Dole out the chill pills

I've always imagined it must be exhausting to be a perpetually angry person. Like those people who just have to be in front of the queue of cars, no matter what - they beep and flash their lights, roaring past to gain a few more feet, then slamming their brakes on as they meet the next car. And they only arrive a few minutes before you, but they're all hot and angry, cursing the road and the drivers who are happy to go with the flow. At work, angry people huff and snap, making everyone scatter as they storm through the room. If you tell them to sit down and have a break, they snarl that they haven't got time as they have to do all the things that everyone else is messing up. 

Yep, the worst of the angry people are the martyrs. They needlessly take on everyone's responsibilities, making the chilled people feel bad. You may be truly going to do a job soon, but because you're not doing it now, the Martyr has to sigh, grit her teeth (the Martyr is usually female, I've found) and do it for you. She then has to tell everyone how she had to do your job because she's the only one capable of doing it properly. The Martyr eventually reaches a point where she completely loses it, has a mad rant and storms out. All for the sake of stuff she didn't have to do in the first place. What an unpleasant and tiring way to live. 

There's a line in the film The Bucket List, when Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman are discussing dying: 'You know, the ancient Egyptians had a beautiful belief about death. When their souls got to the entrance to heaven the gods asked them two questions. Their answers determined whether they were admitted or not.' The questions: have you found joy in your life? Has your life brought joy to others? As well as being rather nervous of the Martyrs that are around, I do feel quite sorry for them. They don't seem to have time for listening, giving reassuring hugs or smiling. Are they so busy 'getting on with things' that they don't look around and enjoy the flowers and trees and bird-song? Do angry people even realise what they're missing?

I don't have a busy and important job. I don't want one. I don't want to be in such a tearing hurry that I miss the joy that's around us every day. I don't want to be a snappy, 'indispensable' person that makes others miserable, that doesn't notice if someone's sad or in need of a smile. My measure of whether I've done my job right, is not how much I ticked off a list, but whether I made someone happy that day. Take a chill pill, people. 

Anyway...

Yesterday, before I got distracted by my lack of intelligence, I was going to write about my favourite primary school teacher. He was someone to be frightened of, if you weren't in his class. He was pretty terrifying if you were in his class, but I've noticed that he is fondly remembered by many people in a Facebook group related to my old school. He was very 'old school' (forgive me) in that he hurled board-rubbers and bits of chalk at anyone who wasn't concentrating, and so we all quickly made sure we concentrated. He got cross when we complained at how hard maths was, and he told us that we didn't know what we were talking about: we had it easy. When children groaned at that, he made us spend a whole morning working out problems in pounds, shillings and pence, in pounds and ounces, and feet and inches (we were 8 and 9 years old). He banned the word 'nice' and told us that we wrote boring and predictable stories. To 'help' us become more interesting, he gave us spellings to increase our vocabulary. So I learnt to spell words like 'serendipity', 'discombobulate' and 'chiaroscuro', amongst others. (I admit that I still have to check the spelling of the third one.) Because we kept getting our punctuation wrong, he banned apostrophes, and we spoke like members of the royal family for a day. 

After spending a couple of weeks in fear of upsetting him, we realised he actually had a wonderful sense of humour, and we revelled in his sarcasm and biting comments. I remember a day when he decided my fringe was stopping me seeing my books properly and he ordered me to get it out of the way. Telling me he had no 'female fripperies' such as hair clips, he took the largest bulldog clip he could find, and pinned my hair up with it. I made sure I got my hair cut that night. He taught us an awful lot. Like the difference between 'can' and 'may', mainly learnt from us asking, 'Can I go to the toilet?' 'Of course you can,' he'd tell us, before roaring at us for leaving our seats. We quickly learnt the lesson and, devils that we were, gloried in others being caught out. He was so strict, that other teachers sent troublesome children to spend the day in our class, so there were many victims. 'Where the bloody hell do you think you're going, boy?' would echo down the corridor, and some poor child would probably no longer need the toilet anyway. 

He'd no doubt be sacked today - he swore at us, smoked a pipe in class, and told us we were all idiots, but I can honestly say I learnt more from him than any other teacher since. I see an awful lot of children at school today who have no respect for adults, and their parents let them get away with murder. They're cheeky, answer back and think they can do what ever they want in the classroom. Unfortunately, our board rubbers are flimsy little plastic things, that would not give a satisfying crack to the head, even if we were allowed to throw them. Politically incorrect and written with tongue firmly in cheek, but I'd love to send some of these children back in time. Got it easy, they have...

If I only had a brain...

I was going to write about how I fondly remember a teacher who threw board-rubbers at the class and taught me to spell 'discombobulated', but then I got side-tracked by the fact that I've been an idiot. For weeks, I've been trying to sort out a problem with a blog site, as it refused to update my feed (ooh, get me - you might almost get the impression I know what I'm on about...). They told me that I needed to include images and titles in each post. 'I DO!!!' I stormed, 'and you're rubbish and I'm going to stop using you,' I added, then deleted the last bit, and just sulked instead. So, this afternoon, I started typing about how a conversation during staff training got me thinking about an old teacher of mine, and I suddenly saw a box at the top of the page, labelled 'Title'. 'Ah,' I thought, 'so that's what they meant.' Turns out I was typing headings, not titles. Sigh... I had actually never noticed that little box before. Whilst writing 68 posts, that I've just had to go back and edit, I had never noticed that box. 

It reminded me of my lovely Nan who remarked on an ancient oak tree she'd only just noticed: 'That's nice, is it new?' And she had Alzheimers. Must ask the Daughter to get me some medication sorted.

Fab Friday

Yesterday was Ms Fab's fortieth birthday. She was spoilt rotten by everyone and has hopefully realised it was not the terrible event she's been dreading for the past year. Never one to do things by halves, she has celebrations and holidays planned to take her through the first six weeks of her forties. 

It's tradition at work that those with a birthday have to provide cakes for the staff room, but Ms Fab did things a little differently and brought in sweets and ice lollies that took her back to her childhood. Caramacs, Curly Wurlys and Refreshers were shared round, and the freezer was full of strawberry Mini-milks, Feasts and Fabs (of course). Needless to say, break-time went on for far longer than it should, not that the children complained. 

Next month, Ms Fab and I are going climbing. We decided this after taking the Brownies to a rather wonderful outward bound centre a couple of weeks ago. We helped to supervise the older girls on a climbing wall that went up a fire tower and, despite our mutual loathing of exercise, discovered that we both wanted a go. A local sports centre has a good indoor climbing wall, so we're going for a two-hour instruction session, after which we will probably give up and try something less strenuous. The Daughter has friends who are climbers, and I have been told that I will probably not be able to move my hands the following day, which should make for interesting writing on the classroom whiteboard. Ms Fab and I have roped in (unintended pun, sorry) our friend and part-time fellow TA, Mrs GSOH (and the 'G' here stands for 'great', 'gigantic', or even 'glorious' rather than just 'good'), so the three of us will probably be involved in the resignation of some poor, young climbing instructor. 

I'll let you know how we get on, if I'm still able to type. 

Learning the right lessons

It's nearly time to say goodbye to our year 6 children - most are going to the local high school, and will leave us soon to start their two-week induction period. Every year, we reach a time when we can see that they're ready to go. They've outgrown primary school, and are losing their childlike attitudes. Sadly, this year, there are several that I will not be sorry to see go. Some children have taken great delight in upsetting others. They have picked on weaknesses and been cruel and spiteful. I look forward to seeing the back of these characters. I know I shouldn't say it, but I think they'll get what they deserve at high school, when they'll no longer be the oldest in the school, enjoying intimidating others. As school staff, we've done our best to deal with their behaviour, but it's hard when some parents refuse to acknowledge this side of their children.

Despite this, I will miss the majority of the children. There is one girl in particular, who I've suddenly realised will leave a big, heart-shaped space when she leaves. She's struggled through school. She'll never be confident at maths or reading, but she seems to have learnt the important lessons that will get her through her life perfectly well. She cares about other people. She loves her family, even when her brothers exasperate her. She treats others with thoughtfulness and gentleness, and has never been one to argue and fall out with friends. I'll be quite lost without her. She reminds me when there are letters to be sent home at the end of the day. We had an assembly the other day about someone I wanted to find out more about, and she not only reminded me of his name, she wrote it on a post-it note and stuck it on my glasses case so I wouldn't forget again. Referring to her note, she said, 'It's probably not spelt right, but you'll get what I mean.'

She's learnt lessons that I feel are so much more important than algebra and adverbs, and she's learnt them from a caring and loving family. And it's lovely to see this side of things. So often, we see attitudes of arrogance or hate that have been passed down through angry parents, and are bound to keep going through the next generation, but it's good to see that love gets a look-in as well. I wish all of the children good luck, especially those who need to learn how to treat others with respect, but I'll remember with fondness this girl who spread a bit of friendship and laughter around.  

Happy Father's Day (and, yes, that's where I want the apostrophe)

Here in the UK, it's Father's Day. A friend and colleague has recently had a Facebook discussion on apostrophe placement in the above phrase. (I know it seems to be fashionable to have a 'rant' on Fb, but he's far too laid back to rant. It was definitely a discussion...). On Father's Day, I celebrate the fact that my dad is better than any others out there, so I want this to be HIS day. Even if he is in Italy and left his mobile phone at home, so I can't actually tell him how brilliant he is. He's always been a strong support to me. He sold his Trafalgar House shares to get me into a private Nursery Nursing college in Reading. When I left after a term because it was too posh and I didn't fit in (I didn't own horses and Daddy didn't have his own yacht - what a deprived child I was), he picked me up without complaint and took me home. I felt dreadfully ill on the journey as a term's worth of stress and bitchiness was left behind me, and he held my hair when I threw up in a lay-by and didn't mind when I cried my eyes out for the next fifty miles, feeling a hopeless failure. Thanks Dad. I know you've done many other brilliant things, but that journey sticks in my mind as being one where you made me feel loved again. 

Today is also my wedding anniversary. I've been married 23 years today, and there's another thanks I have to say. The Husband has stayed by my side through good and bad. I've had bouts of depression, when I must have been hell to live with, but he was always more than supportive. He's been a brilliant dad himself, and hasn't repeated the mistakes that gave him a rather unhappy childhood. He supports me through whatever inexplicable phase I decide to go through next, even if he predicts I'm heading for disaster (and then he helps me pick up the pieces with no 'Told you so'). Thanks, Mister. 

And he knows me so well that, instead of flowers and chocolates, he's bought me a big bottle of malt whisky. Cheers!

Multitasking fail

You know I love books and stories, but I've found there's one situation in which I must shun them, and that's whilst driving. There are some amazingly good audio books out there, but if I use them in the car I risk rear-ending someone's BMW at the traffic lights. I don't know what goes on in other people's heads when they read, but I have a full-scale movie going on in mine. I fill in all the details the author didn't mention, apart from faces. My characters never have faces. Strange one there, but quite normal in my fictional mind-productions. Anyway, I do get quite involved in my mental movie-making, and if I re-read a book the images are identical: the same houses, costumes etc as when I first read it. All very good for getting lost in a book. But not when I'm driving. I even have to be careful when listening to musicals in the car. It's good when I'm a passenger as I can watch the whole of Chicago in my mind on a dreary drive to the coast, but the other day, whist driving into town, I realised my mind kept getting dragged back to the 1920s. While Richard Gere and Rene Zellweger were both reaching for the gun, I realised I was sat at a roundabout waiting for the car on my left to go first. Fortunately, the driver just had a bemused 'typical woman driver' look on his face, and didn't get cross with me. 

Damn, how long have the traffic lights been green??

So I have vetoed musicals when I'm driving and daren't even try audio books. Maybe I can enjoy them on the journey down to Cornwall to see the Daughter in the Summer. As long as the Husband doesn't mind me not pointing out the right exit off the M25 - heck, it's a big circle, we can just go around again. 

Telling stories

We had a story-teller in school yesterday, and I have to say I was really disappointed. I'd been looking forward to his visit since the Boss Lady first told me about it last term, but when he left the room, I felt a bit cheated. He didn't tell stories, he read them, which I think is totally different. Now, I know it takes a certain skill to read a story and make it interesting, and not everyone can do that, but telling a story is something special. And the stories he read were modern. I wanted traditional things: cultural creation stories or mischief-making from Anansi and Co. 

I saw the most amazing and mesmerising story-teller when I helped out at a Fairy Fayre, held to raise funds for the Woodland Trust. Son Number One would have said that the place was teeming with hippies (always my favourite people), and the story-teller was the best example of hippyness himself. He wore a velvet patchwork cloak, and held court under a huge oak tree. He Crick-Cracked the story open, as all the best story-tellers do, and he kept an audience of over a hundred, of all ages, totally enthralled for over an hour. In fact, I was so absorbed in the stories, I was late back from lunch. He introduced me to Anansi, and told me how Eel saved Australia from drought. He sent me on a year-long hunt for a particular Native American story about Rabbit and Fox, and he got me so interested in traditional, cultural stories, that I now have a collection of a couple of hundred and counting. When I returned to his story-telling session the following day, he told the same stories, but they had subtly changed - he didn't read them, he just knew them, and he tailored his approach to his audience. 

Our story-reader yesterday didn't have the right voice either - he was harsh and spoke too quickly. I think you need a certain voice for story-telling - something calm and slow to draw you into the story. Maybe someone from the Welsh valleys. My ideal story-teller would be Michael Holding - the ex-cricketer and Sky Sports cricket commentator from the West Indies. He has a voice I can listen to all day, even if (as is the case with cricket) I have no idea what he's talking about. 

We'll have to suggest it to the Boss Lady. Okay, so he'll be more expensive than the guy we had in yesterday, but he could always take some PE lessons while he's here.