It’s too darn hot

 I have a song in my head.

But when the temperature goes way up, Mister Pants for romance is not ‘cause it’s too darn hot.

If Cole Porter were writing songs now he’d have some interesting material. The conflict is stunning.

Schools should close. Schools should stay open.

Schools should leave windows open all night (DFE) insurance policies will be invalid if school windows aren’t locked. (Anyone with half a brain) 

People on antidepressants should take extra care. Teachers should work in hot rooms with a bank of non opening windows down one side and doors that have to remain shut so that the thirty children don’t escape. Of course teachers don’t need anti depressants. 

Teachers are lazy. Teachers are working extra hard

It was worse when we were at school. 1976!

They should drink water. Why can’t they have hot milk like we had?

Honestly!

I haven’t blogged in ages but guys, save your energy. It’s too darn hot! Everyone is doing their best. 

Everyone except AI, which is not helping at all and is probably the most culpable for the huge rise in June temperatures, especially the data centre Elon Musk built than he ran off methane generators.

I am lucky to live just outside the red alert area but people can’t read a map. 

I have printed the weather reports for 1882, 1976 and 1988 because for some bizarre reason I thought weather accuracy in my historical writing would be useful. I don’t know why, as there isn’t accuracy when people are talking about the current weather.

This morning I was working on some of my 1882 writing and I wondered what June 23rd weather was like then. I’d been up half the night with the dog, who had decided that that much lightning and a green sky meant that aliens were landing. Not just aliens but aliens who only ate dogs. This made me too lazy to get off my bum and get out the printed sheets for the weather, so I googled. It made sense as the sheets had come from the met office website. Since my blog where chat gpt had argued that Virginia Guiffre was alive and then tried to gaslight me it has been almost impossible to look anything up on the internet without a LLM getting involved. If you are looking for facts then you don’t want a device that takes everything that’s ever been said on the subject giving you the averaged out answer. My son showed me that if you add -ai at the end of every search it is possible to get better facts but this morning I forgot. It told me that the temperature on June 23rd 1882 in Maldon was a record breaking 32.3 degrees Celsius. I checked my printed sheets. Nope a high of 60 degrees Fahrenheit, equivalent to, an average for that year,  high of 15.5C.

Then my social media feeds went crazy. A school quite close to us had to close as it had been struck by lightning and you would have thought the teachers had been up all night personally throwing thunderbolts at the school the way some people reacted. 

Can we all agree that warm weather is nice but when it gets too darn hot people should try to be a bit nicer. 

Eurovision 2026

 The cheese is on the table for an evening of songs and silliness.

This year we are missing our chief Eurofan but we will be sticking to her scoring system. We score out of 10 for the song, costume, staging, vibes and performance, to give a score out of 50.  A few years ago we took out our marks for instruments because it was skewing the results but I'm told that this year is the year of the violin, which I'm looking forward to.

Raising a glass to Terry Wogan and singing a verse of the Floral Dance before we start. And we are live from Vienna. Hello Graham Norton. 

You've got to love a flag parade. The Greek Tiger man was very popular with the kids at school. Delta Goodrem is a name from the past, although I can't remember a single song.

I was going to say it's very operatic but Graham has suggested putting the dog in the kitchen. Not a bad ideas Graham, he is sniffing the cheese.

I do like her dress. but I bet she doesn't eat any cheese. I'm not so keen on his jumpsuit but it does make me want to eat Cadbury's chocolate. 

HOW CAN YOU VOTE BEFORE YOU'VE HEARD THE SONGS??!!!!

01. Denmark: Søren Torpegaard Lund - “Før Vi Går Hjem”

Keep them in the box, all that hip thrusting looks a bit scary. Oh no. He's in ther with blue farts. How did he get out of that? He's lost his shirt. 

6 8, 8, 7, 7 

02. Germany: Sarah Engels - “Fire”

Dressed like a swan in boots on another box. Girls in pants. Theres a lot of bum on show. I'm definitely getting old.  Lots of fire. She's very excited. 

5,

We are giving up scoring. Without the Eurofan, we've decided to go for gut feeling.

03. Israel: Noam Bettan - “Michelle”

You, me and the cameraman. More girls in pants. Do you remember the game Othello? I like the oh oh oh bit. He's a good singer. Not keen on the song.  2,

04. Belgium: ESSYLA - “Dancing on the Ice”

Quite boring. One boot and strings hanging from her costume. We didn't rate this highly 

05. Albania: Alis - “Nân”

I approve of insisting on subtitles. Is it dead mothers? Mother waits for you. You just have to die first. He's got his wings. That's quite sad. I quite liked it though. 

Diverse? Ethnically, diverse. Sexually diverse  but skin colour?

06. Greece: Akylas - “Ferto”

Graham says he's dressed as a cat but I think its' a Tiger. I like the bit with the soundwaves. I am old. The visuals are giving me a headache. Oooh a Scooter. Mor dead Mums. There's a theme here. I love  a Eurovision Granny It's making me dance.

07. Ukraine: LELÉKA - “Ridnym”

Pretty song, Weird gloves and a shredded dress. 28 second long note is quite impressive. Windswept and instantly forgettable. 

Well that was boring. Let;s hope it was to facilitate a complicated set change.

08. Australia: Delta Goodrem - “Eclipse”

I can't remember a single Delta Goodrem song.  Oooh I love a harp. She's an actual star. A gold piano. That was quite Les Dawson. That's quite impressive staging. Getting up on that piano in those heels was very impressive. 

Another drink for Terry. 

09. Serbia: LAVINA - “Kraj Mene”

Sword man. Impressive epaulets. Jon Snow on guitar. He wrote his own song, we are impressed by that. I like a bit of thrash metal. Oh, they're done. They put everything into that. 

10. Malta: AIDAN - “Bella”

Home grown malteser. Graham, please stop. I'm full of cheese there's no room for chocolate. Bond. I really like this song but his outfit is giving me the ick. The perspex box is popular. It's not a very modern song, which is why I like it. I would like that to win and I want Maltesers. 

11. Czechia: Daniel Zizka - “CROSSROADS”

All those mirrors have broken the camera. Another forgettable song but don't all these performers have absolute powerhouse voices

12. Bulgaria: DARA - “Bangaranga”

Creepy masks. I'd like to see the OAP homes add that choreography to their chairobics. The set has the vibe of a 1970s cop show. It's catchy but quite repetitive

13. Croatia: LELEK - “Andromeda”

The handmaids tale. Are they singing about Manchega? Our Manchega was very nice, Graham was right. Very impressive harmonies.

14. United Kingdom: LOOK MUM NO COMPUTER - “Eins, Zwei, Drei”

There's something a little Madness about this or Bad Manners. I know it won't win but I quite like it and he's working the crowd. 

15. France: Monroe - “Regarde!”

Deal or No Deal theme music to start. What a voice. I'm imagining Marie Antoinette singing as she walks to the gallows. She's very young to have a voice like that. I hope she gets a Verdi opera next.

I think I'm the only one in the house still watching even the dog has gone in the garden.

16. Moldova: Satoshi - “Viva, Moldova!”

Where is Moldova?  This is bugging me. It reminds me of something and I can't think what. Very catchy.

17. Finland: Linda Lampenius x Pete Parkkonen - “Liekinheitin”

A violinist who won't be silenced. I don't think this will sin but I can see why it will be the bookie;s favourite. Squatting violinsts always get a lot of attention. And he set fire to his house to get away from her.  Oh, Graham. We agree.

18. Poland: ALICJA - “Pray”

Scrap metal bust holder. Can I pray that it will be over soon?

19. Lithuania: Lion Ceccah - “Sólo Quiero Más”

I bet that make up is a bugger to get off. I think he needs some WD40. More impressive epaulets. Like an old film. Pain. He might want more but I think I've had enough.Thank you humanity. Oh dear.

20. Sweden: FELICIA - “My System”

I thought it would happen more. After Covid I was surprised at how few people remained attached to their masks. I thought it would become a fashion accessory for kids when they became teens but I really don;t understand why you'd choose to wear one to sing. You're in my head my heart my body parts. That's a weird lyric. 

21. Cyprus: Antigoni - “JALLA”

She has a very shiny body. Jala Hopa. Twelve points from Greece.

22. Italy: Sal Da Vinci - “Per Sempre Sì”

Italy won our cheese contest. I wonder how the song will do.

The dancing is great. I like the song. Our family are in a wedding era, so maybe we are biased. The bride with an Italian flag inside her skirt. Very Strictly, meets Bucks Fizz.

23. Norway: JONAS LOVV - “YA YA YA”

Why do leather trousers put me off so much. This sounds like a rape song. It might be the leather trousers talking. It's a catchy song and he has a good voice with a sandy tache 

24. Romania: Alexandra Căpitănescu - “Choke Me”

Graham says this is about being suffocated by self doubt. Let's see. She's powering the guitars with her umbillica chord. All I need is your love. I want him to choke me. Hmmm. If Evanescence were into hondage. That action wasn;t a metaphorical choking.  It was a good performance but not lyrics that I loved. 

25. Austria: COSMÓ - “Tanzschein”

The final song!!!!! I love Eurovision but I'm always excited for the final song. I've never got my dance licence. I have two left feet. I love this dance, though. I might add it to the year 5/6 show. It's very jiggy.

Our favourites are Bulgaria Greece France, Italy, Australia, Finland, Malta and Norway  But we suspect that Australia might win. 

I don't know how people pick.

Save all your kisses for me by Lordy has been my favourite thing of the evening. 

Well, those viewer votes really do change things. phew. Well done Bulgaria. Bangeabangra!

Aphorisms

 I can’t remember how old I was when I looked up the word aphorism in the dictionary and wondered why it wasn’t a word I knew, despite living with an expert aphorist. 

My dad had a short, pithy, often witty or rhyming phrase ready for every situation. 

Most were designed to breed resilience. A quick ‘suck it up and move on’ reminder. In the face of these linguistic gems it was impossible to give up. More and more often I find myself with my Dad’s voice in my head seconds before the words erupt from my own mouth. 

“It’s not the cough that’ll carry you off. It’s the coffin they’ll carry you off in,” puzzles every child that coughs in my face. 

“Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” pops out often when I’m talking to colleagues that have had a bad day.  Sometimes, if everything feels hopeless I remind them that working is like being in prison and as they said in Porridge, you have to look for the little wins. And I’ll say, “Little wins, Godber, little wins.”

And it goes on. Mostly, these are phrases I aim at myself. 

“Never complain, never explain,” when I make a mistake, which is so hard when something has gone wrong. When playing the church piano has turned into the nightmare where you are actually sitting naked in front of a whole congregation looking stupid, you want to explain but, “Empty vessels make the most noise.” Then, as I start to spiral and consider setting light to the piano, “Hon i soit qui mal y pense,” and I am filled with shame for my evil thought. 

Sleepless nights, shame and embarrassment follow and I really do want to explain that a piano that suddenly refuses to play notes is a tricky beast but, “ A bad workman blames his tools.” I argue with the voice in my head. I tell it that sometimes the tool is bad which is even harder for a bad workman like me. 

“Don’t say sorry unless you mean it!” The voice says and I want to argue that I am sorry but I know therein lies a madness loop. 

“You’ll eat a bushel full of dirt before you die,” randomly appears to break the sorry cycle and I breathe waiting to start a perfectly fine day. 

Enriched Geraniums

 “But, the world”, I wrote when I started blogging again. The fact that we are still living in ‘interesting times’ should have driven me to the laptop, fingers flying across the keys in horror. This didn’t happen.

A few days before it kicked off my son emerged and said, “There’s going to be a war. They’ve closed airspace.”

The Long Suffering Husband glued himself to the news and I Pollyanna-ed my way through. To Pollyanna is a verb I use because it was how I was described as a child, someone who was eternally optimistic in the face of disaster, like the story book character, who I could be for book day dressing up without the anxiety it causes me. But that’s another story.

“Yeah, it’s fine. The west has bombed Iran before. It’ll be fine,” I reassured and when scared people in my house asked why I thought Trump was doing it, instead of saying who knows why Trump does anything, I said, “He doesn’t want them to enrich geraniums.”

No matter how hard I try to say the correct word, like someone who always says pacifically, when they are talking about a particular not a peaceful thing, I am unable to say the word uranium aloud. It always comes out as weapons grade geranium.

Now Trump is cross with us because we won’t get involved in his self-imposed chaos causing antics. He has said that Kier Starmer is no Churchill and although Starmer hasn’t bothered replying, which is sensible because madmen twist words I do wish he’d replied, “I’d rather jaw jaw than war war!” He could even have told Trump that he likes geraniums and that would have made as much sense.

Hold onto your hats folks. It looks like we are in for a wild ride, especially if they send all those ex-pats back from Dubai, as many of them will vote for our own madman, who has already described the PMs refusal to take us into a war where we look for geraniums of mass destruction as “pathetic.”

I sometimes wonder who has them now. My Nan used to grow them on her windowsill. Huge red blousy flowers and a scent that would knock you off your feet when you entered the room. 

AI terrifies me

 “It’s the hill I’m prepared to die on,” I tell people when they insist that AI is brilliant. “I can write. I don’t need a computer to do it for me.”

People laugh, roll their eyes, convinced they are witnessing a dinosaur staring at the meteor of her own demise. 

In a meeting for music teachers, an AI expert from a European university joined us on Zoom to explain how we could use AI. He said that we could ask it to write a song about Romans (because there aren’t enough of those already) and took us through the weirdly specific prompts we would have to give it. At the end of the confusing stream of commands in different types of brackets, he played us two examples, one of which he admitted was terrible and the other, which was also terrible but he was very excited about. No participant had their camera on by this stage, so it was impossible to tell if I was the only dinosaur in the virtual room. 

At the end, we were all asked to say what experience of AI we had and people mumbled and appeared terrified to say that they, as creative people, could do this stuff quicker and the idea of writing computer code was alien to them. Instead, they said things like, “Well..um….I haven’t yet…I really should…”

I read the room and kept quiet. 

The implication was clear. This is the revolution and you embrace it or die. 

It is impossible to avoid now. Every Google search gives you an AI version, Canva insists it can design your poster better than you and your racist grandad probably has a virtual 12 year old girlfriend, telling him that white supremacy is the natural order of the world (That is Grok, right?)  Even Word’s annoying paperclip has morphed into the AI Co-pilot. 

I am most concerned because any LLM will take human bias and amplify it. (Read Laura Bates new book if you care about women’s rights and want to be truly terrified). Ask Chat GPT to give you a random number between 1 and 10 and more often than not it will give you 7 because there is a very slight human bias towards that number. It is also a brilliant liar and gaslighter.

Over the last few days, I’ve been reading Virginia Giuffre’s posthumously published book, Nobody’s Girl. It is brilliantly written and the ghost writer is not hidden, which I suppose can happen when the subject becomes an actual ghost. 

As I was reading, I had questions. There were facts I wanted to check, ideas I couldn’t reconcile, coupled with an enormous amount of horror and sadness. It’s not a story anyone will want to believe. My questions were complex and were taking more than one internet search to get the answers. 

At one point in the book she says that authorities have told her that there is a credible threat to her life, black vans are outside her home, shining lights through her windows, and she says that she told friends that if something happened to her then they should know it wasn’t an accident because she wasn’t suicidal. If I had only kept on reading, the question I had would have been answered but instead all I could think was , “Why?”

So, I asked Chat GPT. An internet search had only brought up articles about the Royal-formally-known-as-Prince’s arrest. 

I asked, Based on Virginia Giuffre assertion in her book, Nobody’s Girl, that she is not suicidal and that if anything happened to her it wouldn’t be an accident, why is everyone so certain that she killed herself?

ChatGPT responded, ‘There is no verified information that Virgina Giuffre has died. As of the latest publicly available reporting she is alive. If you’ve seen posts suggesting otherwise they are either rumours  misinformation or speculative commentary circulating online.” 

A further spewing issued forth, explaining things like confirmation bias and emotional reasoning. It did offer to check my sources.

So I replied, Wow! Are you sure about that?

This was a huge conspiracy theory that I had not expected. 

The reply was hilarious. 

“Yes - based on credible reporting from multiple major news outlets and encyclopaedic sources Virginia Giuffre died on April 25th 2025 and her death has widely been reported as suicide by police and family. It’s not just internet chatter or rumours - mainstream news and reference sites have documents this,”

It also listed all the places where this information is available. I couldn’t help laughing at the yes. Gaslighting, at its finest.

I challenged. 

But you said there is no verifiable information that the has died and she is alive. I’confused that you appear to have given two contradictory statements.”

ChatGPT was contrite but unrepentant. 

“You’re absolutely right to call that out - thank you for doing so. I gave you two contradictory answers……. The cannot both true and that inconsistency is my mistake. What happened is this: 

I didn’t read on. Gaslighting I could take, Mansplaining not so much. 

If only I had continued to read the book then I would have discovered that health problems an estrangement with her husband and a suicide attempt after the statement about not being suicidal were clues to why her death is believed to be not suspicious. 

I don’t know what arsholes are made of…

 My family are still laughing at a question at a book quiz we went to a few years ago. The round was on famous quotes. Book quizzes are always run by inherently shy people who are prone to a slight mumble. The answer to the question was obviously Wuthering Heights but we puzzled over it. 

“I don’t know, it’s an odd one. I mean who would say, ‘Whatever arseholes are made of, his and mine are the same.’ It’s weird.”

“Maybe, Lady Chatterley. He was obsessed with bum holes.”

“It sounds more modern. Maybe it’s a Sally Rooney, her characters are all arseholes.”

We heard a person on the next table say that they didn’t know where it was from but it was one of the quotes suggested for weddings and she had briefly considered it, being a bookish person. Peculiar, we thought. 

It wasn’t until the answers were given we realised that we had misheard ‘our souls’ as ‘arseholes’. 

I was surprised because I had loved reading Wuthering Heights as a teenager. I didn’t think it was a love story, though. For me, it was a story of longing, class, situations that you know aren’t right but you know no better. It was my first experience of an unreliable narrator, which I loved (the sister).

So, it was with a little trepidation that I went to see the new film. I knew it wouldn’t represent the book I knew as people had said that it was raunchy. I try not to get upset by interpretations of domestic violence as sexy but I knew it was a risk. 

I fell asleep. It’s not uncommon for teachers to do this in school holidays. It’s a warm dark room and you have been given permission to turn off your fully alert status for a week.  I missed all of the sex, except the horse bridal part. 

Heathcliff had just returned, the Long Suffering Husband said, quite loudly, “Poldark!”and the next thing I knew Bridgerton was on the screen. Quick naps can leave you quite confused. 

At the end, the LSH confirmed that I hadn’t missed much missed all the sex but according to him, it was only a ‘montage of fully clothed thrusting’. 

“But did we learn what arseholes are made of?” I asked. 

Apparently not. 

Distraction Redaction

 Yes, it’s true. I know how to spend my free time. I have begun reading through the Epstein files that have been released and, obviously, I already have some thoughts.

My first thought is, “Those poor girls!” 

Then I start to wonder why it isn’t the first thought of everyone. Why is it that the release of these files hasn’t been another stark warning. Women can be treated like commodities and some people do horrendous things to younger, poorer, less powerful people (particularly women and girls) and those of us who stand by, shrug and say, “Yeah but..” need to start to stand up and say that it’s not right. 

I think that we are complicit and that is uncomfortable. How many years did we laugh at ‘Randy Andy’ newspaper headlines? Celebrate his relationships with young models? Imply that Harvey Weinstein’s casting couch was the best way to get into acting? We never said that it wasn’t right. We hung on every tabloid word, waited for the next instalment, delighted in every salacious detail. 

I don’t think the Epstein files that have been released by the DOJ are a huge cover up, although, some of the press conferences and other releases by Pam Bondi don’t smell good. 

These files are the paper trail that gave enough evidence to prosecute Epstein and Maxwell. There may be more work the DOJ needs to do to be able to get justice for the victims with regards to their abusers but the law is clunky and difficult and the rights of victims and the accused need to be treated carefully. 

I hope that the release of these files will encourage us to put pressure on the authorities to seek prosecutions. 

One file, I came across was an email to an FBI agent from another listing names of men they wanted to do further checks on. It said, “Take these names and build derogatory on them.” That means do all the background checks for any negative associations. Trump was at the top of that list, along with Weinstein and Prince Andrew. One was specifically mentioned for being present when a girl was raped and another for their involvement in a Ponzi Scheme.

Now, this is the thing that is getting most people het up. It’s not the sexual abuse (although that’s a way of getting interest because we all still love a salacious detail) It’s the abuse of power and money. The Royal formally known as Prince has abused his privilege - we can’t stand that! Peter Mandelson has abused the trust the government placed in him to make a personal fortune. How very dare he. But do we think powerful men have stopped trading in girls for their perverted sexual pleasure, favours and kick backs?. Do we honestly believe that poor kids won’t fall for the offer of nice things they could only dream of? No. And while we’re all nudging and winking at each other nothing will ever change. The girl-traders continue to set up rooms with unbelievable details such as dentist chairs and masks on the wall, so the victims seem unreliable narrators. 

I also have thoughts about the redactions. These files were never meant for public viewing and if the prosecution and detectives had done their job properly no one would ask to see them. But the victims thought there was more we needed to know. The DOJ have continued to be bad at their job, redacting names that should be left in and failing to protect victims. However, focusing on the redactions is a distraction. It’s another thing that takes us away from remembering it’s about those poor girls. 

School Holidays

How lucky am I to have a week off?

Think of the poor parents of the children I teach who get no time off from their kids. How awful! 

A parent did say this to me last week and another stopped me in the High Street today to ask if I was enjoying my half term because she was already run ragged. 

I’m getting old and I care less about what parents think of me, so I told them to come back to me when they were dealing with 30 at once then we could talk holidays. 

When my children were younger, I loved school holidays in the same way I do now. The time pressure is off. If they or you want to stay in PJs all day and watch rubbish on a small screen then you can. If you forget lunch and only eat cheese and apples that’s fine too. If you are still reading at 3am, who cares? You can start new projects, go for walks in the rain (because if most of the population are forced to take holiday at the same time then you can guarantee it will rain) or spend an hour tidying your sock drawer without worrying that there is something better you should be doing. 

You could also read the Epstein files and think about blogging, if you have a strong stomach. 

I’m honestly not complaining about my job and trying to convince you that the ‘long’ holidays are not a perk but if you bumped into someone who worked in a coffee shop on a day off would you really sarcastically tell them that you had made your own coffee that morning? Maybe. I have no idea and am constantly confused by the queues outside the drive-through Costa.

“Do you think they have a kettle?” I always ask the Long Suffering Husband. 

A week off is just what the doctor ordered too because I’ve been coughing up a lung for about 4 weeks. 

I do have it easy compared with most teachers. There’s not a huge pressure on music teachers to record data, keep up with the latest research or schemes (although I do because I’m interested) and I only work 3 days in school so my weekends are always my own. 

A teacher I know has just dropped to 4 days, so she can do all the school work on her day off and only has to work weekends at report writing time. 

“That’s crazy. Isn’t it crazy?” I said

She blinked at me.

“I mean in any other job if you said you’d taken a pay cut of one day a week so that you could work for free in that day then people would think it’s crazy.”

She only shrugged, not getting my point. 

“But I don’t have to work at the weekend,” she said. 

Parents: please enjoy spending time with your children. Take it from a woman with adult kids. You don’t get that time back. There are no do-overs, no chances to do things better if you think you could. What you do now lasts forever, so enjoy it as much as you can. 

Teachers: enjoy time with your own children Give them what you can’t in the school week, even if your children are grown ups, dogs, cats, plants or books. 

Always keep away from children

 Whenever I walk into a room a disembodied voice says, “Always keep away from children.” It has become a running joke because other washing powder adverts are available. I never walk in to the ones that say, “Always keep out of reach of children” or other warnings about not letting them accidentally foam up the inside of their mouths. 

I don’t heed the advice, though. After an evening of supposedly teaching the flute but really talking about the lifespan of a hamster vs a gerbil, girl fights at school, and why the thumb key on the flute isn’t called the God key and therefore the Bb key could be called the baby Jebus (sic) key, the cold I’ve had for three and a half weeks that was getting better came back and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

I walked in to tell the Long Suffering Husband, the voice from the telly said, “Always keep away from children,” and the LSH agreed. 

I have things to say about the Epstein files but now I have to go and find a Pirate costume. So, I will just leave this thought to people who are looking for a sexual thrill.

“Always keep away from children.”

Stand by or stand up?

 I stopped blogging. I got inside my head, worried about what people would think about me, broke into a cold sweat imagining conversations people would be having about my tendency to overshare. I was also trying to be a little serious with ‘proper’ writing and feared a blog would hurt those chances. 

But.

The world.

I can’t say nothing.

In the end, I have decided to swallow the fear because you have to decide if you are going to stand by or stand up.

A few weeks ago, I watched the film, Nuremberg. It’s a stunning movie. I sat, silent, gripped. A film, based on a book that’s based on another book: 22 Cells by the Psychiatrist who was responsible for the mental health of the Nazis due to stand trial at Nuremberg. In the film, they alluded to the fact that the psychiatrist, Douglas M Kelly, was never the same, his book flopped and he suffered from life-ending depression. Five minutes after the film finished, my son and I looked at each other, blinking and said, “We have to read that book.” We did and I would recommend it if you want a view on what is happening in the world today. 

‘Oh come on,’ Mrs All Trades, I can hear you thinking,‘It’s not as bad as that.’ 

I don’t want to be a fear-monger but there are definitely parallels. 

Thinking about what could stop it and watching the ICE murders in America I came to a conclusion that only a small proportion of Germans were true Nazis and probably the same small proportion were activists, fighting for regime change. Most people, were, like me, in the middle. Us stodgy middlers think we have no influence but we do. We fall into one of two camps. Those that stand by and those that stand up. It’s subtle and you would think it makes little difference because both positions are inactive. 

If more Germans said, ‘Das ist nicht richtig!” then things might have been very different. From reading 22 Cells, I think this is the subtle shift that happened in the UK. 

When my children were born I decided they needed a family tree and discovered my husband had an uncle by marriage called Adolph. When I expressed surprise, my husband only ever known of him as Dolf, my mother-in-law told me that they had been Blackshirts and shrugged, as if were nothing. 

At that time, post-first world war, a lot of people were scared and dissatisfied. They were looking for someone to blame. Some rich UK people thought that aligning themselves with the Nazi party would make them richer. But most people were somewhere in the middle. They laughed at the idea or shrugged their shoulders when asked what they thought of it all.

Then Joachim Von Ribbentrop (one of the Nazis later to stand trial at Nuremberg) visited the UK. He was a champagne salesmen and was well connected to the uk elite and therefore seen as the right person to bring the UK on board. However, he made a fatal error. Instead of bowing to the King and following protocol he gave a Nazi salute and shouted, ‘Heil Hitler.’ As his shiny black booted heels clicked together those standing by stood up. ‘That’s not right,’ they said and a possible history shifted. 

My blog will be used for standing up, exploring my thoughts in more depth and hoping, that if you read this, you’ll stand up with me.

Beware of falling squirrels

 Endings are hard. Us humans are not really designed to cope with endings. We think too much. The Long Suffering Husband used to have a motto: change is bad. Like Marvin the Paranoid Android he would walk around the house muttering this to himself and the rest of us would smile indulgently. I’ve noticed that since retirement he has completely reversed this philosophy and has become a thrill seeker, changing our walking route home from town without the slightest pre-planning. 

Endings in schools can be emotional affairs. The anticipatory grief of people leaving hangs in the air, while the pressure to get everything done is ever present. The end of every school year feels a little as though you know that you are dying. You have a need to get your affairs in order, clean your classroom, complete all the paperwork, shred enough paper to build nests for a million squirrels. If you are a music teacher then everything must be celebrated in song. You meet other music teachers who say, “It’s terrible. Worse than Christmas.”

Every performance triggers the stress response. Adrenaline and cortisol levels rising with each one, never quite having time to get back to normal. 

While it is all happening, I’m fine. And before you ask, that is perfectly fine. Really. I’m annoying: Hyper, loud, running around like a squirrel on acid but I’ve got this. I can do anything. Ask me! Honestly, I’ve got time for absolutely anything else you’d like to throw at me. I’m walking 8 miles a day, swimming 100 lengths. Sleep? Oh who needs more than a couple of hours a night? But I’m also perfectly calm, yogic breathing keeps me looking serene. 

The dog, however, suffers from 2nd hand anxiety. He gets twitchy, growls at ghosts and is on the lookout for squirrels falling from trees. 

This has happened. Once, when he was a puppy, on the path to Morrisons a squirrel did fall from a tree and land at his feet, so maybe I can forgive him his attitude on that path at the moment. He can sense a hyper-squirrel nearby (even though it’s me) and he’s waiting for the weird thing to happen. 

Yesterday morning, as he was scuttling sideways and growling at a leaf, a woman appeared. She was coughing.

“Elp,” she wheezed, “I’m choking on a cockle.”

She had tears in her eyes and her face was turning the colour of a Victoria plum. The dog growled at her, while I slapped her back.  Between us, we helped and she didn’t die but instead waved a fishy pot under my nose. 

“Cockles!” she told me, “I grabbed a pot from Morrisons for me protein.”

She didn’t wait for a response but bounced off like Tigger in leggings.

The dog looked at me. ‘That was weird,’ he said with his eyes. ‘I told you a squirrel could fall from a tree.’

Take it with a pinch of salt path

 Writers lie. It’s what we do; take a nugget of truth, bend it, stretch it and mould it into a slightly different shape. A published writer has spent so long honing that new shape into a marketable product that they barely recognise the original truth. Most, get away with it and others make a fat cheque (a phrase I’ve borrowed from Richard Osman who said how similar it sounds to fact check).

About 7 years ago a book came out that people of my class and generation loved. It was a true ‘pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ book with a little nature writing. It had a beautiful cover by Angela Harding (who is an amazing illustrator). It was one of those word of mouth runaway successes that publishers get very excited about. The author was probably paid a tiny advance and when middle England started passing onto their book club friends it eared out quickly. Have you read…? Everyone was asking. Such an uplifting story.

Like all bookworms, I couldn’t resist. As I was also attempting to walk away my problems it appealed but only a little. Writers may lie but they give themselves away too and I did not like the author. I took offence at a sense of entitlement that ran through, camping wherever she liked upset me for reasons I can’t explain. I don’t think I ever believed they were truly homeless or that this walk wasn’t only a lifestyle choice. I could be re-painting my feelings based on the latest revelations but as I haven’t read any more of her next books or even picked one up and flipped past the cover I suspect not. 

The story has been made into a film, which I told the Long Suffering Husband not to bother seeing and the author and her healthy looking husband, who 18 years ago was diagnosed with a terminal degenerative illness have been making me twitch as they appeared on every TV sofa. 

It was only a matter of time before public opinion shifted. There had been rumours for a while that she hadn’t been pleasant to work with and expected a lot from others for nothing in return. So, it was no surprise when the Observer published an article exposing the truth; that this was not a wholly accurate true story. 

People who believed every word are feeling stupid and people who have been trying to walk away their health problems are disillusioned. And I’m cynical. 

The publishers could have known all along and allowed (encouraged) the release of the story. They can get their money back (she will have signed a contract that promises that it’s a true story) and all the people who have never heard of it will want to read it. 

It’s not the best of its type. But don’t  buy the book (unless it’s from the charity shop), even if you have severe FOMO. Take the walk and maybe stay in hotels. Read nature writers like James Caton and Melissa Harrison but if you do read it, take it with a huge pinch of salt. 

Weird elbows, purple feet and overwhelm

 We are lurching towards the end of the school year, the end is in sight but for the music teacher this is the crazy time, especially in a primary school, where whispering day has just happened. Whispering day is when staff are told individually what they are doing next year and emotions run high, which is terrible for a busy empath. Although the music teacher is personally exempt from these conversations (who else would want to listen to 30 recorders at once?) other people’s feeling are disquieting. It’s a period of concerts, shows, exams and emotions. And, boy, a mix of emotions come from the children too. Change can be difficult.  

This year, I’ve added ‘mother of the bride era’ into the mix and the result hasn’t been pretty. Wedding dress shopping is a weird thing for someone who detests shopping, hates feeling trapped and is always terrified of saying the wrong thing. This is extreme shopping; a dangerous sport that requires a hard hat and a harness. Your small uncomfortable pack arrives at the door at a pre-determined time, presses the buzzer and you are whisked inside, door locked behind you, or ushered down into the basement. To relax you into captivity they offer Prosecco and heart-shaped jelly beans. Then your baby disappears behind a curtain and comes out in a white Princess dress. Should you have read less ‘happily ever after’ stories? A prickle of loss runs through you before you remind yourself that she lives round the corner, is already living with her Prince and the dress will change absolutely nothing. 

‘You look good in anything,’ you say, ‘You could wear a bin bag.’

Although, instinctively, you know you’ve said the wrong thing, you repeat this for every dress. It’s your baby. No mother thinks their baby looks anything but perfect. You refrain from asking if it has pockets. Of course it doesn’t! 

Then she steps out in tears. She’s found the one and you are speechless. You don’t say bin bag and everyone is happy. All in all, it was a much less painful experience than you had expected but you do feel odd. An awkward moment occurs where you both turn into huggy people for two seconds but end up bumping heads and resolve never to repeat that or talk about it ever again (sorry). 

The next day you have a weird urge to lock yourself in a darkened room and rock but you can’t. You are a music teacher and you have two enormous concerts coming up. 

From the outside, I may have appeared calm, except to the Long Suffering Husband who suffered more than usual, but I had reached my limit.

“I can’t do this. It’s too much!” I wailed at the LSH, throwing the music that I’d just printed upside down across the room.

Now, that the concerts are over and they were fine, (That’s really fine and well received, not perfectly fine, said with an eye roll.) I can reflect on a bonkers week with a smile. 

The point I went from overwhelm to swan happened because of a bird and two children. It was Wednesday; the day of the first concert. I had woken up with a familiar tightness in my chest and a sensation that my head might explode before I took my next breath. I selected a ‘Yoga for when you are spiralling video’ and pretzeled myself into a zen-like state (zen enough to get dressed for work). I took my coffee into the garden and noticed a female blackbird sitting at the bottom of the pleached beech hedge, pipping furiously. My garden is messy, which makes it wonderfully overwhelming for wildlife. Her beak was full of dead daffodil leaves I hadn’t found time to remove. Soft, browning fronds weighed her down but she couldn’t bear to put her prize down. Eventually, her partner hopped down from the tree and pipped back at her. The language was terrible. His foul words of encouragement seemed to help as she managed to summon all her strength to fly, still with all of the nesting material and without any help.

A line from a song in the school play popped into my head, ‘Ah-ha, metaphors, that’s something we’ve learnt,’ and I thought that if Mrs Blackbird can do it, then so can I.

In school, children noticed my change of attitude and took it as an opportunity to say whatever they liked. 

‘Why are your feet purple?’

I uncrossed my legs

‘They’re back to normal. Phew! Why did they do that? It’s not right? Are you sure you’re OK?’

Not questions I could answer. 

‘Oh god! They’ve gone again! Look!’

I don’t have the nicest feet and it was a little uncomfortable to have 30 smallish people prodding at them but I lacked the energy or will to stop them. 

In the next class, the children were feeling end of termish themselves. It’s a touchy class. They like a hug, leaning into you, stroking your legs when you’re not looking and it gets worse when they are tired. 

‘Why are your elbows all spongy?”

I didn’t know they were. Bony would be a more usual description.

‘Err. Weird. Feel.’ 

Laughter erupted around the room as a few brave souls stepped up to test the boy’s theory. Before I knew it I was surrounded by small fingers trying to wobble my elbow skin. It has left me strangely paranoid and wanting to ask my trusted friends to touch my elbows but that would be even weirder.

It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously when you work in a school.

Now the two big stressful things are over I wonder if I can maintain energy until the end. My brain is telling me I’m done but there are still two weeks to go. Will my purple feet and spongy elbows cope without the overwhelm. Maybe I’ll take a tip from Mrs Blackbird who is now in her beautiful nest, pipping out orders. 

3am thinking

 I’m not alone. Billions of women are awake at 3am - thinking. These are not useful thoughts. They are pointless considerations. Sleep is the time when your brain goes into filing clerk mode but at my age the filing cabinet is a bashed-up, green, metal affair, with sticky drawers and some sections so full there is no room to cram another piece of information.

This is when your brain wakes you up.

“Excuse me,” it says, feigning a politeness that quivers on the edge of irritation, “but where, the fuck, am I meant to put this?”

Bleary-eyed you consider the problem. Not least the one of your brain swearing at you in the middle of the night. 

“Well,” you tell it, “Maybe you could not put it anywhere. Just leave it. We all know it’s not important.”

Brain huffs. Brain thinks everything is important. You never know when you might need this again is its motto. Sometimes Brain wonders if it should turn the motto into Latin to give itself more gravitas, so that you take its 3am problems more seriously. Brain then wonders why it doesn’t know Latin. It swears at you again for not learning it when you were younger, before it begun to resemble Swiss cheese. 

After a merry-go-round of insults Brain finally comes back to the original problem and tells you, once again, that it is important and that you are getting no more sleep until you’ve decided where to put it. You get up. Brain is determined. 

After an hour, you and Brain are no further along. 

“Why don’t you blog?” Brain likes a blog, it sees it as an extension to the filing cabinet; a Big Yellow Box Company storage solution. You tell Brain that people will know that you have really lost the plot when they hear the problem. You remind Brain that not everything is important but Brain only swears at you in Latin and wonders where it learnt ‘filis canis’ before looping round the question of whether there are any better Latin insults than ‘son of a dog.’

The problem that Brain is struggling with is where to put something it overheard in the swimming pool. Really, it’s nothing. It is not the answer to the destruction of all humanity and although it’s a little odd and quite funny it really isn’t important.

The thing it heard?

A lad, probably in his early 20s, jumped in the pool and shouted, “Fuck me, that’s wet.”

Thank you Brain.

Psycho Pete

 Well played Robinsons Squash. Your advertisers are amazing. Everyone is talking about your drink. Parents are rushing out to fill their children with citric acid,  aspartame, saccharine, potassium sorbate, sodium metabisulphate, cellulose gum,  sucrose acetate isobuterate,  glycerol esters of wood resins and carotene colouring, so they can have a laugh around the kitchen table after a difficult day. Teachers are spitting feathers. At the end of a very long underfunded year, where behaviour is challenging (a teacher euphemism) and parental support is patchy this advert has jangled a few frayed nerves. 

If you want a product to be talked about there is nothing better than exploiting a division that already exists, especially if you can set two large vociferous groups against each other. The arguments will run and run.

You might expect me to be part of the loud teacher group, as my children are grown. I could add my voice to those calling for the advert to be banned, point out that a call home isn’t something to be laughed at. 

However, the advert did make me laugh.

I’m good at filling in the back story.

We all know that child. He’s Psycho Pete. He has squash in his water bottle and no matter how often you point out that a water bottle should only contain water he spills the  sweet sticky liquid on someone else’s work on a daily basis. You suspect it’s not quite the accident he claims but Pete is in it for the shits and giggles. 

The advert shows Psycho Pete’s mum at work when a call from school flashes up on her mobile screen. “He’s done what?” she asks. She is cross but unsurprised. She picks PP up and tells the teacher not to worry, that she would be having serious words with him. They go to the car in silence, she is fuming. They get out of the car, still fuming and silent. They sit at the kitchen table and she gets squash from the cupboard, pours them both a drink and they start to laugh. 

We don’t know if there was a conversation in the car and I’m assuming that the advertisers think that is where she told him off and, maybe found out it was a minor misdemeanour that was quite funny. Yes, even PP does things that are funny, although they do not end in a call home. 

In my head, though, the conversation went something like this.

PPM: I’m so embarrassed. I had to leave work again early. 

PP: It wasn’t my fault.

PPM: O-kaaay

PP: No. Matthew smells.

PPM: Right….

PP: I think he eats poo.

PPM: I’m sure…

PP: He leant over me and his breath. Poo. Stinky. Wow! And it wasn’t my fault. The scissors were in my hand.

PPM: But in his eye? Really Peety?

PM: He looked so funny. Running around, with the scissors sticking out, shouting, “Oh my eye!”

PPM: Your teacher is really cross. It’s embarrassing for me to keep getting calls. Why do you do this to me?

Obviously, that’s all the time there is for conversation because they don’t live far enough away from school to really justify using a car.

My admiration for the advertisers who have got people talking their client’s product is huge but I do wonder if it’s also a cautionary tale. Does squash turn children into feral beasts?

We were never surprised

Swearing is frowned upon if you are a teacher. You are not allowed to wander the corridors muttering fuck it under your breath. Your job is to shape small minds and managing the language they are allowed to use is another unpaid expectation. 

The teacher’s pay award is in the news again. The crazy situation, where a pay review body sets the rise and the government funds it, except they haven’t funded it fully for years now. This year, the body awarded 4% (not unreasonable when inflation is at 3.5% and there were years of pay freezes) and the government said they would only fund 2.8%. Teachers threatened to strike. Honestly, there aren’t many who wouldn’t give up a pay rise if they could have paper, pencils, whiteboards and pens, and glue sticks. This morning the government found a little extra down the back of the sofa and are now funding 3% and offering consultants to help schools make efficiency savings. More cuts. There are words for this we could teach children. 

Primary school teachers are often navigating the minefield of language.

Umm Miss she just said the C word. 

Which C word?

(Child looks at her foot, which she has lifted up to toe and is twisting awkwardly)

It’s OK. You can tell me you won’t be in trouble.

As a teacher, you hope it’s ‘Christmas’ - a banned word until December. 

It can be hard to keep a straight face when a four year old’s go-to phrase is Holy Crap. 

You tell them there are ‘home only’ words and that they are not Batman. 

The children are confused. I had a conversation with two thoughtful 6 year olds this week and it has made me think k about how much life has changed. 

C1: What the hell!

C2: Is that a swear?

Me: Yes, it is really. Not something we should say at school.

C1: (singing) What the hell just happened.

C2: It was our Eurovision song

Me: Yes, I know. When I was at school it would have been a very rude thing to say. You’d have been in a lot of trouble and it wouldn’t have been in a single like that. 

C2: Oh God!

Me: We weren’t allowed to say oh God, either. Blasphemy was swearing and you might have been sent to the headteacher.

C1: (with a furrowed brow) What did you say if you were surprised 

Me: Just Oh. Or Oh dearie me, what a surprise.

They went away giggling, practising their oh-dearie-mes.

After they left, I thought about it a little more. 

The truth is we were rarely surprised. The Seventies were boring, predictable and small. If you wanted to be surprised you needed to go to the library and work your way through the Encyclopaedia Britanica. You knew what day of the week it was by what you had for tea. Everyone watched the same TV. There was no need for extreme language.

If I were a child now, navigating this inherently surprising world I would be using all the words and some of my own. 

Annual European Cheese Fest

 It is about to begin. Excitement fizzed among my colleagues yesterday.

'I can't wait!' 'I'm so looking forward to it.' 

As I was leaving, several people said, 'Enjoy yourself tomorrow,' and for a brief moment I was confused.

'Where am I going?' I nearly said, thinking that I had plans to stay on the sofa for most of the day. Books have been stacking up, although I was going to walk to town to forage for cheese.

It was a lightbulb moment. Eurovision! My favourite day of the year and my enthusiasm, it seems, is infectious.

Although I haven't been blogging much (because I'm editing a long piece of work and have decided that I am a terrible writer) I have been persuaded that my unhinged stream of consciousness is something that my colleagues need in their life.

I will, as the evening goes on be adding my thoughts and no doubt will quote the UK entry several times.

WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

For now, I'll leave you with a photo of our cheese.

Oh oh. We've fallen off a bridge. What a way to start.

The trophy is in one piece - for now.

Last year's winner. Channelling Florence Foster Jenkins in one of those fur hats we all had in the Seventies with bobbles on string. Followed by drumming and the competitors' parade. It's like the Hunger Games - our tributes look smiley. Graham says that every dancer in Switzerland is there but I think lots of people dance. Drummers, however....

UNITED BY MUSIC (I like that slogan)

I like Hazel - the one who refuses to wear high heels and is named after a nut.

Why lay it out in 3 groups of nine if there are 26? There is a lively discussion here about how weird it looks and how could you set it out better. Don't tell us we don't know excitement when we see it.

NORWAY

Fire. Dance moves, Interesting outfits. Almost chainmail. I'll be my lighter. His accent is very good. We think he might have been on the Voice. No Way = Norway.

There's bopping in our living room. Well done Allesandro.

LUXEMBOURG

Haven't qualified for Eurovision for 100s of years

Poupee de song - Puppet on a string vibes. I like it when they feature old ladies. Dr Who vibes. Sandie shaw on the screen. I like the velvet suit dancers. Poopy is getting a laugh here. This has great Eurovision vibes. OUtfit change - dance. This is great. She has a cracking voice. It's going to be hard this year.

ESTONIA

Tommy Cash. Espresso Machhiato - an Italian cliche. We are all laughing. Real Eurovision vibes. We love the dancing. This is a dance I'd like to learn. He's making himself laugh. No Stresso. la la la la la la la la.  

ISRAEL

Controversial - not in Europe but a big consumer of European TV, so it counts. There are other controversies that are not for this blog but I expect there will be protests. I'm not a fan of a ballad in this competition. It's boring. Black dress, long nails, sparkly staircase.  We are all giving points to the boring staircase. Not for us

LITHUANIA

It's got instruments - we usually give extra marks for real instruments but has anyone else lost the will to live? Kurt Cobain has been reincarnated. Straight jackets. Is the song about suicide? Oh bless him. He really doesn't want to be there.

SPAIN

Graham says she's a pro = seems a bit mean. She begins fully dressed but don't worry that doesn't last for long - maybe she is that kind of pro. 

Nice hat. She looks a bit like Melania - is the president of the USA missing a wife. Her train was just the dancers. Everytime she walks she looks as though her knees are buckling from under her. Diva diva diva diva.

The long note was popular in the room. That was a good leap and catch. Hair twirling celebration. 

UKRAINE

They are still at war. They look like they've sent their angels that were killed in the war. Drummer in powder blue. Star Trek badges. David Bowie on the USS Enterprise. The blackouts are interesting. We need someone who cares please leave. You can't knock the sentiment but it felt like two songs. 

Whipping up the crowd before the UK

UK

I really  like these girls. Their harmonies are tight and they are usually confident and they've worked hard but I can't be impartial.

Clutch my pearls. Skirt whipping off. Disney princesses riding the chandelier. Ethel Merman. If there's one think I'm not so keen on it's the change of time.  It's giving me the goosebumps on the back of my neck. Go us!

Drinking for Terry. My first love was Terry Wogan I wrote to him every week.

AUSTRIA

Falsetto in a shipwreck. One of us likes it. Tempest vibes. Arty. These songs can win and then you wonder why. I don't like the strobing and I'd never manage in a dance club. It will do well but I don't like it. 

ICELAND

Don't call them Jedward. The French teacher at school did a Eurovision lesson and the kids loved it and were singing it all afternoon. The boat is funny. The staging is really good. The ending is great. We are discussing whether it's our favourite. 

LATVIA

Never never never never. Never never fish can speak. Water nymphs, kelpies. Axolotls. It's a belly dancing tune. Those harmonies have an Armed Man vibe. Tails. Now they look like monkeys. How long did you keep a sea monkey alive? That was the most distressed my children had ever been. Hypnotic. We are all in a trance now. 

NETHERLANDS

Claude. We think he looks familiar. C'est la vie. It goes up it goes down. La la la la. Violins. He's a good performer. I'm engaged. That staging is cute with the mirror. The tears at the end were a bit much.

FINLAND

It's nice to see girls who eat. and she has an eye roll to envy. Wunderbar - not. Although, it has just been read in our house as Wonderbra. That was a shot - Im not sure we needed to see her vulva. This large mic stand is the only one she didn't throw away. She's giving it everything. 

She's coming - ugh! 

Graham is being a bit nice. 

CDs - Hazel is funny. She's going to buy an old car to listen to them.

ITALY

Subtitles are part of this song. He's sitting on his foot. He should be careful when he stands up. I've done that and pins and needles won't be fun on stage. He looks like a frill-necked lizard. He's borrowed Queen Elizabeth the first's make up. Why is his friend not credited. 

POLAND

She's 52 - Really. But those snow boots are impressive. Moths have been at her outfit. She's 52?

Glass boxes, a flood. She's singing about savlon. Can someone check her knees. She's 52! 

A woman of many talents. Violently violining. She's 52. Mother of dragons. 

Remember to enjoy them when you are young (not your children, Your knees. Cartilage doesn't last forerver.) She's 52!

GERMANY

Girl in pants. Falalala Falalalala. It's balalala - Electric cello. Crashed his cello. Another girl in pants. 

Boring.

GREECE

A bridge - or is she standing on a table? Someone forgot to sew up her sleeves. Death eater. She's a very good singer. But it is boring. The birds and staging is interesting. Warbler. She looks like she needs a week.

Costume change gets extra points but a bit late.

ARMENIA

This is the Long Suffering Husband's kind of music. I'm a survivor staying aliver. I'm a survivior full of saliva. He has goat poo all over him. The LSH has a man crush. He's just said that goat man is very fit. 

Staying aliver is making me laugh. That's a long note. We have to rate the costume on the pattern of goat poo. 

SWITZERLAND

Anyone want fondue? There's something about the quality of her voice that makes me want to melt some cheese. 

It's very brave to just sing with a couple of hand gestures. Just as we were saying it wasn't going to score highly she got angry. 

MALTA

We are looking forward to this. Serving KANT - Graham said - they eat this up - LSH said, 'I beg your pardon.'

They told her that she couldn't mention the German philospher. She said that it means sing but we know.

This is catchy. She's lost her dress. We know where her Kant is. You can't argue with the power of judgement. 

PORTUGAL

Miserable displacement song. They are nerdy men. It's a pet hate of mine - musicians who bang their foot to keep time. Just count in your head man! Calling the 1970s can you come and get your song and give it to David Soul. 

DENMARK

 It takes a few people to get her dress off. This leotard and thigh length boots look is very popular this year. I expect it will do well. She's got a great voice. Those dancers are bendy. Epic voice. 

Made in Switzerland - Can that win?

SWEDEN

Sauna and a mighty fine sausage. Tiksy Toksy. I like this dancing. I could do this dancing. Sauna. It would have won Eurovision about 10 years ago but when you compare it to the vocal performances of other acts it doesn't stand a chance. It makes me laugh. I can't see the judges voting for it. 

FRANCE

How much sand do you think she has in her knickers at the end of the song? The LSH says it's cork. Another beautiful woman who looks like she eats. Eurovision is a great role model for women. This is a very French entry from France. She shouldn't have had that chicken curry. Its about her being stuck in an egg time because she hasn't got enough time with her mum. Her daughter appearing at the end made it sad. Maman.

SAN MARINO

DJ - he's 52! He's at Solva woolen mill. He looks 52. David looks really ugly when he's chewing gum. There's a lesson. Even the most beautiful man rendered in marble looks bad blowing bubbles. God - My parent;s were right. Tutta l'italia. It's pick on Italy year. We like the chap playing the ocean drum. Not a big finish - a fizzle fart. Masks. Can you imagine San Marino hosting?

ALBANIA

That's a very straight fringe. I bet she's hot in gloves. He is there to hit the box. What has the box ever done to him? We are all doing the dance. She's taken over the box hitting. She does it with more wiggle, while he does a gollum impression. Haaaah. It's very Albanian.

One of them will win. That's the way it works. I wonder if Celine Dion is in her home country? They must have tried to get her. 

And the votes from the AllTrades household are:

Me: 1. Malta 2. Iceland 3. UK

LSH: 1. Iceland 2. Luxembourg and Sweden 3. France and Austria

DD: 1. Sweden 2. Iceland 3. Estonia

FSIL; 1. Iceland 2. Denmark 3. Malta

DS: 1. Iceland 2. Sweden 3. Malta

But we are always wrong. 

Time for more cheese.

Cheese coma.

VOTES

Three countries in and no points for the UK. Austria is doing well. I'm not keeping up. 

Thank you Luxembourg They gave the UK 6 points. We are breathing again. France is getting some of the 12 points.

And San Marino  2 points.

Ukraine like us because we give them guns. I'm not against political voting now. They gave us 10 points.

7 points from Norway. Another 7 points from Austria. 

12 points from Italy. Always liked Italian mice.

Another 2 from the woman from Portugal in a rug.

4 points from Denmark

It's really close. The 12 points are all over the place.

'2. Thanks Ireland, we're supposed to be friends' My family need to read more history.

Poland gave us a point.

After the jury votes. Austria in lead, with Switzerland in 2nd and UK 10th. 

Jedward aren't going home with nul points

There is no keeping up with how they show us the public votes. 

Malta 8 points - What the hell just happened?

Zero points for UK - Really?

That poor Austrian boy needs a wee.

Phew. Austria! Now let him go to the loo.

It's a complicated competition.

Legend

 One of the tricky things about holidays and teaching in your home town is the fame. It can be hard to be famous and I do not envy film stars. 

It’s not the shouts of your name, as you walk home from school, or even being told in the swimming pool about a recorder a parent has finally bought the child that I mind. That’s my fault for wanting to walk to work. In term time I expect all of that. However, during holidays I want to hide. I am (as we are encouraged to say now) overstimulated and disregulated (which even my spell checker knows isn’t a real word). In other words, I’m a brat. Miserable, grumpy, full of cold and forcing a smile for even people I genuinely like is a challenge. 

I need my space. 

I seek out places where children are unlikely to be. The Moot Hall with my favourite ghost, the records office, with its damp smell of the past, supermarkets in other towns. The Long Suffering Husband would have liked to have gone away but we didn’t manage to arrange it and it doesn’t always work. There have been times when walking on my favourite secluded beach in Pembrokeshire I’ve heard my name shouted, only to look at an embarrassed family or a small child winding itself around a parent’s legs, deeply regretting their choice. 

Children rarely care that you are incognito. A different set of clothes, a hat and a pair of sunglasses are catnip to their sleuthing powers. 

This holiday has been particularly challenging. I’ve been more bratty, sorry, I mean disregulated, than usual and while I’ve changed my pink bobble hat, am wearing a different coat and sunglasses the children have a lot to say about my apparent existence outside of school.

At least six times, so far in this holiday, I’ve heard, “Mrs AllTrades!”

This has been followed with an explanation to the adult they are with.

“That’s Mrs AllTrades she picked up the dinosaur poo!”

This has led to some interesting conversations with shop workers.

“No, it wasn’t dinosaur poo,” I tell a woman at a till, who is simultaneously crossing her legs and wiping her eyes. “I think it was fox. You know how they gorge themselves on the food waste bin and get diarrhoea? Well, it was outside the school gate.”

“And you picked it up?” The woman says, slightly gagging at the thought.

“Yeah. It was huge. It filled 3 dog poo bags.”

“Oh my goodness. Are you the caretaker?”

“No, no but I have a dog and I had bags in my pocket.”

“That explains it, then,” the woman says, “Legend!”

I could die now. Then they might write on my gravestone how I was fearless in the face of dinosaur poo. 

Penguins

 I couldn’t let a blog slip by without mentioning the penguins.

In this crazy world, where I am able to waste inordinate amounts of time watching short videos, penguins are quite high on my list. Animals generally get my viewing time, as do swearing toddlers but penguins are some of my favourites. 

So, along with my obsession with the orange idiot that the Americans elected to run their country, I am now delighted. I’m here for the penguin content. Memes, reels and cartoons of penguins are everywhere and my lazy dopamine hit is joyous.

In the ‘Independence Day’ trade war the Trumpanzees chose a whole list of countries that would have tariffs. The president announced each item as though it were a game show, claiming that he was getting back the countries that had raped and pillaged their land. Russia wasn’t on the list but the islands of Heard and McDonald in Antarctica have a tariff of 10%. No human has visited the islands for over 10 years and so the world is wondering what the penguins have done to Trump and the reels and memes are fabulous.

The hill to die on

 Blogging has seemed pointless.

The world is going to hell in a handcart. 

The Trumpanzees have come up with a new catchy slogan for a global trade war. (Liberation Day)

Wars rage. Natural disasters happen daily. A foot appeared in the sea in Thailand during an earthquake. (A while ago I jokingly wrote about storms being angry giants). People stayed in their rooftop swimming pools while the earth shook and water splashed over the edge, only pausing to set their phone to selfie mode. 

Meanwhile, we are all being asked to do more with less. 

The solution, apparently, is AI. 

This is currently my hill. The one I’m going to die on. 

Like a dinosaur, refusing to grow longer arms and not stare, unblinkingly at the incoming comet, I absolutely refuse to believe that AI can write faster and better than my own brain. Intelligence is preferable and I can’t help thinking that if we don’t use it, we’ll lose it and some of us need the practice. 

In the future, people may agree with me. I was never convinced about Flora, stubbornly sticking with butter, despite the heart disease in my family because I wasn’t keen on artificial. I didn’t want to eat plastic, butter tastes better and the choir warm up Betty Botter just wouldn’t work if we were singing about partially hydrogenated sunflower oil spread. Recently, health researchers have started to agree with me, although they haven’t mentioned the song. 

My problem with AI writing is that it always sounds like an arrogant teenage boy.

“Errm, I think you’ll find that if you are, in fact, bitten by a squirrel, you will have to seek urgent medical attention.”

“Penguins do, indeed, have knees.”

I wonder if this is what people thought in the Industrial Revolution? 

I always get morbid around Easter, when I forget that it’s not all about chocolate start to consider the awful nature of human beings and people dying on hills. 

If it is all getting to you too then I’ll share a child’s drawing from many years ago. 

Before you get any ideas and run it through AI, where, no doubt, the big-headed teenage boy will give you an explanation of fellatio, it is a picture of Jesus getting his feet washed by Mary.