International Women’s Day

How do you begin to explain the importance of such a day to somebody whose response is likely to question its validity, its point and purpose? And is it ironic anyway that we should stop to think of the importance of celebrating women on just one day of the year? Well, let’s have a little think, shall we.

Women have always been the absolute backbone of every society. We carry the babies, the physical and emotional burdens and the bollocks that life throws our way. We are damned if we do and damned if we don’t. If we cry, we are weak. If we assert ourselves, we are bossy and unfeminine. The rules of society were written by men, for men. In the deepest, darkest past, no man stopped to think about whether the great patrimony respected and provided justice to a woman as much as it did to a him. Clearly not. The clue is in the word. The power was in men’s hands, the wealth was in their pockets and their voices were the ones listened to. It would be great to be able to say that all of that has changed but sadly it hasn’t. It has improved but parity has not been achieved and, where people claim that it has been, it is often under the guise of lip service. Women are still paid less than men. Women, by dint of having a womb, will always have to make choices about when and indeed whether to start a family, knowing that it will impact her life choices more than the father’s. Obviously there has been development in this area. Paternity leave is wonderful. Stay-at-home dads, hats off! Men pushing pushchairs, feeding babies, changing nappies. This is all very cute and laudable but it is mostly a box ticking exercise because when push comes to shove and your child has Book Day, Sports Day, a mufti day, a spelling test or a school trip, you can pretty much guarantee that it will be mum who does the forward thinking and the staring at the calendar to double check that everything is where it ought to be. And why shouldn’t she if this is her full-time chosen job? I couldn’t agree more. Hats off to her too. But why should she if she is working as hard outside the home as her partner. The balance of responsibility will always tip towards her.

In years past, I remember many a raging argument with the boys from the local equivalent boys’ Catholic school about feminism and discrimination. Even the most forward-thinking of them was still a product of his parents, the apron wearer and the trouser clad. I imagine lots of men were horrified by the challenges to the Shake n Vac brigade. But she looks so happy with her vacuum cleaner. I have nothing against allowing women to drive as long as it’s a Hoover. Hahaha. That kind of joke. So insidious, always brewing beneath the surface. We were fodder for their provocation. If we didn’t laugh, we weren’t the dollies who would be picked to dance or invited home. Big mouth. Scary. Too much to say for herself. I remember feeling like I just wasn’t pretty or feminine enough because my thoughts were not gentle and girl-like, they were angry-with-the-world thoughts. I don’t think young women today truly grasp what we had to do to get to this place we are in now. But what a place. In theory, we have employment laws to protect us, to fight our cause and to ensure than no woman is judged on her age, attractiveness, sexiness and marital status during the interview process. Said law will also ensure her fair return to work and promotion prospects should she become pregnant. We can walk the streets at night wearing what we want, knowing that we will be safe on our journey home and that the law will bring any crime against us to justice. And we can close our doors, in the understanding that our homely haven will keep us safe from abuse and coercion because legislation looks after us like that. As I said, in theory.

As women we are fed a diet of romantic clap-trap designed to make us feel incomplete without a man by our side. We are worthless if we are not loved, idolised, desired and fawned over. The problem is, far too amny women spend their lives waiting for this instead of learning to love themselves for who they are. Social media has become the new patriarchy and the irony is that it is being fuelled by other women whose interpretation of power and taking control, places them in an even tighter straight jacket. As if lung-busting, whale-boned corsets, three-hour beehive hairdos and pelvic-tilting stiletto heels were not enough, our younger generation of emancipated women are brain-washed into pumping up the volume, scraping, balding their hairy bits, filling furrows, pouting, war-painting and general all-round self DIYing of their already lovely faces and bodies. Are big lips meant to emulate the arse of a baboon to make the mating game more fun? Is the stretched skin and ballooned face to prove that you look younger but obviously aren’t because no normal human being looks like that?  The straight-jacket chokes us all. Middle aged women compete with their daughters to look younger but the distortions and masked horrors flash like a neon sign of ‘look what I just did to myself’. I don’t have wrinkles anymore but I look like a stretched sock over a melon.

And then we have the changing of a surname once married. What is that all about? I can think of no logical or fair explanation for it other than the offspring sharing the same name as their parents. You might as well stamp ‘property of’ across her forehead or ‘spoken for, hands off’ or ‘has reached the pinnacle of achievement because she is no longer a sad singleton’. A man is given a name at birth and keeps it forever. A woman undergoes transformations which build her or belittle her or remould her or shape her and God forbid she should divorce because in most cases, the woman keeps her ex’s surname for eternity just to prove that the children are hers. It is a total nonsense. People will say we all have a choice but this has never really been a choice because those women choosing to keep their maiden name (maiden! Think about it!) on marrying and to not use the Mrs badge of honour have been vilified as societal Bolsheviks, putting their principles before their family. But my husband wants me to take his name. Really? Why? To make him feel good? To add to the trophy cabinet? To make HIM feel complete? Oh it’s so romantic. Ladies and gentle, please be upstanding for Mr and Mrs Him and his Her. The conquistador has found his gold and put a serial number on it so that it is instantly recognisable to everybody. Mrs John Smith. Jesus, that is beyond degrading. To steal your first name too once you have signed that bit of paper. The vanishing woman, the fader into his aura, the shadow standing behind his cabinet.

Now, I know I am being blunt because I am and I don’t give a shit but using tradition as an argument for keeping in place ‘rules and ‘regulations’ just because it has always been done that way is tantamount to stopping the clock of evolution. Cavemen dragged their women to their caves, by their hair we are told. And because things were just so, the cavewomen took it, not once tempted to pick up that club and smash his domineering head with it. Was it because she wasn’t equipped to go and hunt for herself? Did anybody ever ask her if she fancied a jolly jog after a hairy mammoth? Was she that physically weak that she didn’t know how to run or stretch a catapult? There are plenty of things that women didn’t do simply because they were not allowed. Katherine Switzer was manhandled in Boston in 1967 for joining the male marathon runners despite the fact that she was a registered competitor. Jock Semple, spotting she was a woman – breasts are not for bobbing about, my girl – tried to stop her in her tracks. What in God’s name was so offensive about a woman having a run? As a consequence of that race and, presumably to prevent any man being out-run by a female, women were banned from competing in races against men. It took a long time for things to change and for the ‘fairer’ sex to prove that their wombs and ovaries would not drop out if they got a move on. For God’s sake, women have been run off their feet their whole lives and with no medal at the end of it.

And one final thing and then I will stop. Can somebody explain to me why younger women have adopted the growly drawl when they speak? Is it to sound sexy or stupid? Sexy because that is how to bag the bloke, by elongating those ecstatic pleasure-sounding vowels? Stupid because that is how to, well, bag the bloke because most men cannot cope with a female who is more intelligent than them. This sweet, sickly gravel speak is the spoken equivalent of Botox. I can only assume that influencers are to blame here just as they are for baboon lips, terrifying eyebrows and buttocks and boobs that defy gravity. Come bloody on, my good gals. Love yourselves, accept your defects, celebrate your natural assets, make your own fair rules, accept nothing but respect and justice and don’t bow to any man who belittles, condescends or expects you to wear a mask on your face or across your mind. And one last, last thing. We need one another. Let’s not play into the hands of a society that pits us one female against the other. We all have struggles and opinions and we shouldn’t flick the bitch word around so readily. It is ugly and makes our would-be equal footing wobble because it reinforces stereotypes and sets already cruel and sexist tongues wagging. If you do one thing today, let it be to smile at as many females as possible, knowing that you know that they know that you know what they know. Let’s also spare a thought for those women still living under the cosh in medieval societies treating their female population like dog poo. If we don’t want to scream and shout for ourselves, let’s do it for them. And, finally,  a big smile too for those fabulous guys out there who get it and can smile at a woman and enjoy her conversation, admire her brains and respect her opinions without looking down her blouse.

Spring has sprung

The wait has been long and arduous. The bitter cold mornings, the joy-sapping darkness shrouding the day, the bareness of the ground and baldness of the trees. Winter is tough and always takes us by surprise. I know of few people who embrace the colder months and limited daylight with enthusiasm or excitement. The only saving grace is the sparkly light of Christmas. It is like a twinkly bribe to comfort us through those grey months. November clings to the last remnants of autumn knowing that her fading colours will be stripped from her and January sits battered by the granite skies, draughty windows and hunched shoulders. December is like the little light between the two, the mental sticking plaster to soothe us a little and rub our bruises. But when February arrives, despite the biting air and night chills, we are embraced by an inner glow of promise. Spring is on its way.  

Spring, the month after winter and before summer is so much more than a simple slot on a calendar. It is when we awaken from our hibernation, our rebirth, our glorious invitation to open our eyes and feast on the wonders around us. I can honestly say that I have nearly wept at the sight of a first snowdrop. It speaks of ‘well dones ’and ‘you made its’ and ‘here is your golden reward’. It is as if all of the lights in the world have been switched on at once and every colour and tone tweaked to perfection. The yellow pop of the daffodil, the gentle opening of purple crocus, the emerging floral stitches knitting rugs of technicolour wonder. I just love it. I feel like my limbs have been oiled, my mind has been reset, my lungs refilled and my eyes opened a little wider to drink it all in.

The sun burst through the clouds today and, despite the chill which is still in the air, a suntrap seat meant that the sun was warm on my face and limbs. I sat on my doorstep and sipped a cup of hot tea, chin tilted upwards like a flower searching for the light, the warmth on my face like the hot tongue of a cat licking my skin. I opened the bedroom windows to let the gentle ribbony breeze weave its way around the room through the lit, hungry spaces, enjoying her ‘good-to-be-back’ moment. And how fresh it all felt. How new. How totally gorgeous to see the sunlight dance and lift the green hues of the rolling fields and the bobbing heads of the snowdrops, carpeting the flowerbeds.

I like the definitions of spring too. Not happy to be just the season of loveliness, as a verb it appears, jumps, hops and bolts. It is no coincidence that the plants that have lain dormant beneath the damp then freezing ground through the darkest months make a play for freedom, rising, emerging, unfurling  from the hard ground, seeking the light and the sun. And the noun, a spring, both a fountain which bursts forth with life and a wiry coil shooting through the soil and refusing to turn back, retract and bury itself. There is such power in this season, such an amazing time to take stock, build our resilience, recharge ourselves and be thankful for another year on this incredible planet. When I see my first tulip, I may just weep again.

I’ve got this COVID

I have loved every second of my teaching career. I don’t regret a minute, even the awful bits though at the time I wouldn’t have said so. I’ve got the wrinkles to prove it. But, one time I will look back on with gut-churning discomfort and sweat beads (if I can bring myself to do it because it was so fogging awful) would be the COVID era. I just stopped writing there for a minute and put my head in my hands and let out a long sigh. It was that bad. Any teacher will tell you, even the mega-techo experts who switched to on-line lessons with the ease of a sausage skin machine, well-oiled and totally at home, like a toad in the hole.  I was the sausage that got stuck. Queen of the banger clangers. I survived but my piping bag was sorely stretched to bursting point.

 It seemed to come out of the blue. Go home, switch your laptops on, invite your classes onto Teams and off you go. We have set it all up for you so no need to panic but just a few things. Remember the rules and regulations about microphones and having your camera switched on or off, and if they don’t want their cameras on then they don’t have to and if they’re lying in bed during the lesson let us know and keep a register so you can follow up any absentees and if the tech fails – which is not likely (!!!), just do this and then do that and try this button and remember the CHAT facility because they may wish to message you… oh yes, also whatever you do, don’t forget to blur your background so they can’t see your smalls drying on the radiator or the stripped walls your decorators haven’t finished or your flaking paintwork that hasn’t had a healthy lick since before you started the job. These kids are no fools. They can out-tech any of us. We don’t want them reading the book titles on your shelves now, do we? Oh dear me, no.  ‘Teaching and how to deal with the little shits’, ‘Twenty Four Hours in A and E, Anxiety and Education’.

Nothing was mentioned about trips to the loo, or how to make a cuppa to soothe your drying mouth between First Year present tense verbs and Sixth Form debates on the pros and cons of technology! Nor about needing to keep your legs warm under the table because the heating was on the blink again. If you needed a pee then you had to plan it with military precision. Sign off the lesson dead on the dot, make an SAS dash to the relief room and parachute back down within 30 seconds to welcome the little darlings who had been waiting, having joined the lesson early, waiting, all together in a chat room, chatting very chattily, with their microphones on, which stopped suddenly when they saw my microphone icon click into operation.  But what temptation to stay incognito and listen in. Maybe she’s forgotten. Don’t be stupid, she’d never forget. Heh, shhh, she could be listening. Yes, I was. What ‘fun’.  Clearly IT hadn’t thought of everything. It turned out to be a master challenge in out-smarting the teenage ninjas. Miss, Matt says his mic is not working. Miss, Sam says his Wifi is down. Miss, Jules says he’s feeling ill and will get his parents to email in. Miss, miss, miss!!!! I can’t hear you because our road is being dug up and somebody’s Hoovering in the next room and my sister’s throwing a tantrum. Miss, Raj says he is waiting to be ‘let in’ and he has sent you a chat message but you haven’t replied. Turns out, Whatsapp took on a whole new life during this torture era. It was a real bonus knowing that during your lesson on the difference between the two verbs ‘to be’ SER and ESTAR, the ninjas could message each other under their homely desks. Very enterprising of them to find ways to keep the lesson chugging along. Reluctant saviours.

The IT department was on full-blown battle-stations alert. We have it sorted, everybody. We have the technology. Remember, that button is for sharing your screen but this one is for stopping them from controlling yours. We’ve tweaked a few bits so now they can’t join the lesson until you actually admit them but we have discovered that if you…..Too late. If you press that button…. Yes, that one that should read NUCLEAR, you will lose your lesson. You will eject all of your little army of ants and send them off spinning into cyberspace. And then you will have to chase them all and invite them back. Come on, my little cyber mice. Come back to all the fun of the fair. Look what I’ve learnt to do. Ha. What fun. I’m so proud of myself. I can seat them all in a funky auditorium space so that their little heads pop up above cinema seats like a madness of muppets all bobbing about and not sitting still and sliding out of view and generally having the time of their school life. In a real classroom there would have been no bobbing, no-splat-the-rat-will-you-stop-balancing-on-your-chair-nonsense. It would have been sergeant major synergy, controlling the troops, marching in linguistic unison, everybody with their pens loaded and hanging on my every instruction. But COVID killed the joy for me. It was like teaching in a straight-jacket with a blindfold on and often with a gag on too because, as I soon discovered some parents had had a ball listening in to lessons, out of view, joining in with the madness. Ms Buckley, I so enjoyed singing that song. Now I finally know how to roll my letter R.  You’ve got the patience of a saint. I frantically thought back to when I had laid into pupil X for sending me his homework in the wrong format, upside down on the screen, blurry with the margins cut off. It was exasperating with a capital F. Oh God, what if Mother A had told Mother B about me losing my rag, or Father C had informed Father D that his kid was a pain in the cyber arse. I hoped that no pupil had taken a screen shot of me waving my fists at the screen or sliding my hand across my throat in a threatening gesture. Miss, miss. What was that, Miss? I didn’t get what you said because you cut out. My screen went funny when you put the picture up. I only heard half of the task. In class, nobody would have missed a damn thing. That’s the problem with being a control freak. When your power is taken from you, it is like wading through jelly in flip-flops. I felt like a flop. I know I wasn’t. I actually did well all things considered as did they. I worked them senseless and kept copious notes so I could extract revenge when back in school. I had a colour-coded manual chart of who had done what, when, how well and which part of the Galaxy they had been in on Tuesday morning period 3 when they should have been on-line with me. Was it No-mic 2 or Wi-No-Fi or Pullingafastone X12? I did what I could but, my God, I would have taken a salary cut to have been back in my classroom, falling over the mis-placed cricket bags, breathing in the gentle musty aroma of Year 10 armpits or fighting for breath in the 35 degree heat blazing in through the windows on both sides of the room. I missed the little sods something awful. Their noise, their awkward physicality and their joy of learning live, not on screen. I hold onto those memories with enormous happiness and try not to look back too much at the dark times. I also thank those colleagues who kept me sane and helped me try to produce perfect sausages every lesson.

Sing your Heart Out

Who doesn’t love a good yodel? Who doesn’t fancy themselves as a rocker or a crooner when they have the shower head in their hand and nobody’s listening? Or they are listening but you don’t give an Arctic Monkey because you feel free and joyous. A belting tune, willing tonsils and a handful of wild thyme gel. Go for it. There is something tremendous about what singing does for you and yet, I have never understood why more people don’t do it. I sing all the time, everywhere, well I did until my neighbour complained. Now I wait for her car to pull out and then I let Minnie Riperton, you window-shatterer! I can reach that top note too. Well, I can’t but I’ll have a damn good try. Singing is good for your lungs, your memory, your facial muscles and your soul. A bargain. I can hear a song from my past and, just like a nostalgic whiff, the melody takes me to a time and place that would otherwise have stayed locked away in the depths of my cobwebbed memory. The Long and Winding Road. I am straight back there, lying on my bed clinging to my first boyfriend who I am about to leave as I head off to America. You really feel it in your guts. It can be amazing  but also very painful.

So, choirs. Now there’s a great idea. I joined a singing group ten years ago today. I stayed with them for 9 years before moving back up north. Thursday nights for two hours in a warm church hall surrounded by like-minded songbirds was a complete tonic. Nothing could keep me from that sacred slot, except a Parents’ Evening which I resented more than musical notes can express. Once you’re in the folds of that melodious, protected space, it is not to be taken from you. Singing with other folk can be exposing and scary for those less shameless, a platform to bust your chest balloons for the more confident. Whatever your disposition, there is no denying that when those four-part harmonies kick in, a moment of magic happens and fills you with a gooey ooze of oxytocin. You can’t quite believe that such a beautiful sound can be made by a group of up-to-not-that-long-ago strangers. It’s like a perfect pudding, a cloud-less sky, the beamiest child’s smile you can imagine, a heavenly fusion of breaths and tones and notes that collide then dance like perfect, vocal confetti. Of course, there has been sweat and tears along the way to memorise lyrics, (no words allowed!) and to remember that it goes up in that bit but then down in that bit on the next verse and the chorus is repeated at the end twice in that song but not in the other. Musical gymnastics. A great work-out. I read somewhere recently that the absolute best activity for keeping your brain firing on all cylinders is dancing. I can see why. Steps, rhythms, smile, posture, twists and turns. But singing is a close second. It is a brain igniter. The bulb is switched on, life-enhancing oxygen fills the important bits and the rafters embrace the nectareous noise. Being in a place with other music lovers just like you who can’t believe that for two hours a week, they can become angels, swaddled in minor and major notes and smiling at one another in total rapture should be prescribed on the NHS. I’ll sing to that.

Mentalpause

When I was 55 I did an ultra-run, a 50k slog along the Thames path, Putney to Runnymede. A mad idea plotted with a madder friend, hatched in a moment of arrogant invincibility of ‘we women can do bloody anything and we will show ‘em’. I had never run with a bladder water aid before, too heavy surely to lug that on my back and so relied on what  I thought would be water stations every few miles. There were three at approximately 15k intervals. It was September, unusual hot and I ran with a bottom-of-birdcage mouth for most of it, begging for a drink from residents whose houses backed onto the river, even staggering into a pub in Staines and falling onto the bar almost fit or unfit to stick my parched mouth under the beer tap. I finished the race, downed a glass of Prosecco on the finish line and got the medal and the buff/neck cowl which I still wear today as a reminder of never to do anything so ridiculous again. Hallucinations are strange things. I could see my friends and their congratulatory smiles at the end. I could hear their warm, encouraging voices but my mind had wandered to a place of blankness. I had dehydrated my brain and I cannot remember it ever fully returning to its former, spongey self. It was a few days after that run that I recall trying to conjure up a thought, any thought; what I did the day before, what day it was, who owed me homework. I tried all sorts of mental gymnastics and realised, to my horror, that my head had emptied. Where my mind had formally spun and rattled with express-train thoughts, ideas and memories, there was now a white-out. It was terrifying. I have asked myself since that day whether that mental-pause was the trigger for menopause. Up until that point I had been unstoppable. The sweats? Nope, only when I run. Joyful sweaty flushes of joy. Mood swings? Heh, I’m the ultimate optimist, don’t ya know! It takes a lot to get me down. Anxiety? That’s all in the mind. Get a grip. Problems with memory and concentration? Problems with memory and……. Who the hell owes me homework? I know it was a fourth year boy but, Jesus, which one? I had always been razor-sharp at school. Military organisation with lesson prep, delivery and woe-betide any little sod who tried to get one over on me. What was his frigging name? My brain had been the ultimate pantry for storage of important stuff and now I couldn’t find what I wanted on any shelf, just scattered crumbs and stale bits of nonsense. It was torture. 

When the nightmares began and the sleeplessness kicked in, I became angry. My diet had always been fine, I exercised regularly, I did crosswords (even started doing the cryptic ones!), I didn’t overindulge in booze, didn’t smoke, played by all the sodding rules so why did I deserve this? Hadn’t I nuclear-proofed my body and mind from this onslaught? Of course I hadn’t because this is an inescapable fact of life. When you’ve done the growing up bit and baby bit and worked your ovaries into submission, your body needs a rest. It decides to slow you down or at least make you stop for a little while to take stock. So that is what I did. Into the breach of monster-pause we go. You will not defeat me, you cruel beast. First step, yoga. A cliché, I know, but by God, what a friendly face that was. Little by little, your bits begin to bend where they had struggled to tilt and the breathing, oh the breathing! In, out, in, out, slow down, let those interfering thinky-thought clouds float by, acknowledge the distraction in your mind – what was that ruddy kid’s name? – and then let the thought flow away. In, out, in, out, no need to shake it all about. Nice and easy does it. The fizz and fuzziness in your muscles afterwards is oozily gorgeous, like warm honey has been poured inside every one as a thank you for remembering that they are all there for a reason and each one needs a little caress and a squeeze on a regular basis. But, there is only so far yoga can go to pause this monster. If I had remembered that deceitful homework-dodger’s name, who knows, I may never have reached for the drugs. But reach I did. Happiness Returns Today. I have never looked back, well, only to try and recall the odd thing deep in the recesses of my mind. I sleep like a baby. I only sweat when I run or when I have the occasional anxiety dream about leaving one of my babies on the bus – yes, you know the sort – and I can remember stuff again! Not why I walked into a room, not where I left my keys, because let’s face it, everybody struggles with that but I remember nice things like why I love my kids and why I cherish my family and friends and why I am so grateful for having a body that still moves and bends at all and why it’s important to gaze at the beauty of a mountain. And obviously why, when you suddenly remember that the work-shy, think-you-can-fool-me-do-ya’s name was Henry, it is essential to act and show the world that you are fully operational and not to be messed with. Homework Retracement Therapy. Don’t you just love it.

Ticket to Ride

So, after ten glorious days at home in my house with my wonderful boys, visiting friends, running in my Bushy Park garden, laughing and drinking, I pack my bags, full of joy to return to the North, to my mountains and lakes, not a little too sad to be leaving my familiar stomping ground. A smooth transition from South to North to mirror the smooth drive from North to South ten days previously only this time on the train. No traffic. Heaven. That is all I ask for. A cherry on the cake. Alas. Not to be. The train gremlins are out to get me. 

I open my trusty Trainline app and there is it in blood-red – CANCELLED. No warning, no email, no this-is-what-you-need-to-do text, just a tough-tits ‘t’ for ‘try creative thinking’ ending in an ‘s’ for ‘sort it’. Avanti is a mess. The news and social media are full of it but you don’t realise how truly awful it is until the train you booked just vanishes off the timetable even though you booked weeks in advance. Trespassers on the line? Short staffed? Putin having a dabble? Who knows. So I flap and panic and my heart plays the war dance drum. I know I am going to have a battle on my hands. I look at the ‘new’ timetable.The 11.30 has gone but there is an 11.10, 12.10 and so forth on the hour but hell’s teeth, most contain the stab-line SOLD OUT. Where did my 11.30 go? Stuck on platform Was and 3/4s? The 15.10 has tickets. I book in a panic of appmania and grab me a booking, no numbered seat just a right to lean against a toilet door or stand in the draughty wobbly bit between carriages. It only costs me an arm and a couple of legs but I need to return to Paradise. And to think I had been so excited to have used my old bird railcard on the 11.30. Not so now. Discount or no discount, the price has sent me off the rails. Then, an idea. A sort-it moment. I have no plans for the day so I will head up to town anyway to see if I can jump on the 11.10 or the 12.10 because after all it is their bloody fault. And in five minutes I have left the house in a whirlwind, hoping I haven’t left anything behind in my mad, creative dash. Rumbly wheels to the station. God, it is so hot. Sweatbox South, icebox North. You don’t need heat when you are flapping. 

Get to Fulwell, talk to the lovely Eddie in the ticket office. A real person doing real customer service, with a real voice-box and a welcome smile. Eddie the saviour. Yeah, just head up to town and get on the next train you can because this happens all the time and they always save seats for when there has been a cock-up. But, I’m afraid you won’t make the 11.10. There’s massive signal failure between Strawberry Hill, Teddington and Kingston. Full on gird-ya-loins stuff. A train arrives, sits still for 5 minutes, heads for Twickenham which is a detour anyway, sits for a further 20. Crackly voice over the tannoy, huffs and puffs from passengers who don’t know whether they are coming or going. Heads pop out the sliding doors seeking guidance, legs jammed against them in case the iron horse suddenly lurches into action and an unfortunate somebody is marooned on the platform never to be seen again. THIS TRAIN IS CANCELLED. PLEASE HEAD FOR PLATFORM 4. Mayhem ensues. Sweaty commuters, day trippers, returner to Paradise and every other type of human make for platform 4, heavy bags swinging, wheels and heels clickety clacking. The train on platform 4 is rammed. We jam our way in, hands on zips and pockets because it’s very cosy indeed. They could have your kidneys off you on this train and you would never know. Train sits for a further 10 minutes trying to make its mind up like a toddler with a toy. Pulls away panting like a jammed jar. After copious announcements from uber polite and apologetic driver, we arrive in Kingston. Toddler train sits and catches its breath for another 10. I’ve got my deep breathing off to a fine art now. I am positively floating because it is the only way to calm the palpitations and wheezing. 

Suffice it to say, I make it to Euston, fight the flights of stairs, suck in air slowly, blow it out all zen-like and head for the information stand. Nice man number 2, you see this has happened and my lovely Eddie said I should….. I spill the bile and frustration and with a conspiratorial raise of his eyebrow, he calms the savage beast. Head for platform 3, coach C has seats, you’ll be fine. Avanti! Onward march! The 12.10 awaits and I am amongst the privileged who know in advance which platform it leaves from. I won’t have to elbow my way through the Glasgow- bound passengers of mass obstruction. I reach the barrier. Nice man number 3. You see, I booked a seat on the 11.30…… Cancelled. Sold out. Creative. Sort it. Avanti tits-up. Eddie said. There is no 11.30 train, love. I know. Heh, Jim, know anything about an 11.30? No, mate, there isn’t one. No warning. No email. No text. I’m expected in Paradise today. I have to get there. Bloody Avanti!! Nice man number 3 uses his power, ushers me on, carriage C, grab a seat while you can. He knows about these cock-ups. It has clearly not been the first and I am clearly not the first sweating, wheezing, palpitating traveller with a penchant for creative and sort-it thinking. Come on wheely case, let’s get on this monster. At this point I could lick the dew off the train’s carriage, I am so thirsty. Button. Sci-fi doors glide open. I climb up. Carriage is empty. I grab a table seat, next to a window, facing forwards, away from the toilet! I have never managed that even when I’ve tried booking it. And so I sit here now, anticipating the rolling green fields whooshing past the window, heading to the North to my paradise after a few hours of hell. The passengers begin to pile on and in the blink of a tired eye or two the carriage is full to bursting. A couple of frowns. I wonder how she got on the train so quickly. My luggage is safely on the too-small rack and the other passengers play the Krypton Factor game of ‘fit the giant suitcase into the tiny space’. But my cosy seat sharers seem nice. The man next to me smiles and hellos me. We are all in this together. I smile back and take long, luscious breaths. Perhaps we will swap horror stories. So he kicks off the conversation with a ‘Who do you think will take over after Truss? I really hope Boris comes back.’ Oh dear, oh dear. My smile fades. I wish I had bought a ticket to hide.

Knotty Ash

‘Twas April 2022, ‘Knotty Ash’ popped on the screen

It looked so cute upon the hill, the ash tree tall and green

The driveway up was overgrown, the ground was full of stones

The walls were grey, the windows dull, the back gate full of groans

Cobwebs hung, the smell was rank, mouse droppings caked the floors

Wallpaper flopped in great long strips and hinges creaked on doors

A paint job, that is all it needs was sister’s shriek of bliss

Four weeks and you can move right in, a piece of cake is this

We signed the docs, and loaded van and put the key int’door

Oh joy of joys, our first real post, white package on the floor

Please be advised a TPO’s been placed upon your tree

Your overgrown majestic ash is a local amenity

Don’t touch it, lop it, slice it, crop it or a hefty fine will follow

This shocking news landed on our tongues as a bitter pill to swallow

For we had made enquiries to ensure we’d have no issues 

With crowning or trimming said huge ash to stop the need for tissues

When a storm, wild wind or easterly beast might make old ashy’s head

Bend low into our roof, dislodge her roots, crash on our bed

How can this be, our dreamy home a death trap has become

A plan of action was required to stop us feeling numb

Along they came, clipboards in hand, yes, it’s rather tall and near 

But all trees matter and we have rules to which we must adhere

You may trim that bit, remove that bough and maybe snip that side

But this great ash is not for turning, she must stand with village pride

So we wait with baited breath to see what our surgeon’s allowed to do

Ascend her crown towards the heavens, towards those skies of blue

Grow my beauty but please be kind for the dwellers are quite on edge

Handcuffed by local laws which have them dangling on a ledge

Our hope – our ash will cooperate, be kind and slowly grow

Because our love-nest, we’ve now discovered has roots attacking from below

Two Steps Forward

Two Steps Forward

Funny things, renovations. You see the raw materials and think, piece of cake. Dab of paint, lick of love and it will be roast dinners and slippers before you can say spanner in the works. But spanners there are a plenty because with every forward step comes another question, another suggestion, another obstacle that you didn’t see hiding in the chimney, under the floorboards or in the roof. There is dry rot where you thought there was not. There is woodworm which you would never have discovered if the idea of under-floor heating had never been mooted, so, every floorboard is ripped up along with the joists. The house that was becomes a sad collection of rooms with holes a metre deep in places except for the parts where the bedrock lies solid, like giant turtles sleeping beneath the floors. Gangplanks show you the way and you try hard not to wobble so as not to fall into a pit and end up as turtle fodder. And the walls which you stripped of woodchip paper with your trusty steamer and then painted with four coats for good measure to remove the years of grubbiness and smells are now paw-marked like a primary pupil’s art work – a hand-print wonder of builders’-hands-were-here. You thought you had reached a turning point when the septic tank was installed. A loo, wee-hee! But then just as you were enjoying the welcome relief, they ripped out the toilets because, well, if they didn’t then this old plumbing just wouldn’t cope. Replumb the whole house because, quite frankly, if you don’t then these pipes are going to gurgle in anger one day and what good will your fancy septic tank be then? And while you’re at it, re-route the electricity and the water and the gas because who wants their bath water and kettle power and boiler feeder snaking under the neighbour’s land where they are just about to build a five-bedroomed house right on top of your supplies. Oh OK. You can’t cut corners, or budgets for that matter, when it comes to such important stuff. So, you grind on in the garden, hoping that they will not suggest some tsunami alterations to your one patch of heaven though they have already forced a number of refugee bushes and plants to be ripped from the ground and rehoused around the back for safe keeping. When they wilt, you try not to look, convincing yourself that autumn is coming and it’s normal for all foliage to look like it’s about to croak. Then a moment of light. They are going to fill the holes in the floors with hardcore then concrete then insulation then new pipes then more concrete and you have visions of talcum-powder-on-the-new-wooden-floor dancing to slippy slidy 80’s music with cocktail in hand. It was all worth it! The cold, the mud, the cracked hands, the broken back, the newly toned bingo arms. And then the light goes out again. Flickers a bit then goes out. The windows will have to come out so that they can get the concrete in. It will be faster, cheaper and they can board up the great gaping holes with, who knows, bits of wood, a crate, an old bit of caravan. So what began as our beautiful, little quirky cottage is now a slagheap of chaos, looks like a building site and I am tempted to raise the roof but dare not suggest it as they will probably jump at the idea and I am not sure I can take any more. Two steps forward, countless back. 

Loose in Toulouse

Take four wild-ish women, an aeroplane, a three-day weekend and a pair of trainers and BOB’s (brilliant old birds) your auntie. There is something quite magical about getting up at five thirty a.m.  and finding yourself sitting in a café drinking café au lait by 10.30 in a foreign land, surrounded by pinky-glow buildings and lots of, well, lovely foreignness. A slightly sticky start trying to work out where the Uber pick-up point was but a mobile call – my first ever in French and with an Uber driver to boot, landed us safely at our hotel. ‘Devant’ is a very useful word to decipher over the crackle and pop of a dodgy phone line. Toulouse is a jewel of a place. We decided to walk and talk and suck in the sights and sidle hither and thither, eyes boggling at the quirky shops, the nosh-laden bistros and scented cafés. It is amazing though, how difficult it can be to find the exact place you fancy. Say no more. We were walking, talking living dolls, free to feast on a fest of French fun.

Oh, and run. I think I may have spoiled things slightly when I announced to my girls that there was a parkrun half an hour away, the only one, to date, in South Western France. I am a parkrun geek. I admit it. I couldn’t give a Toulouse sausage about being cool. The chance to bag my France Run Challenge badge was burning a hole in my trainers. Come on, it will be great, a one-off chance to go to La Ramée. Let’s do it for our club. Go Stragglers. A great name and somewhat appropriate considering how we felt the next day, up ‘bright’ and ‘bouncy’, well almost, just a bit fuzzy. There is something very irritating for a parkrun geek when she hears the words ‘do we really have to do this!’ We were there. We were going. No moaning. Another taxi. Ooh la la, une autre conversation en français. I was loving this. Me and Joe le Taxi parling beaucoup even if it was about le Bréxsheeet. La Ramée is a lovely course, wooded and winding and lung-bustingly fresh. Set up by ex-pats, lovingly organised and a stone’s throw from the AirBus factory, the people are welcoming and warm. No matter where you go to do a parkrun, this is simply always the case. And the crème on the café was that we bagged 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th female places. Our club was ticklingly pleased with this astounding achievement. We didn’t bother telling them that we were the only female runners. Well, not quite but not far off. But, let’s face it. The Killipinator (1^st female, obvs) would take some beating wherever she went. I swear that that BOB has an A380 engine in her shorts. I shall call her the Jet. Or Lady AirBus. I haven’t decided yet.

Feeling proud and peachy (me that is with me France badge – woohoo), we had earned a day of indulging our palates. It is amazing how, when you are spoilt for choice, you take so long to find what you want. We did, however, find lots of churches and basilicas and cathedrals. I don’t care what you say but entering a church when you have been brought up a Catholic does something to your insides. I could happily rant about the maleness, the wealth, the guilt and the crazy nuns from school, and even happilier (?) strangle any paedophile priest but smelling that peace and quiet and that lofty loveliness sets my confessional bells ringing. And it turned out that these places of peace and rest set us up well for what was to follow, for unknowingly, we had booked our precious weekend away to coincide with the first anniversary of the Gilets Jaunes protest (not jeunes as was thought by one BOB – I would call her La Prof but she already has a name). There we were, minding our own business when an eerie sense of doom began to creep through the rosy rues. Heavily-uniformed, Robot-Cop-like police began to emerge on every street corner in the centre. And when I say uniformed, I mean a pocket for everything including the tear gas. Interesting boots, by the way. Quite possibly the longest, kinkiest, over-the-knee, mother-kickers you ever did see. A distant groan, a buzzing chant, a creeping mass of noise and then the Robot Cops whipped out their weep-you-renegades canisters and lobbed them into the crowd. I say! You’d never see that in Blighty although on occasions, such as catching the little gits who robbed my parkrun friend’s computer equipment this week, a canister up the nose and a kinky, yet pointier boot up the bum is the least they deserve. So, tear-gassed up, we cried our eyes out but only because we were hungry. Very, very hungry.

‘You have to try the cassoulet!’ they said. ‘It’s fabulous.’ At that stage, I could have swallowed the empty gas canister so one decisive BOB put her foot down and we hit a rather lovely Bistro, stuffed full of locals noshing on platters of oysters and chugging the wine back. We sat at a lovely table at the back of the restaurant right next to the toilette which was discreetly cordoned off by a heavy, velvet curtain to stop the overpowering smell of the duck fat from the cassoulet from upsetting anybody having a pee. Well, I’m having cassoulet. I don’t care what you say. When in Toulouse, don’t be a Tou-loser! Most people would find sitting next to the lav a real inconvenience, so to speak. Not so for one BOB. The cassoulet had not even reached her lower parts when a whimper emitted from her mouth. God, I feel really faint. And sick. And shivery. Gas? Surely not that quickly! You only started eating it two minutes ago. So, I accompanied said BOB to our unprivate convenience, afraid she might decide to return the fatty sausage and duck-fat sauce to the chef with a thanks-but-no-thanks note. She went down like a pack of cards, missing bashing her head on the loo seat by inches. Holding her trunk, I managed to slide the door open with my foot and call in the Jet, or Lady AirBus (still haven’t decided) who lifted her legs up in the air. Three English ladies in the one toilet behind the dodgy curtain. And they say the English are reserved. In a few minutes it was over. The fainter, I shall call her Duck Fat Legs or Countess Cassoulet, returned to her seat, proffering the explanation that fatty food sometimes does that. There would be no more Toulouse sausage for her that night.

And so it went on. Another delightful run along the pea-green canal at 8.30 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Nothing straggly about that. A dummy of a woman hanging on a swing from a bridge, scary, more coffee, un peu de vin, and shops. Yes, shops. I bloody hate shopping but one BOB among us has a penchant for filling her bags. I shall call her the Duchess. Can we just pop in here? Oh, look at that coat. I think I’ll just try this jumpsuit on. Shall I buy one or two just to have a spare. And olive oil shops and poster shops and boots and bags and changing rooms and no end of lèche vitrine – that’s window shopping in French. I was having a great time digging into the recesses of my once-learnt vocabulary lists. Of course, I am exaggerating about the shopping a bit. It just feels like that when you’re a bit crevée. Mon Dieu, I am beginning to sound obsessed. I’m not obsessed really. Well, I am a bit but only with extracting the juice. The juice of life, that is. So, Lady AirBus, Countess Cassoulet and Duchess, I thank you from the bottom of my empty stomach. Now where’s that formidable Toulouse saucisson I brought back?

The Geek

School Dinners – Cordon Bluhhh

It’s half eleven. I rattle the frozen chips out of the enormous plastic bag and let them

 

topple down onto the trays. I spread them out so that they’ll cook evenly. It’s bad

 

enough having to serve this rubbish so the least I can do is make sure that they’re

 

well browned. Twenty minutes in the oven at 180 degrees. Next I take two large

 

boxes from the freezer, one orange, the other yellow, and rip open the tops. One’s

 

filled with flesh-coloured, frozen sticks which the box claims are sausages. I’ve a

 

rough idea what’s in them but the ingredients are written in such suspiciously small

 

print I can’t decipher it. Perhaps it’s just as well. I’ll have to trust the picture on the

 

box. They look good enough to eat! The other box contains frozen burgers. They

 

slide out of their box and clatter down onto the tin sheet like metal bin lids being

 

flicked across an ice rink. The picture on their box is particularly alluring. Steaming,

 

thick, brown, juicy beef. There’s gravy in the picture too though I won’t be serving

 

that. I have my orders to follow. Twenty minutes in the oven at 180 degrees. Finally

 

comes the fish, freshly caught that morning in the icy waters off the South West coast

 

of Cornwall. Well, not quite. I can imagine the children’s faces if they were to be

 

presented with a freshly grilled mackerel, eyeballs and all! The frozen nuggets of

 

good-cod-in Heaven will have to do. I tried one once, just out of curiosity and I

 

remember wondering where exactly the cod was because all I’d tasted was a greasy

 

lump of what looked liked the forgotten contents of a Hoover bag. Open box, spill

 

onto tray, slide into oven, wait. Twenty minutes in the oven at 180 degrees. All that’s

 

left to do is to prepare the salad. Now, should I use the lemon dill dressing today or

 

the raspberry vinaigrette? Oh, choices, choices. Perhaps I could toss in some pine

 

nuts and a spot of rocket. There I go, dreaming again. Best stick to the anaemic

 

iceberg lettuce and the over ripe tomatoes. Some children will eat it but the majority

 

of it will end up being dropped into the bin along with the polystyrene plates.

 

Scrape, slop, scrape, slop. Ten minutes from start to finish. Out of the way, grab a

 

tray, make them pay, take away. Queue up, chips please, would you like chips with

 

your chips today or a burger au chien? Perhaps you would care to try one of our

 

delicious, mouth-watering sausissons à la toilet bowl, or if you’re feeling in the mood

 

for a little sea fare, might I suggest our goujons au sawdust. Oh, and don’t forget

 

your side salad. Helps with the digestion, you know. I imagine the child’s stomach,

 

the onslaught; a slippery swill, a stodgy mass of shiny fat, being rotated like filthy

 

bed sheets in a washing machine and then pushed along their intestines like an old,

 

wet, grey blanket.

 

Five minutes and counting. I imagine their eager voices and hungry faces. What’s for

 

lunch today, Miss? Well, my lovelies, we’ve got lamb casserole with spicy

 

dumplings, creamy fish pie, delicious steak and kidney pudding with broccoli or nut

 

roast for the vegetables among you! Of course, they never ask what’s for lunch

 

because they always know. It’s chips, pommes frites, French fries, call them what you

 

like. Reconstituted potato hand-picked with loving care and sung to nightly by a

 

scantily-clothed organic virgin although the print on the box is impossible to decipher

 

again. I understand why the manufacturers are reluctant to mention that this

 

package may contain traces of arterial-blockage, fatal heart attacks and high blood

 

pressure and precious bloody else. Oh, there goes the bell. I can hear a rising moan

 

starting to work its way along the corridor, like a swarm of bees heading for an

 

unsuspecting backside. There goes that sodding door, slam, like every day, thwack,

 

against the wall. Let’s have you in a queue, please. There’s plenty to go round

 

though I fear we may run out of French onion soup and pâté. And then I find myself

 

scooping out mounds of chips and letting them flop limply onto the waiting plates.

 

They look crispy on the box. The children are hungry, I know that but somehow their

 

faces just don’t register the enthusiasm that such a hunger would suggest. I

 

remember being bog-eyed at the sight of my school dinners; the piping hot stews

 

and pies, the thick, wholesome soups and the orgy of puddings, Manchester tart and

 

spotted dick and jam roly-poly, the wonderful aromas of baked sponge puddings and

 

roast potatoes wafting along the corridor, drawing me in, oh, the gravitational pull of

 

that gravy! Even the boiled cabbage smelt inviting. I remember the ‘seconds’ too, if

 

you were quick enough, the glorious bellyful contentment after a satisfying feed, the

 

afternoon stupor of too-stuffed-to-be-naughty fullness. A teacher’s dream.

 

And then a good run about on the field after school to work it all off. To me, this

 

twenty minutes in the oven at 180 degrees smells like a dirty dishcloth and I feel that

 

my children are being cheated. I can see them waddling into adulthood with all the

 

grace of a king-sized King Edward, chips on their shoulders as well as on their hips.

 

My arm is moving and there are bodies passing along in front of me and then they’re

 

gone. I’m delighted! The trays are empty. Oh, the hungry, little mites. There’s

 

nothing more satisfying to a cook than knowing you’ve pleased your clientele. Not a

 

French ‘fright’ in sight. Ooh, là, là! Mais, mon Dieu!  Qu’est-ce-que c’est? La salade!

 

It’s hardly been touched. It sits there in the dish like abandoned nuclear waste. Why

 

can’t they eat anything green? It’s not natural! Maybe I should have tried the

 

raspberry vinaigrette after all.

.