we are living in.

Please congratulate me, for I am the first Prime Minister.

What?

How dare you challenge me. I am. I’m the first Prime Minister. I am because I say I am. Didn’t you hear me? I’ll repeat it three times in a row and then you’ll have to believe me. 

The ones that went before me? Theresa May, Gordon Brown and let’s not even talk about James Callaghan. No one wants to remember old prime ministers. It’s me. Me, me, me.

I’m the only Prime Minister.

This could be as true as anything else you see on the news or read in the newspapers (or their social media feeds) because it seems we have got to a place where reporting what someone says without correcting factual inaccuracies is the done thing. There’s just not enough characters for truth. So here we are and I’m the Prime Minister, which is a bugger because I’ve got quite a busy day already.

I do not accept the premise of your question

 Whenever our new Prime Minister doesn’t want to answer a question (which is often) she says, “I do not accept the premise of the question.” It’s odd because sometimes the question has no premise. It’s just a question.

Do you like conkers?

No premise. The answer is yes. If you say no then you are just a weirdo.

Why do you feel the need to fill your pockets with them?

Again, no premise but a difficult question to answer. Why we become magpies for these shiny brown nuts is something I will never understand. It’s not even as though they are food but something about their round brown smoothness, when secretly rubbed with a thumb is soothing.

This week on Twitter I have seen people posting that they find it hard to resist the urge to pick them up and stuff them in their pockets. ‘Why resist?’ I wonder. 

When the vicar left his coat behind at school, the office suggested that I check the pockets for conkers and acorns to prove that the cost belonged to an adult and not a child.

Apparently, you are supposed to grow out of this sort of collecting. I haven’t and I can’t entirely blame the dog.

Why, as an adult, do you feel the need to fill your pockets with natures treasures?

I do not accept the premise of the question. An adult? Me?  Phew! That got me out of answering the difficult question.