Now, on Friday my Mum was 70. She did not want to be 70. I said, there's not much one can do about the march of time, Mum, but you could look at yourself as being 40 with 30 years added experience. I don't think she was convinced.
So, a couple of months ago I thought, what would Mum like for her birthday? I didn't have to think long because the AWFUL answer was already swimming in my brain, looming like an evil nemesis. I knew what she would like. She would like me and my brother to celebrate her birthday with her AT THE SAME TIME, IN THE SAME ROOM.
As you may be aware, me and my brother do not get along. Never have, never will. We are chalk and cheese (bags I the cheese). There was a blissful year and three weeks at the beginning of my life (of which I remain unaware) where I was unencumbered by a sibling, and then the brother arrived and the following 43 years and 3 months have been a series of arguments, fights and resentments for one reason or another. Well, actually, the last five or six years have been maintained in silent ignorance of each other, and that has suited us both well.
Anyhow, a couple of months ago I telephoned my brother vis a vis Mum's impending birthday. I did not speak to him as he did not answer his phone, so I left a message along the lines of 'as it's Mum's 70th, how would you feel about me booking a restaurant for you and your lot, me and my lot and Mum's mad sisters and taking her out to dinner? Me and Andy will pay. Get back to me if this idea is acceptable to you.'
Four weeks later, he phoned and spoke to Andy. Didn't want to speak to me. Said yes, okay.
So I booked the restaurant. I arranged with our friend Jean to borrow her lovely old Rolls Royce to pick Mum up. We all arrived at the restaurant. And everything was fine. My brother glared at me from the far end of a very long table; I over-compensated my feelings to tell him to 'suck it up, Princess' by being over-jolly and over-smiley. Luckily, my two children and his three children (ranging in ages between 10 and 23) sat between us all and kept a lively conversation going. And I was sat between my aunts so any misbehaviour on my part would have been met with a slap around the back of the legs.
Plus the evening was tinged with the frisson of excitement that Leane could go into labour at any minute as the Baby-Bump Grand-daughter has 'dropped' and could make an appearance any minute now. (In fact, Leane popped to the loo at one point in the evening and I clockwatched. I was thinking, if she's gone for more than 5 minutes, I'm going after her. I am not having my grand-daughter born in a pub toilet to the sounds of the live music band singing 'American Pie.')
And then Mum made a speech along the lines of how it had made her day being able to spend an evening in the company of all the people she loves the most.
Mission accomplished.
The point of today's blog, I suppose, is that me and my brother both managed to get over ourselves for long enough to give Mum a happy birthday. So long as she isn't expecting a huge reconciliation. Not until we're in the flames of Hell will that ever happen. And then we'll be poking each other with pitchforks. Mine will be bigger.
But I want Chris and Heather to know that if ever they fall out and would prefer to live their lives not speaking to each other, then I am more than happy in 26 years'time to endure TWO 70th birthday celebrations rather than one if it makes life easier for them and means they won't choke on their soup, lamb shank and double chocolate brownies.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Blankly She Stumbled
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...
Actually, it was the only the worst of times this week. On Thursday, I vaguely remember sitting in my classroom during lunchtime, staring at the 'to-do' list on my desk, and thinking, 'I know I've got to do all this, but I'm not sure where and how to begin. '
This is unlike me, because I am uber-organised. I am purposeful. I have direction. I get things done.
But as I stared at my desk, and listened to the rabble in the corridors, I felt truly lost.
That evening, after school, we had a twilight training session. This was the last thing I needed. What I really needed was to go home and eat many doughnuts and watch something funny on the telly. Or read one of the books I have bought recently and which have been sitting on the kitchen table staring at me in a 'when-are-you-going-to-read-us' kind of way. But instead I had to stay at school and listen to a presentation from some Year 8's (13 year olds) and Year 11s (16 year olds) telling me what they liked about lessons and what they didn't - aka what you teachers are doing wrong.
Apparently, they like playing games. They like being able to chat to their mates. They want lessons to be more relaxed. They want teachers to smile and be in a good mood all the time because 'when we come into class and you're in a mood, it affects our learning.'
Right, I thought. What about all the times you lot come into lessons swearing and fighting and talking non-stop and being down-right silly which affects my teaching? But I didn't say that. Because I didn't want to be deemed as being 'unreceptive to the student voice.' And I was focused on going home and eating doughnuts.
And after that we had a talk on being in tune with students' emotional and spiritual well-being. How ironic, I thought, that they are asking me to be in touch with something I lost in myself about 4 weeks ago. But then I thought, no Denise, your emotional and spiritual well-being lies in that doughnut waiting for you at home. So shut up.
And then after that, I had to go and see the headteacher to discuss how I felt about suddenly having my Year 8 class (most of whom have behavioural difficulties and all of whom have learning difficulties) collapsed with another year 8 class and having to teach them both at the same time. Without any notice. Or consultation. And the fact I had been trying to do this for 4 days now and ended up in tears every day because this 'innovative' form of teaching clearly wasn't going to work and I was feeling like I was the crappest teacher in the world.
In slightly more polite terms I said I felt s**t about it. And deskilled and anxious and frustrated and bl**dy p***ed off, too. In slightly more subtextual terms the head smiled a lot and said, 'Tough, you're stuck with it.' Maybe I didn't put my case forcefully enough? Maybe I had low blood sugar. Never mind, the doughnut will cure that.
I left the school at just before 6 pm, having arrived 10 hours earlier and worked through without a break (because of the to-do- list. Although I suppose my blank staring could, theoretically, count as a break. So shut up, Denise.)
Outside it was raining, nay coming down in stair-rods. I began the walk home. Within 5 minutes I was drenched. I was thinking, 'Hey, isn't this great!' Not. Even the beckoning doughnut was beginning to fade into the distance. The rush hour traffic was zooming past and sending massive puddles flying onto the pavement 'pon which I walked. But it didn't really matter because I was wet through already.
After a 25 minutes walk, I managed to catch a bus. When I got home, Heather had already cooked tea. We had doughnuts.
Yesterday, I said to my head of department, 'I probably shan't be coming back in September.'
'I don't blame you,' she said.
(Today's blog was brought to you by 'Ifyouthinkteachingisadoddlewithshortdaysandlotsoftimeoffrelaxing by the pool, YOU'RE WRONG.com.)
Actually, it was the only the worst of times this week. On Thursday, I vaguely remember sitting in my classroom during lunchtime, staring at the 'to-do' list on my desk, and thinking, 'I know I've got to do all this, but I'm not sure where and how to begin. '
This is unlike me, because I am uber-organised. I am purposeful. I have direction. I get things done.
But as I stared at my desk, and listened to the rabble in the corridors, I felt truly lost.
That evening, after school, we had a twilight training session. This was the last thing I needed. What I really needed was to go home and eat many doughnuts and watch something funny on the telly. Or read one of the books I have bought recently and which have been sitting on the kitchen table staring at me in a 'when-are-you-going-to-read-us' kind of way. But instead I had to stay at school and listen to a presentation from some Year 8's (13 year olds) and Year 11s (16 year olds) telling me what they liked about lessons and what they didn't - aka what you teachers are doing wrong.
Apparently, they like playing games. They like being able to chat to their mates. They want lessons to be more relaxed. They want teachers to smile and be in a good mood all the time because 'when we come into class and you're in a mood, it affects our learning.'
Right, I thought. What about all the times you lot come into lessons swearing and fighting and talking non-stop and being down-right silly which affects my teaching? But I didn't say that. Because I didn't want to be deemed as being 'unreceptive to the student voice.' And I was focused on going home and eating doughnuts.
And after that we had a talk on being in tune with students' emotional and spiritual well-being. How ironic, I thought, that they are asking me to be in touch with something I lost in myself about 4 weeks ago. But then I thought, no Denise, your emotional and spiritual well-being lies in that doughnut waiting for you at home. So shut up.
And then after that, I had to go and see the headteacher to discuss how I felt about suddenly having my Year 8 class (most of whom have behavioural difficulties and all of whom have learning difficulties) collapsed with another year 8 class and having to teach them both at the same time. Without any notice. Or consultation. And the fact I had been trying to do this for 4 days now and ended up in tears every day because this 'innovative' form of teaching clearly wasn't going to work and I was feeling like I was the crappest teacher in the world.
In slightly more polite terms I said I felt s**t about it. And deskilled and anxious and frustrated and bl**dy p***ed off, too. In slightly more subtextual terms the head smiled a lot and said, 'Tough, you're stuck with it.' Maybe I didn't put my case forcefully enough? Maybe I had low blood sugar. Never mind, the doughnut will cure that.
I left the school at just before 6 pm, having arrived 10 hours earlier and worked through without a break (because of the to-do- list. Although I suppose my blank staring could, theoretically, count as a break. So shut up, Denise.)
Outside it was raining, nay coming down in stair-rods. I began the walk home. Within 5 minutes I was drenched. I was thinking, 'Hey, isn't this great!' Not. Even the beckoning doughnut was beginning to fade into the distance. The rush hour traffic was zooming past and sending massive puddles flying onto the pavement 'pon which I walked. But it didn't really matter because I was wet through already.
After a 25 minutes walk, I managed to catch a bus. When I got home, Heather had already cooked tea. We had doughnuts.
Yesterday, I said to my head of department, 'I probably shan't be coming back in September.'
'I don't blame you,' she said.
(Today's blog was brought to you by 'Ifyouthinkteachingisadoddlewithshortdaysandlotsoftimeoffrelaxing by the pool, YOU'RE WRONG.com.)
Monday, 22 February 2010
Throw Me A Chair
Today, a child threw a chair across my classroom. Luckily, I was not in the chair's trajectory so avoided having my brain impaled by a chair lag. Everybody in the classroom jumped. I did not. I maintained an air of controlled calm, mostly because my ear is still buzzing and I was feeling discombobulated, but deep down what I really wanted to do was pick the chair up and throw it back, with maybe a table or two to underline my displeasure vis a vis flying furniture.
And my transgression?
I had asked said child to put his balloon away. Six times. Nicely. Politely. Starting with humour. Working up to firm resolve. I mean, it's not an unreasonable request, is it? We had things to do in class which in no way, shape or form involved the use of a balloon. The balloon was being distracting. So please put it away.
Perhaps I wasn't clear enough in my instruction. 'Please put the balloon away.' Could be interpreted as 'Gjfirow huf ewo fjisgnrj shkf,' I suppose. By a particularly idiot child.
Another idiot child refused to be quiet whilst I was explaining the main activity of the lesson.
'I can't help it,' he said. 'I've got ADHD.'
'But you managed to sit through a 25 minute assembly the other week without speaking,' I said.
The child shrugged. This was an irrelevant observation. 'It was assembly,' he said. Like that made all the difference. He continued to talk over me. A couple of his peers told him to shut up. He ignored them too, so I didn't feel quite so bad about my inadequacies.
So today I decided it would be a good idea to open a cake shop. I am not cut out to be a teacher. Not in the current social climate. Cake will never, EVER throw a chair. Or answer back.
And my transgression?
I had asked said child to put his balloon away. Six times. Nicely. Politely. Starting with humour. Working up to firm resolve. I mean, it's not an unreasonable request, is it? We had things to do in class which in no way, shape or form involved the use of a balloon. The balloon was being distracting. So please put it away.
Perhaps I wasn't clear enough in my instruction. 'Please put the balloon away.' Could be interpreted as 'Gjfirow huf ewo fjisgnrj shkf,' I suppose. By a particularly idiot child.
Another idiot child refused to be quiet whilst I was explaining the main activity of the lesson.
'I can't help it,' he said. 'I've got ADHD.'
'But you managed to sit through a 25 minute assembly the other week without speaking,' I said.
The child shrugged. This was an irrelevant observation. 'It was assembly,' he said. Like that made all the difference. He continued to talk over me. A couple of his peers told him to shut up. He ignored them too, so I didn't feel quite so bad about my inadequacies.
So today I decided it would be a good idea to open a cake shop. I am not cut out to be a teacher. Not in the current social climate. Cake will never, EVER throw a chair. Or answer back.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Tayberries and Flip It!
Auntie Pollie delivered a tayberry bush today. It's one of hers that has gone crazy in her garden and as she's had enough of it, it is being rehomed here at the Manor.
I am very pleased about this newest edition to our cropping power. You may remember me having a rant last year about the old geezer up the allotment who insisted that our blackberry bush was, in fact, a tayberry, and got very shirty about it when I dared argue with him.
Well, I am now in a position to grow some tayberries and when I have grown some I shall take a sample of each fruit and point out the difference to him in no uncertain terms.
So there! Ha!
On a more cerebral, less juvenile note, I spent some more of my Christmas book vouchers this weekend. I bought four books - 'We Are All Made of Glue' by Marina Lewycka, 'Snobs' by Julian Fellowes, 'The Ministry of Food' by Jane Fearnley- Whittingstall, and 'Flip It' by Michael Heppell.
Now, 'Flip It' is a self- help book. I don't generally hold with self-help books because I think if I can't give myself a good talking to and a slap around the face to bring me to my senses, then no book is going to any more successful. Also, what are husbands and friends for? Still, I'd heard good things about this book and as it was a nice shade of graduated blue I thought I'd give it a slot of my time. Also, it has big writing, some pictures and diagrams AND I had a challenge for it.
The premise of Flip It is finding how to get the best out of every situation. The blurb says 'Flip It challenges you to get curious about how you interpret and handle every situation...' etc etc blah blah blah. It says instead of asking 'why?' about a situation, you should ask 'how?'
And I have a situation. The situation involves big road laying lorries parking on our residential street. Right outside our house. Blocking our view from the driveway so you take your life in your hands getting onto the main road. And parking on the pavement, and blocking the junction with the main road. And generally being an eyesore, and a noise nuisance at 5.30 in the morning when their drivers set off for whatever road laying job they've got on that day. This has been an on-going situation for several months now. The drivers do not live on our road. They park up and walk away, presumably to their houses that don't have bloody great lorries parked out the front.
A neighbour across the road reported the lorries to the police last November. The police eventually investigated and found out that one of the lorries had no insurance. The lorries disappeared for two months and the neighbourhood breathed a sigh of relief. But now the lorries are back. An even bigger one has joined the other two. The road is starting to look like Operation Stack on the M20.
I am not coping with the presence of these monstrosities parked right outside my living room window. I find them a depressing eye-sore. I believe them to be nuisance parking. And I also believe that such vehicles are not supposed to be parking in residential areas any way.
So, Flip It book, I said. What am I supposed to do? I asked not 'why is this happening to us?' but 'how can I cope better with this situation?'
Firstly, I e-mailed the borough council. I made a complaint about nuisance parking. I am now in fear that there will be reprisals, that one morning we will get up to find our car covered in tarmac. Andy has discovered from the VOSA website that such lorries need a special licence to be able to park in residential areas and that these licences are very rarely granted as 3.5 tonne lorries should be parking in specially designated holding bays. So tomorrow I shall be on the phone to VOSA to find out more of the whys and wherefores because if a licence has been granted (which I doubt because they can't even keep their vehicles insured properly) then none of us residents were notified (it's a bit like planning permission).
And then Auntie Pollie arrived with the tayberry. And Andy and I looked at our front garden, which is currently edged by a three foot high wall topped with stunning views of road laying lorries.
'We could put a fence on top of the wall,' I said. 'To hide the lorries from view.'
'Yes,' said Andy. 'We could plant the tayberry in the front garden, and it could ramble up the fence.'
'Also, ' I said, 'we could put more veg in the front garden, because the beds would be hidden from public view and so not prone to leek thiefs a la Tom 'n' Barbara in 'The Good Life.' '
'Yes,' said Andy. 'We could make a secluded veg plot.'
'AND,' I said, really getting into the swing of things,' if we make the front garden hidden from view, we could put a bee-hive out there! The fence would encourage the bees to fly straight up, so they wouldn't be smacking people in the face as they come and go. No-one would know they were there!'
'Indeed,' said Andy.
So that's what we might do if the borough council and VOSA can do nothing about the lorries. Build our own secret garden!
FLIPPED IT!!
I am very pleased about this newest edition to our cropping power. You may remember me having a rant last year about the old geezer up the allotment who insisted that our blackberry bush was, in fact, a tayberry, and got very shirty about it when I dared argue with him.
Well, I am now in a position to grow some tayberries and when I have grown some I shall take a sample of each fruit and point out the difference to him in no uncertain terms.
So there! Ha!
On a more cerebral, less juvenile note, I spent some more of my Christmas book vouchers this weekend. I bought four books - 'We Are All Made of Glue' by Marina Lewycka, 'Snobs' by Julian Fellowes, 'The Ministry of Food' by Jane Fearnley- Whittingstall, and 'Flip It' by Michael Heppell.
Now, 'Flip It' is a self- help book. I don't generally hold with self-help books because I think if I can't give myself a good talking to and a slap around the face to bring me to my senses, then no book is going to any more successful. Also, what are husbands and friends for? Still, I'd heard good things about this book and as it was a nice shade of graduated blue I thought I'd give it a slot of my time. Also, it has big writing, some pictures and diagrams AND I had a challenge for it.
The premise of Flip It is finding how to get the best out of every situation. The blurb says 'Flip It challenges you to get curious about how you interpret and handle every situation...' etc etc blah blah blah. It says instead of asking 'why?' about a situation, you should ask 'how?'
And I have a situation. The situation involves big road laying lorries parking on our residential street. Right outside our house. Blocking our view from the driveway so you take your life in your hands getting onto the main road. And parking on the pavement, and blocking the junction with the main road. And generally being an eyesore, and a noise nuisance at 5.30 in the morning when their drivers set off for whatever road laying job they've got on that day. This has been an on-going situation for several months now. The drivers do not live on our road. They park up and walk away, presumably to their houses that don't have bloody great lorries parked out the front.
A neighbour across the road reported the lorries to the police last November. The police eventually investigated and found out that one of the lorries had no insurance. The lorries disappeared for two months and the neighbourhood breathed a sigh of relief. But now the lorries are back. An even bigger one has joined the other two. The road is starting to look like Operation Stack on the M20.
I am not coping with the presence of these monstrosities parked right outside my living room window. I find them a depressing eye-sore. I believe them to be nuisance parking. And I also believe that such vehicles are not supposed to be parking in residential areas any way.
So, Flip It book, I said. What am I supposed to do? I asked not 'why is this happening to us?' but 'how can I cope better with this situation?'
Firstly, I e-mailed the borough council. I made a complaint about nuisance parking. I am now in fear that there will be reprisals, that one morning we will get up to find our car covered in tarmac. Andy has discovered from the VOSA website that such lorries need a special licence to be able to park in residential areas and that these licences are very rarely granted as 3.5 tonne lorries should be parking in specially designated holding bays. So tomorrow I shall be on the phone to VOSA to find out more of the whys and wherefores because if a licence has been granted (which I doubt because they can't even keep their vehicles insured properly) then none of us residents were notified (it's a bit like planning permission).
And then Auntie Pollie arrived with the tayberry. And Andy and I looked at our front garden, which is currently edged by a three foot high wall topped with stunning views of road laying lorries.
'We could put a fence on top of the wall,' I said. 'To hide the lorries from view.'
'Yes,' said Andy. 'We could plant the tayberry in the front garden, and it could ramble up the fence.'
'Also, ' I said, 'we could put more veg in the front garden, because the beds would be hidden from public view and so not prone to leek thiefs a la Tom 'n' Barbara in 'The Good Life.' '
'Yes,' said Andy. 'We could make a secluded veg plot.'
'AND,' I said, really getting into the swing of things,' if we make the front garden hidden from view, we could put a bee-hive out there! The fence would encourage the bees to fly straight up, so they wouldn't be smacking people in the face as they come and go. No-one would know they were there!'
'Indeed,' said Andy.
So that's what we might do if the borough council and VOSA can do nothing about the lorries. Build our own secret garden!
FLIPPED IT!!
Thursday, 18 February 2010
The Art of the Guinea Pig
I am taking a break from marking exam papers. The reasons I am taking a break are 1) I have been marking for two hours and am reaching the end of my marking tether 2) I've already done a heap load of marking this half-term and it's getting on my nerves because EVERYONE knows that the only reason a person becomes a teacher is 'cos of all the holidays 3) Heather's birthday cake (or what remains) is calling me from the fridge and 4) I just read something that made me laugh out loud and inspired a blog.
When you mark exam papers you read some interesting things. And also some dire and boring things, but I feel these only serve to highlight the little gems that make an occasional appearance. The batch of papers I marked at the beginning of the week disturbed me greatly as the students who wrote them seemed very focused on telling me how important their mobile phones were to them and that they felt lost without them, like their right hand had been surgically removed, and that they should be allowed to use their phones in school ALL THE TIME or else they would JUST DIE FROM SOCIAL ISOLATION and don't adults care, or sumfing or nuffing or sumfing. A sign of the times, I suppose, but a sad sign nonetheless.
But in today's batch, I was reading and giving marks for how students described their homes. And one boy, in describing his bedroom, talked at great length about his 'chester draws.' 'Opposite the TV is my bed,' he wrote, 'and next to it is another chester draws with my stereo and computer on it.'
Now, when my sister was a little girl, she counted amongst her pets a succession of guinea pigs. And one of these guinea pigs was a long-haired black 'n' ginger 'n' white confection by the name of Chester.
And my immediate thought on reading this boy's description of his home was 'Why would my sister's guinea pig be using this boy's bedroom as an artist studio, and what is this boy doing balancing his stereo and computer on it?'
Which was when I knew I needed to have a break and possibly some birthday cake to replenish my obviously plummeting blood/sugar levels, thereby causing abstract hallucinatory thoughts vis a vis guinea pigs being squashed for their art.
Anyway, just thought I'd share that random, abstract and absurd thought with you.
Now if you want to see something truly abstract, can I suggest you go and see the musical, 'Wicked'? Heather and I went to see it yesterday, for her birthday. I've seen it before, but Heather hasn't and was very keen to do so, and given that the only person available for her to spend her birthday with was her boring old mum, I agreed to venture forth into my nemesis (aka London), and see the musical again.
'Wicked' is basically the story of how the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz came to be wicked. Hence, presumably, the title. A prequel to the Wizard of Oz, if you like. The costumes and special effects are spectacular. The songs, in my opinion, are so-so; the kind of songs you could join in and sing along to even if you've never heard them before, provided you've got the chutzpah and the volume to give 'em a go. And the plot? I think even Heather agreed that the plot was vague, tenuous and contrived. And this musical was adapted from a novel. (Ooooooh, don't get me started on bad novels being published and earning loadsamoney. Just don't!)
During the plot there were many random points of action that occurred that were then explained away by the characters after they'd happened, just in case the audience weren't keeping up with the story. Like the writers suddenly thought, 'Ooops, that didn't make sense did it? Still, we can't be bothered to re-write it, so let's do a bit of random explanation via the medium of the flying monkey/ the weird 6 foot tall Munchkin/ the Wizard being portrayed as a bigamist/ lothario/control-freak b**tard.'
A guinea pig called Chester with a computer balanced on his head could have written a more convincing script.
And Sam Kelly (from 'Allo Allo') is far too nice to be in role as the aforesaid b**tard Wizard.
Klopf!!
When you mark exam papers you read some interesting things. And also some dire and boring things, but I feel these only serve to highlight the little gems that make an occasional appearance. The batch of papers I marked at the beginning of the week disturbed me greatly as the students who wrote them seemed very focused on telling me how important their mobile phones were to them and that they felt lost without them, like their right hand had been surgically removed, and that they should be allowed to use their phones in school ALL THE TIME or else they would JUST DIE FROM SOCIAL ISOLATION and don't adults care, or sumfing or nuffing or sumfing. A sign of the times, I suppose, but a sad sign nonetheless.
But in today's batch, I was reading and giving marks for how students described their homes. And one boy, in describing his bedroom, talked at great length about his 'chester draws.' 'Opposite the TV is my bed,' he wrote, 'and next to it is another chester draws with my stereo and computer on it.'
Now, when my sister was a little girl, she counted amongst her pets a succession of guinea pigs. And one of these guinea pigs was a long-haired black 'n' ginger 'n' white confection by the name of Chester.
And my immediate thought on reading this boy's description of his home was 'Why would my sister's guinea pig be using this boy's bedroom as an artist studio, and what is this boy doing balancing his stereo and computer on it?'
Which was when I knew I needed to have a break and possibly some birthday cake to replenish my obviously plummeting blood/sugar levels, thereby causing abstract hallucinatory thoughts vis a vis guinea pigs being squashed for their art.
Anyway, just thought I'd share that random, abstract and absurd thought with you.
Now if you want to see something truly abstract, can I suggest you go and see the musical, 'Wicked'? Heather and I went to see it yesterday, for her birthday. I've seen it before, but Heather hasn't and was very keen to do so, and given that the only person available for her to spend her birthday with was her boring old mum, I agreed to venture forth into my nemesis (aka London), and see the musical again.
'Wicked' is basically the story of how the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz came to be wicked. Hence, presumably, the title. A prequel to the Wizard of Oz, if you like. The costumes and special effects are spectacular. The songs, in my opinion, are so-so; the kind of songs you could join in and sing along to even if you've never heard them before, provided you've got the chutzpah and the volume to give 'em a go. And the plot? I think even Heather agreed that the plot was vague, tenuous and contrived. And this musical was adapted from a novel. (Ooooooh, don't get me started on bad novels being published and earning loadsamoney. Just don't!)
During the plot there were many random points of action that occurred that were then explained away by the characters after they'd happened, just in case the audience weren't keeping up with the story. Like the writers suddenly thought, 'Ooops, that didn't make sense did it? Still, we can't be bothered to re-write it, so let's do a bit of random explanation via the medium of the flying monkey/ the weird 6 foot tall Munchkin/ the Wizard being portrayed as a bigamist/ lothario/control-freak b**tard.'
A guinea pig called Chester with a computer balanced on his head could have written a more convincing script.
And Sam Kelly (from 'Allo Allo') is far too nice to be in role as the aforesaid b**tard Wizard.
Klopf!!
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Wouldn't It Be Lovely?
Wouldn't it be lovely to be so enthusiastic about the work you do that you can't wait to leap out of bed in the morning and crack on with the day?
Wouldn't it be lovely if you were so engrossed in your work that time raced by, yet seemed at the same time to stand still whilst you filled it to the brim with progress and productivity?
Wouldn't it be lovely to feel your face light up and your soul glow when you tell other people exactly how it is you spend your life time?
Wouldn't it be lovely to go to bed at night feeling happy and satisfied that you've lived a truly wonderful day and you know you've made a difference to someone's life, not matter how big, no matter how small, no matter how way?
And wouldn't it be lovely if nothing would ever be a big enough excuse to prevent you doing what you love - not the bad weather, the habits of others, the lack of energy or skill, the loss of enthusiasm?
Wouldn't it be lovely to experience good pressure, the kind of pressure that you rise up with and ride, surfing it like a rolling wave, unafraid to travel with it because you know it will take you to new experiences, better living, a satisfied spirit?
Wouldn't it be lovely to take charge of your life, to answer to no-one but yourself, to be your own best line manager?
Wouldn't it be lovely to be confident enough to be able to feel the fear and take a risk anyway?
Wouldn't it be lovely to be able to laugh at the words 'But what if...? and 'If only...?'
Wouldn't it be lovely if the greatest responsibility you ever had was to be true to yourself the knowledge that whatever you do, you are doing it to the best of your ability?
Wouldn't it?
Wouldn't it be lovely if you were so engrossed in your work that time raced by, yet seemed at the same time to stand still whilst you filled it to the brim with progress and productivity?
Wouldn't it be lovely to feel your face light up and your soul glow when you tell other people exactly how it is you spend your life time?
Wouldn't it be lovely to go to bed at night feeling happy and satisfied that you've lived a truly wonderful day and you know you've made a difference to someone's life, not matter how big, no matter how small, no matter how way?
And wouldn't it be lovely if nothing would ever be a big enough excuse to prevent you doing what you love - not the bad weather, the habits of others, the lack of energy or skill, the loss of enthusiasm?
Wouldn't it be lovely to experience good pressure, the kind of pressure that you rise up with and ride, surfing it like a rolling wave, unafraid to travel with it because you know it will take you to new experiences, better living, a satisfied spirit?
Wouldn't it be lovely to take charge of your life, to answer to no-one but yourself, to be your own best line manager?
Wouldn't it be lovely to be confident enough to be able to feel the fear and take a risk anyway?
Wouldn't it be lovely to be able to laugh at the words 'But what if...? and 'If only...?'
Wouldn't it be lovely if the greatest responsibility you ever had was to be true to yourself the knowledge that whatever you do, you are doing it to the best of your ability?
Wouldn't it?
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Strum-along-a-Valentine
Happy Valentine's Day!
There has been much broo-ha-ha on the local news about Valentine's Day, following a decision by a local primary school to ban the giving of Valentine's cards. 'Any cards found in the school will be confiscated,' said the bitter Head Teacher, who had clearly suffered a lifetime of ill-effects from being by-passed for Valentine's attention when he was a child.
Well, so was I. But it's one of those things you just get over, isn't it? Like not passing your driving test first time, or being beaten by Debbie Wells in the 100 metres front crawl, even though your style was clearly superior to hers. It might bother you at the time, but in hindsight it's not such a big deal and it teaches you that life isn't always fair, and has pockets of disappointment, and it's no good getting all miserable and moody because eventually you will meet a fab man like Andy and all romantic disppointments of the past will pale into nothingness 'gainst the richness of love with which you are blessed today.
Well, that's what I think.
So Andy tackled Valentine's Day in the traditional manner this year and lucky me received a bottle of my favourite Chanel 19 (whose expense made it a no-no purchase when I stopped working), a red enamel and silver heart pendant on a silver chain from my favourite jewellery retailer, Pia, and a box of chocolate caramel hearts. There were also three balloon hearts.
'There were twelve in the packet,' said Andy. 'But I ran out of puff after three.'
And what did I get Andy?
A ukelele!
On opening his gift (which included a ukelele case and two 'How to Play the Ukelele' books), Andy gave me a bit of a confused look. I could tell he was secretly delighted at the ingenuity and originality of my gift to him, yet slightly bemused at the thought processes that brought me thus hither.
I had a fit of giggles as I tried to explain myself. 'I thought it was a good idea,' I said between guffaws. 'I thought, he'll never guess what this is. It was a moment of divine inspiration. It was either a ukelele or Lego.'
'I thought it was a metronome,' admitted Andy. 'When I saw the shape of the box.'
'Why would I buy you a metronome?' I said.
He gave me a look that said, 'why would you buy me a ukelele?'
Anyway, the air this morning has been twinging with the twangs of a newbie ukelele player, as Andy has grappled with tuning and attempting basic chords and a rendition of 'By the Rivers of Babylon.' I'm not sure the rivers of Babylon would have resounded with the sounds of a ukelele, but you never know. I'm expecting a rendition of 'Lady Come Down' a la Colin Firth in 'The Importance of Being Earnest' by Christmas.
I had a moment when I thought 'have I made an error of enormous ukelele proportions by giving this particular object as a gift?'
But Andy is very pleased with it, now he's got over the shock and sheer randomness.
And he especially likes the case.
'I could pretend I'm a gangster,' he said.
'Or that you have a violin,' I suggested.
'Isn't that what gangsters carry around with them?' said Andy. 'Their cases are violin shaped, after all.'
'I think their violin cases are more likely to contain machine guns,' I said.
'I'd never get a machine gun in my ukelele case,' said Andy.
'Probably not,' I said.
And outside, the daylight arrived before 7 a.m (which has lifted my spirits no end because it means longer days are on the way) and Mrs Slocombe was kicking off loudly because Mrs Miggins was laying an egg. And inside, my ear was now crackling and popping which a friend who is more experienced in ear infection than I informs me is a good sign, and that my ear is now refilling with air rather than goo.
And Chris and Leane came round for dinner last night, looking happy and ready for the arrival of their baby (3 weeks to go), and all is starting to feel right with the world.
Happy Valentine's Day!
There has been much broo-ha-ha on the local news about Valentine's Day, following a decision by a local primary school to ban the giving of Valentine's cards. 'Any cards found in the school will be confiscated,' said the bitter Head Teacher, who had clearly suffered a lifetime of ill-effects from being by-passed for Valentine's attention when he was a child.
Well, so was I. But it's one of those things you just get over, isn't it? Like not passing your driving test first time, or being beaten by Debbie Wells in the 100 metres front crawl, even though your style was clearly superior to hers. It might bother you at the time, but in hindsight it's not such a big deal and it teaches you that life isn't always fair, and has pockets of disappointment, and it's no good getting all miserable and moody because eventually you will meet a fab man like Andy and all romantic disppointments of the past will pale into nothingness 'gainst the richness of love with which you are blessed today.
Well, that's what I think.
So Andy tackled Valentine's Day in the traditional manner this year and lucky me received a bottle of my favourite Chanel 19 (whose expense made it a no-no purchase when I stopped working), a red enamel and silver heart pendant on a silver chain from my favourite jewellery retailer, Pia, and a box of chocolate caramel hearts. There were also three balloon hearts.
'There were twelve in the packet,' said Andy. 'But I ran out of puff after three.'
And what did I get Andy?
A ukelele!
On opening his gift (which included a ukelele case and two 'How to Play the Ukelele' books), Andy gave me a bit of a confused look. I could tell he was secretly delighted at the ingenuity and originality of my gift to him, yet slightly bemused at the thought processes that brought me thus hither.
I had a fit of giggles as I tried to explain myself. 'I thought it was a good idea,' I said between guffaws. 'I thought, he'll never guess what this is. It was a moment of divine inspiration. It was either a ukelele or Lego.'
'I thought it was a metronome,' admitted Andy. 'When I saw the shape of the box.'
'Why would I buy you a metronome?' I said.
He gave me a look that said, 'why would you buy me a ukelele?'
Anyway, the air this morning has been twinging with the twangs of a newbie ukelele player, as Andy has grappled with tuning and attempting basic chords and a rendition of 'By the Rivers of Babylon.' I'm not sure the rivers of Babylon would have resounded with the sounds of a ukelele, but you never know. I'm expecting a rendition of 'Lady Come Down' a la Colin Firth in 'The Importance of Being Earnest' by Christmas.
I had a moment when I thought 'have I made an error of enormous ukelele proportions by giving this particular object as a gift?'
But Andy is very pleased with it, now he's got over the shock and sheer randomness.
And he especially likes the case.
'I could pretend I'm a gangster,' he said.
'Or that you have a violin,' I suggested.
'Isn't that what gangsters carry around with them?' said Andy. 'Their cases are violin shaped, after all.'
'I think their violin cases are more likely to contain machine guns,' I said.
'I'd never get a machine gun in my ukelele case,' said Andy.
'Probably not,' I said.
And outside, the daylight arrived before 7 a.m (which has lifted my spirits no end because it means longer days are on the way) and Mrs Slocombe was kicking off loudly because Mrs Miggins was laying an egg. And inside, my ear was now crackling and popping which a friend who is more experienced in ear infection than I informs me is a good sign, and that my ear is now refilling with air rather than goo.
And Chris and Leane came round for dinner last night, looking happy and ready for the arrival of their baby (3 weeks to go), and all is starting to feel right with the world.
Happy Valentine's Day!
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