How did I get to this age and not know that?

Yesterday, I spent the day listening to nurses make small talk with their patients. A lot of conversation were about how fat everyone had got over Christmas.  This, I could relate to.  However, things were said that made me wonder how the nurse I was listening to had managed to get to 50 without knowing those things.  For example, she should have known that saying, "Where would you like your little prick?" was going to make everyone laugh, even if she was holding a syringe.

It always surprises me how unaware of the natural world people can be.  How can people live for half a century and not know that acorns grow on oak trees, blackberries; ready from the end of August  are wonderful free food, and that red sky at night means it's going to be nice weather the next day?
"You know, it's funny, my dad always used to say 'Red sky at night shepherd's delight. Red sky in the morning shepherd's warning,' and when I was walking from the car park I noticed the sky was really red and now the weather's awful," the nurse said, "so maybe it's true."

Today, I was back at work and I learnt something new.  I am quite old and I was surprised that I didn't know this thing. Today the children asked me how old I was and, as usual, I told them to guess.  There were guesses in the 90's, 70's and they finally plumped for two years older than my real age.  They even insisted that I was older than the most senior teacher in the school.

What was it I learnt? It was about friendship.  Siting in the morning assembly, the only other adult in there apart from the headteacher, noticing how tired all the children were I marveled at how you could give the head a telephone directory and he could find a moral in it. He played Elbow's Golden Slumbers and asked the children where they'd heard it before. None said the Beatles' Abbey Road album. Some did mention the Sing movie but most knew it was in the John Lewis advert. They're good listeners.

Then he played the advert. He told the children that the advert was about friendship.  He paused it at different places.  We watched the boy being scared of the monster under the bed.  Then the children laughed, the bed rattled, he pressed pause and said, "Then something happens and they become friends."

How did I not know that?  If you want to make friends, you just need to fart.  Maybe that's why so many people like my dog.

The Third Day of Christmas

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me.... three recycling bin bags, two cold meat slices and a wedge of over-ripe brie.

In the song it was three French Hens, which, if we are honest is the last thing we want after all that Turkey. There is a suggestion that the song was a memory aid for catholics: a catechism song and the French hens represented the three virtues of faith, hope and charity or the holy trinity of father, son and the holy toast. The third day was also a feast day of St John the Apostle, who is the patron saint of love, loyalty, friendship, authors and bin bags.

On the third day of Christmas some people have gone back to work, many haven’t but all are confused about the day. Whether you are celebrating with three French hens, left over Turkey,the third day of cheesemas or having to take extra long walks with the dog to counteract the turkey farts the third day conversation will be the same.
“Is it bin day?”
“I don’t know. Is it Tuesday or Wednesday today?”
“I think it’s Wednesday.”
“Then it should be bin day.”
“No one else has their bins out.”
“Probably all still drunk.”
“No, I think the day changes over Christmas.”
“What if we miss out this week.”
“That can’t happen. The food bin is full.”
“How can it be full? We’re still eating leftovers.”
“Turkey carcass, vegetable peelings and egg shells.”
“Thank goodness you’re not making me eat them.”
“I think it must just move on a day.”
“So, we need to put the bins out tonight then?”
“Yes. Normal bins or recycling bags?”

This is where you really need to call on the patron saint of bin bags.

Tradition

I love Christmas.

The Birthday Gas Man had insisted that no one remembers Christmas or the presents they received unless something awful happened.  He might have a point. We all remember the year I burnt the pigs in blankets.

I’m not sure I really agree with him. Some people don’t remember very much. The Long Suffering husband has an excellent visual memory and can probably remember what everyone was wearing every Christmas since 1978 but can’t remember me telling him that I was going out on Wednesday night. I’m more likely to remember the funny stories. I remember the year I got a guitar because my little sister had a toy where little people went round on an automated train, up some steps and slid down a slide back into the train and she spent the whole of Christmas Day lying on her belly in her chocolate stained baby-grow vest; chubby legs bouncing behind her with excitement as she watched the little people go round and round. “Boggies. More. Boggies!” she shouted over and over.

It is true that many Christmases blend together and it can be difficult to say which year the funny things happened in. I can’t remember if the year my mum fed sherry to the fish was the same year she had to go to bed before dinner, although now that I have hosted a family party I can definitely see the appeal of a bottle of sherry.

It’s the tradition that makes the holidays blend into one. If you do the same thing every year, how can you tell them apart? It’s also the tradition that I love.


I hoped that this year wouldn’t be one that we remembered for the wrong reasons: the first year without dad and Mum being not so well. However, the traditions have made it unmemorable in a very special way.

The Christmas Eve church service is one of my favourite things. When the light from the candles is passed from one to the other it always makes me feel a bit emotional. This year the service might only be memorable for the fact that I complimented the vicar on his amazing organ(ist), while my family shrank away and my friend tried to explain for me.

This is followed by prosecco and mince pies with some friends. This year we played cards against humanity, which is always really funny but surprisingly not memorable.

Christmas Day has its traditions that include stockings, presents, food, a snooze and more games. This year’s game was Obama Llama, which is hard to play if you don’t know famous people. It was a good day. I didn’t burn anything and we all ate loads.  I have never laughed as much as when we successfully guessed the rhyme on Mum’s card.
“Sheep?”
“No. Better wool than that. I think they have them here.”
“Llama? Alpaca?”
“Yes. Alpaca. The next bit sips a hot drink.”
“Alpaca drinks a cuppa? That’s a terrible rhyme.”
“No, not tea the other one.”
“Coffee.”
“Little frothy one.”
“Alpaca drinks cuppuccino?”
“That doesn’t rhyme. Let’s see the card . Oh, Al Pacino drinks cappuccino.”
“What’s an Al Pacino?”

As usual, I insisted that everyone stay in the same room to watch a film which I then slept all the way through.

Today, though is my absolute favourite. Now that I’m older and we don’t have to do extended family so there is no boxing or fights of any kind. A new tradition has developed: A day for eating cheese and other leftovers, while starting on my pile of Christmas books, wearing a pair of Christmas socks and drinking from my Christmas mug.

Happy Books-In Day.

Happy Birthday Mr Gas Man

We recently had a new boiler and a new radiator fitted. The boiler was fine but the radiator leaked and so my Christmas preparations have included entertaining several gas men. Some have been grumpy, some lovely, most drink a lot of tea (and never seem to need the loo) and the last one, who finally fixed the leak was chatty.

He told me about his daughter, who is having to entertain her in-laws for Christmas and how much he is enjoying watching her regret offering. This was just after I had offered to host the big family party and so I had a lot of sympathy for his daughter. He wasn’t going to let her off that lightly, though. As a difficult child he saw this as pay back that he was going to sit back and happily watch. He told me that he had always cooked Christmas dinner and we discussed the best day to go to Tesco. He and his wife often have to work at Christmas. I was surprised that people got their leaky radiators fixed on Christmas Day but he said he was just on call for the ‘if you smell gas’ duty. His wife, as a midwife, is on call for the birth of Jesus. His daughter and her husband are physicists, working at Porton Down and even after only half an hour of hearing about her I am concerned. Not only for their Christmas dinner but also for our country’s nuclear weapons programme. She can’t do anything without a list, which I think sounds perfectly reasonable. I like a list. But if she has written, “get up at 20 past,” and she sits in bed until the clock ticks to 7.21 she can’t get up until 8.20. This caused Mr Gas Man unimaginable stress when his kids were at school, because school busses don’t wait an hour for their students. Her list is rarely time focused but task focused. One day she was due to meet her sisters in London and had agreed a time. Her and her husband had written their list before going to bed. Thinking that they normally wake up at 7am they decided they had time for two episodes of Game of Thrones before she had to catch her train. The list went something like this:

1. Wake up

2. Make cup of tea

3. Get some cereal.

4. Eat breakfast in bed

5. Watch 2 episodes of GoT

6. Get up

7. Shower

8. Get dressed

9. Go to trin station

10. Catch train

The problem came when they didn’t wake up until 8.30. One of her sisters rang, “Where are you? You’re half an hour late!”

“I’m just getting in the shower. I’m at number 7 on the list.”

“It sounds as though you’ve had a lucky escape, not being invited to theirs with the in-laws,” I pointed out to the chatty Gas man. 

He told me that he wouldn’t go to hers anyway. Not on his birthday. 

“It’s your birthday on Christmas Day?” I asked, surprised that he hadn’t mentioned it before. “That must be...”

What could I say? 

I think it would be awful. 

He thought a birthday just after Christmas would be worse, “At least you always have a nice time on Christmas Day. You get a nice dinner and people try to like each other.”

“I don’t suppose it ever gets forgotten,” I said.

He wasn’t sure. His uncle always gave him a joint birthday and Christmas present but his brother got about the same and it wasn’t his birthday. 

Happy Birthday, Mr Gas Man. I hope this one is memorable and you get twice the presents of everyone else. I hope Jesus isn’t born, that no houses explode from gas leaks and that everyone appreciates your cooking.

The Hostess with the.....

When I was growing up I'm sure there was an advert that used the phrase 'Hostess with the mostest," and it has a lot to answer for. I have no idea what the advert was for; maybe Cinzano or a hostess trolley but I do remember the woman, with a frilly blouse undone to show a perfect 1970's bosom and flicky hair, simpering into the camera talking about how important it was to get a party right.

I am a reluctant host.  To be fair, I'm a reluctant attendee of a party but hosting comes with the pressure of being perfect.  I am not perfect.  I'd love to be one of these people who breezes through hosting a party with a clean kitchen floor, all homemade food and tea towels over the cooker handle with their stripes in perfect alignment and all I can do is aspire to it.

I try to make my own sausage rolls and the Long Suffering Husband wonders aloud whether it might have been better to buy some, or whether we rename them sausage meat with a side order of incredibly flaky pastry. I have been cooking for four days (that's not really true) and am now ready for bed.

My large extended family are due to arrive in less than half an hour and although I have warned them that I'm a grumpy host I'm not sure they will be entirely prepared for me settling down to read the book I have bought for the occasion. 

I also have a notebook hidden in every room because they are not dull people.  Do you think writing this  blog is fair warning?

Sausage in Banter

“There are drunk teachers everywhere,” a barman whispered at me on Wednesday night, before telling me all the schools in the area with teachers that like a drink at the end of term. I think he had a complicated system for ranking them and my school were probably at the top (or bottom, depending on your viewpoint). This was at bar 8 of the 12 bars of Christmas which comes at the end of the fun bit. As a non drinker I always enjoy bars four to eight: the work talk has stopped, there is a genuine relaxed funniness and it hasn’t started to get messy.

I love the people I work with and one day they will make a great sitcom. I keep warning them that a staffroom based sitcom is a good idea.

Our last school day was a great episode.

After church there was an extra long playtime, where coffee, broken mince pies, biscuits and chocolates were used in early preparation for the evening’s drinking. Staff were tired and the filter was beginning to slip. The language in the staffroom at the end of term is shocking and that is why teachers need holidays, to save the poor children. It is only possible to be sickly sweet with no swearing for six weeks at a time.

At lunchtime Christmas dinner was eaten in the hall with the children, so the staffroom filled up gradually, as each class went out to play.
“That was a great dinner.” We all agreed that our new kitchen staff were amazing and reminisced about passed times when we were too scared to go anywhere near the kitchen.
“Did you like your sausage?” my friend shouted down from the other end of the table.
Everyone laughed. She blushed. “I can’t believe I said that. Why did I ask you about your sausage?”
“Because you knew I couldn’t manage it. It was just too huge.”
More laughter. More blushing.
“I much prefer a small one.”
“They’re meant to be little at Christmas.”
“It was nice though.”
“Did you nibble the end?”

Let's face it, sausages are just funny.  I had seen one of the church official referred to as 'Mrs Sausage Sandwich,' on Facebook by a local cafe. It amused me so much I told my colleagues and some of the staffroom conversation was about how no one can remember her proper name any more.

I hadn't joined most of my colleagues until the bar with the whispering landlord because a few of us went for a meal first.  By then, the staff that had still been eating with their class had been told about the lunchtime sausage conversation.
"We've heard about your sausage," they said.
"Oh yes, I couldn't get it all in my mouth," I replied and winked.
"JULIA!" I was surprised at my ability to shock very drunk adults.
I noticed that my friend was missing and there was a suggestion that she had gone home because she is a lightweight but then she appeared.
"I went to get chips," she explained, "We've been sitting on the bench eating chips and a sausage in batter."

"Wouldn't it be great if the next blog that came up was, 'big sausage,'" someone said, "I'd love that."

I did intend to write it but it's Christmas. I went shopping and accidentally shoplifted some toiletries from Superdrug (I did go back and pay and no one tried to arrest me), knocked every display over in John Lewis, spent time with a chatty gas man, made a few cakes, cleaned the house, watched Elf, and made sure my sausage rolls could fit into any lady's mouth.

Then another friend sent me this picture out of the blue, which is statue at an Australian school.

I replied, "Come and feel my sausage little boy." Then I remembered that I had a blog to write.
Now, as I get to the end of it the LSH texts from the chip shop.
"They have the sausage."

There are sausages everywhere.

Being Appropriate

Every year our we have a Christmas Quiz for our Youth Orchestra and every year I am reminded that quiz writing is harder than it looks. 

With a quiz, you have to think of your audience.  As you know, music builds the brain, so our kids are very bright but we have members from the age of 7 to 18 and it has to keep them all entertained. I made a poem out of the answers in the first round and started to make the second round answers begin with N but I got bored.  I thought about rickrolling the whole thing and getting a bit of Mr Astley and Never Gonna Give You Up in there but I was too lazy.

I had every round as something to do with Christmas and forgot that to deliver the round on where different Santas were from required me to actually pronounce them.  Święty Mikołaj is Polish and is actually pronounced Schvienty Mikolai which I only found out because one of our members is actually Polish.

One round where they had to find the missing carol lyrics sounded incredibly rude when read aloud and had the other committee members sniggering naughtily when I read "Blank blank thee Lord Jesus."

I also had a picture round that I stole from the internet. I took some of them out and luckily decided not to use this one.

In case you are wondering, it is O Come All Ye Faithful. I think you have to be American not to see it as complete filth.  Ol' faithful is a geyser in Yellowstone park although it doesn't appear to be penis shaped and despite scouring the internet I see no photos of men wearing condoms on their head standing next to it.

Obviously, it wouldn't have been appropriate to use it but it is perfect for a blog.