go your own way

Dear Young Person,

You will hear older humans tell you that life is short, to not wish time away, to learn from experience and you may smile and nod politely, you may secretly wonder what they know of youth. 

And you may be right because 'youth' evolves with each passing generation; the rites of passage for the in-crowds morph with ever increasing demands to be in the right clothes, like the right music, share the right images.  We, the elders, may roll our collective eye heavenwards, kiss our teeth and shake our heads at that which passes for stress, when the knowledge of paying bills and face the daily grind has yet to be experienced; but we empathise, sympathise and should not trivialise your current strife.

I urge you to look around you; look up to see the buildings that that have spanned decades and although remodelled, still survive - like us; look forwards and see the joy, sadness, plight and successes of people you pass in the street - you might find a friend, a lover, a business partner, an inspiration in real life; look left and right because, yes, life really is too short and sometimes it gets taken away from us when we're not looking. 

Touch lives. In some way. In some positive way. Take a risk and say hello to the person who seems different to you, who seems to be just like you. Be safe, of course, but discover the life of a someone who treads a different path to you. Religion, politics, age, music, fashion, education, confidence levels, abilities, interests - you know what you like, but maybe you don't yet know what you could like.  It's a two-way street and you have so much to teach other people too.

Learn to cook. It's always great to receive manna from the gods on delivery bikes. But when you can conjure up a bowl of deliciousness from the paltry left overs in the pantry then a winner you be. Follow a recipe, don't follow a recipe, get a big pan and chuck in some edible stuff and party on with the right spices and herbs. Perfect a dessert you can make with your eyes shut. And then get a big spoon and enjoy. On your own or with friends. It's your kitchen, you choose.

Be clean. In all areas. Smell nice. 

Listen. Hear. Listen. To your friends. To your enemies. To your elders. To the youngers, because, hopefully, you will age one day. Learn how to interpret subtext in someone's voice and fight your fights face-to-face. Allow music to swallow you whole and swim in its melodious belly. Find the songs that you can cry to, dance to, rage to, love to - they're out there, trust me. Listen to the words of those who have come before you so their lessons do not go unlearned. Listen to yourself. Trust yourself.

You are in charge now, young person. We are here with helping hands but this is your journey. 

Go be you and do what you do.

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no120: Dear Young Person

the fear

Fear. Dry gasps in the dead of night. Butterflies rioting in your stomach on the way to that meeting. Tiptoeing around weighty discussions to avoid the inevitable. Wishing a fateful day could be deleted from your calendar. Not doing something. Not doing anything. Closing one door before closing all the doors.

We all think of fear as the emotion that makes us hide behind a cushion when we watch the idiot in the scary film climb the creaky stairs in the creaky house without turning the lights on. But what happens when fear can trickles into the everyday? 

Before I step on to a plane I have imagined our fireball descent into a Lost-type landscape; in slow motion so I get time to kiss my family, tell them how much I love them and hold all of their hands. This leads to hubby experiencing fear-by-pinching as I wobble onto an aircraft gripping his hand so tight, I leave nail marks in his hand. I have had the science of it all explained, I have been told that air travel is safer than public transport but let me ask you when was the last time you saw a bus falling out of the sky? Exactly. Hunk of metal with people and bags and whatnot in the sky. Nope doesn't compute. 

Fear.

I had a conversation with a good friend, recently, about the possibility of parallel lives - was there another me writing a library's worth of fiction, hob-nobbing with my favourite authors-now-friends? Despite taking the step to start writing, every time I hit send or publish there is a tidal wave of fear about putting myself out there. What if I offend, what if it's ignored. what if it's rubbish? Am I the writing equivalent of the X-factor rejects who snarl that they'll be a star one day when everyone is wondering why their best mate or mum didn't tell the glaring truth about their singing prowess? Sometimes I don't even start a new idea because the negative voices have set up their own gospel choir next to my computer.

Fear.

You know when you return to your desk after a meeting with your managerial superior and you shake your head in disbelief and think I could do that job with my eyes shut. But then, the right job in the right place at the time with the wind in the right direction just doesn't arrive, does it? Putting one foot in front of the other or indeed clicking to apply for that job never seemed so hard. Maybe someone will discover the hidden truth that you can't actually do the job, any job...just go home, already. It's that negative choir again.

Fear.

The words spill out with quips and jokes spliced in, to decorate my conversation. Do I laugh too loud, too much? I've been sat in a cabin for nigh on two years with my cats for company until the family come home. Can I remember how to talk to people? Am I still 'with it'? The fact that I've just said 'with it' proves how much I'm so without it. Is this dress professional enough, flattering enough? Why am I sweating? I know, it's 35 degrees outside but maybe I should have worn a trouser suit. There's too much oil in the front of hair but not enough at the back. Should I worn it out full Afro today or should I have tied it back? Is my face right?

Fear.

I want to be less afraid.

May your choices reflect your hopes, not your fears.

Nelson Mandela

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt No59: I want to be less...

for all we know

Is there ever a right time to say 'I told you so'?

Guaranteed to plant a seed of teenage rage when spoken from the mouths of our parents, do we forget the weight of these four little words as we get older? 

Having long since passed the forty barrier, I am presented with regular opportunities to set up my stall and hold my ' I knew this would happen' banner aloft.

I'm not saying I'm perfect. I'm not saying I haven't made mistakes (Lord knows I've made enough mistakes to record a Blues album). And yet, whilst age doesn't always bring wisdom, it certainly brings experience.  So surely I'm allowed a little bit of #post-forty gloating? 

I, usually, attempt to disguise this as concern and commiseration.

Example 1: 

"Oh so your teacher did mean for you to explain how the character reacted rather than retell the whole story."

(subtext) Do you remember when I told you to do that but you ignored me because even though you've just started high school and I've been teaching for 20 years, clearly you know better?

Example 2:

"Oh no, really, she cried for hours whilst *insert partner's name* went out to get formula. I know, breastfeeding is hard but yes, you did give it a go and as long as she's fed eventually, right?"

(subtext) Remember that time I told you that breastfeeding can be great but isn't for everyone so, just in case, chuck a tin of formula in the back of your cupboard so it's there when your boobs and baby aren't co-operating? Having been through it three times I find that with ninety nine breastfeeding issues, using formula ain't one.

Example 3:

"Ok, so you know when I told you to make sure you start the bedtime routine an hour before lights out and leave the DVD for tomorrow, was to save you from the nightmare moment when the girls turn on you and then each other like gremlins after midnight"

(subtext) Read above

Gah, I sound so self-righteously smug, don't I? But look, surely after all this time schlepping around Planet My Life, I've learnt some stuff on the way and, occasionally, I want to save people the trouble of making the same mistakes I did.

Because I love hearing other people's advice and experiences; especially other parents and other women. What's better than sharing a being a mum / wife / woman  dilemma with a good friend? Why take the unknown high road when, sometimes, the path with the flashing signs and clearly marked dangers can make life that little bit easier? 

After listening to the trials, tribulations and triumphs of others, I usually end up with a bag of solutions and leave thinking that it's not just me who's bumbling precariously through my every day. We're all at it!

So surely, we can all crack an 'I told you so' every now and then?

Point of note - beware of overuse!

With the offspring - choose your moment carefully as the mistimed 'ITYS' may result in much sulking and grunts in place of speech.

With the newbie mother or sibling - dress it up like your child's first ever World Book Day at school because the naked 'ITYS' will be akin to sticking your tongue out and going nah nah nah nah naaaa. And no-one likes that person.

With the live-in significant other - treat it like foundation: cover all necessary areas then apply a little make-up.  Failing that - a well placed eyebrow lift can also effective

With the mother-in-law - leave it, it's just not worth it.

too good to be forgotten

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the coffee that kick starts my writing day; that takes an age to make it just so - three spoons, no sugar, splash of milk.

I would miss the sneaky Wispa bar that I pop into my Friday morning shopping basket with the milk and bread and fresh fruit and veg before we start the start the weekend, with everyone in the home peering in cupboards for quick snacks. I wave the Change for Life sugar swap app in my family's face smug with the knowledge that I have snaffled the secret chocolate treat in my car on the way home from the supermarket. Savouring each melting mouthful at the traffic lights.

I would miss the big Sunday Roast that has our dining table groaning under the dishes laden with everyone's favourites.  This is the dinner where all plates are scraped clean and no morsel left uneaten.  We rest full bellies in front of the telly waiting for the moment that we can squeeze in dessert.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the cakes and cookies my middle daughter likes to bake on quiet Saturdays; the sweeties from my youngest daughter's party bag sweetie box that never seems to empty; the dishes that my eldest daughter presents with pride, hot from the home ec room, onto our kitchen counter.  These are their tastebud heavens and they share them with me.

I would miss the tiny bones that disappear in the saltfish salad, that detract me, momentarily from the sun-yellow plantain and the golden brown bakes. The food of my childhood. The meal that brings love.

I would miss cardboard boxed fries dipped in banana milkshake and the greasy wrapped chips shared on seaside seafronts and the first slurp of a cuppa getting home after dark and the silk of a rum punch in the garden, in the sun.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I'd miss the way a bite or nibble or swallow or chew can take me to a moment that sparks a memory; a meal that creates a story.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no72 : Lose your sense of taste tomorrow

good thing

What a time to be in right now. I often wonder how the history books will write up the last year and the days to come; whose feet will they choose to lay the Brexit blame and how will they compare President 44 to 45? Cartoonists and Exam Board Question Makers must be sharpening pencils as the political roller-coaster ride twists and turns.

As Trump's inauguration looms I've been reading about how Obama's lack of achievement and how any accomplishments will be erased by his successor anyway. Haters gonna hate and theorists are always gonna miss the lay person's view. Here's mine.

In 2016 the country where I was born and bred, educated and worked, raised my daughters and probably will end my days, has turned the other cheek and is making a hateful noise. Not everywhere, mind. I'm a Londoner, most of the time people here can handle a range of face colours, divergent accents or an assortment of religions. But still the mood has definitely changed. And then we witnessed an eruption of overt hate spewing out of our tellies during the US Presidential Campaign. I am amazed that so many people can invest so much time to so much hostility; they seem to live and breathe a continuous rage against people who don't mirror themselves.

We have been invaded by an influx of slogans saying which lives matter, people filming death on their doorsteps and which 'race' is at fault for the demise of the others happiness. All raising relevant and necessary debates because all views need their day in the sun.

For me, the way the Obamas, especially Michelle, have engaged with society has been genuine. The images that fill my FB timeline highlight the joy, the decorum and respect for their position during their time in the White House. Michelle Obama's work raising the profile of girls education has been inspirational to many and long may her work continue in the organisations she has supported. Their collective message has always been about doing better, working hard, supporting one another and the necessity for heightened gun security. Okay I don't live in the States; many policies Obama imposed don't affect me directly but as the first black family in the White House move out of the spotlight and back into their private lives I believe they were always going to be scrutinised moreso than any other Presidential family. And how refreshing that they completed their tenure without scandal or mighty blunder as we have witnessed before, imagine if this President with a Brown Face committed a socio-political crime? Like getting Twitter trigger happy or mocking the afflicted.

Many may belittle those who rejoiced in the ethnicity of the First Family but there is a truth in how it has opened doors of self belief or understanding of journeys that can be taken by people of colour - when history lessons omit sections of society, if someone in power has experienced and refers to elements of your struggle, you are referenced and therefore can take your place in the future.

In their short lives, my three mixed heritage children, have grown up with classrooms and communities that reflect a whole world; a white male followed by a white female UK Prime Minister; a black American male president - their norm is that different people attain different successes.  Maybe they're too young to realise the power of prejudice, they will learn in time but I hope their future will be one where they use their voices, their strength, their abilities to improve their world - that's a message I taken away from the Obama years. 

owner of a lonely heart

I'm sure we have all felt lonely at some point whether it was as a child waiting to make friends in a new school playground or the climb up management ladders that often leave silences when you walk the staffroom or the first few nights at home after the end of a relationship.

The Loneliness series across the BBC was a moving eye opener .Society will often presume the lonely are usually the old; unmarried or widowed. But the programmes presented various sections of our communities that get bitten by the lonely bug at some point in their lives.

There were the long married couples that had made it 'til death did indeed part them but what struck me about them was the honesty and the resilience. Then there were the new arrivals in new town/city/country and the new mums settling into their routine - silent until the baby cries. Everyone had a tale to tell and I was often in tears, especially hearing the 100 year old Caribbean lady telling of how she was alone day after day with only the telly for company (apart from the carer who came to wash and feed her).

I was pleased to see that the programme makers dealt with a range of lonely people; of every age, gender, race, class. Lonely can strike at any time and anywhere. 

So in addition to the lonely situations mentioned above I think there are other types of  loneliness that you can feel when you are physically alone - a Valentine's Day (if it matters to you) when you are recently broken up or a Mother's Day when you're estranged from your kids or spending nights alone when a partner is constantly working late. Some people are comfortable in their own company and living alone is a pleasure but for others this may be tantamount to misery.

And then there is the loneliness you can feel when you are surrounded by people. You know when you feel you just don't fit in or you fell you are being ostracised or bullied. This is not just a playground situation either. Or the loneliness you may feel when you feel trapped, maybe in a job or friendship or relationship.

So the programme got me thinking about how I've come across loneliness in my own life. Strangely, even though my weekdays are spent writing for hours on end on my own (bookended by the GeordieLad and the 3G in their work/school day hustle and bustle), I don't feel particularly lonely. The transition from a full time teacher in busy secondary comps to solo creator had its bumps but I suppose knowing I usually have a mate on maternity leave round some corner or other, or that the hours do fly when you're having fun I aim not to waste time until the school run.  And as someone who hates being the new girl I still wouldn't put moving schools or starting new jobs as lonely.

I worked out that my loneliness time was actually during the busiest time of my life. As a full time working mum of three small children, head of a pivotal department incorporating 15 staff, doing both nursery and school runs, filling the schools hols with oodles of activities to alleviate the working mum guilt, I barely had time to breathe because then I had planning and marking to do. I was surrounded by people all the time except for a 5 minute car journey between work and the nursery. . And yet I felt so incredibly lonely because I would work through lunch breaks, speed off at the school and nursery gates, avoid the hellos at kids events, work in the early hours of nearly every day that I created a massive gap between me and the people who cared.

There is a form of loneliness that comes with the internal negative voice that tells you that you are not good enough. This would be shouting loud and proud during my working days yet I would smile, laugh, make jokes, be assertive, be creative, be supportive but looking back I wasn't making proper time for me or anyone else. I didn't have the ... what we call... headspace. So then I became lonely amidst the company.

And now, meshed into hours of silence except for the scratching of pencil on paper I find I am not nearly as lonely as I thought I would be. I have found myself talking to more people because I answer texts and phone calls and emails and invites like never before. I make time to visit people and renew or strengthen friendships that I had always put off for another day (not everyone, mind, I'm working on it!).

hey na na what's my name?

In my father's home island of Grenada (and possibly the wider Caribbean) there is a long tradition of nicknames people may have acquired in their childhood which last their whole lives. The tales accompanying these nicknames are hilarious and ridiculous and usually known within the immediate community. Without revealing any of the ones I've been told for fear of betraying confidences I can safely say that after hearing such stories I longed for my own nickname.  

But that's the thing you see, you can't give yourself a nickname; one must be bestowed upon you.

I noticed that these fabled nicknames were often strange, silly, rude or way too descriptive but rarely were they denounced by the bearer.

So I looked back into my youth to see if there were any moments where a clever moniker may have been procured.  Back in the late 70s an old football buddy of my Dad's took to calling me Boney N as I struggled to coordinate my lanky frame running around the pitch sidelines akin to a baby giraffe.  

I didn't mind this so much as Boney M were a huge household favourite but hardly likely to be entirely appropriate with my post40s motherly curves. Find me someone brave enough to call me Flabby N and I'll show you an ex-friend.

So I fast forward to the early 80s, now resident in solo cultural Essex with my brown face and two afro plaits elevating my presence in primary school to exotic wonder. 

Discovering a strength in me that was able to gravitate above uncomfortable situations such as being asked if the rest of me was brown under my clothes; or playing games at birthday parties where kids were hidden under blankets with their hands sticking out for the birthday girl to guess who was who - and then being asked by an adult not to play as it was too obvious who my hands belonged to; or being surrounded in a circle in the playground with a group of children singing Brown girl in the ring.

And there they are again. Boney M. This time without the smile. Could Brown Girl have stuck as a nickname. Well it's a little obvious don't you think? Not much effort being put into that one at all. And what happens now when an old friend calls out "Brown Girl" to get my attention in a London street?  Probably a cascade of other brown females turn around in consternation at being referred to so rudely followed by a barrage of abuse. So no, that one's out.

Just sticking with that Brown Girl thing, I recently heard an old Desert Island Discs episode with Kelly Holmes and felt affinity when she chose that same record as her castaway choice. Yet she had used her experience with the song as a positive despite our stories being similar. 

So as I head to secondary school there is a vague memory of being called 'Stick' for awhile - my gangly frame now stronger and athletic but again. Without labouring the point - a moot nickname these days.

And that's it.  Could I trawl the vestibules of my ex-students memories I'm sure some interesting versions of my name would appear. 

2005 brought along the only nickname I'm pretty much stuck with. Mummy. That'll do for now.

Do you have a nickname  - how did you get it? What nickname would you choose for yourself?

This post was inspired by Post40Bloggers #writingprompt18 : Nicknames

tipsy

It's nearly the end of January.  Nearly the end of a dry January. Enough with January already.

What is the point of me putting myself through this? It's not like I'm a massive drinker. Anymore.

Thanks to all the hosting over the holiday season I could be found leaving half drunk glasses of tipples all over the house as I ran to put something in the oven and take something else out.

And I was already feeling pious having dried myself through November too. So why, when everyone had gone home and busy times ended, did I feel it was necessary to stop drinking all over again?

Bah.

My relationship with alcohol changed with motherhood. Out went the boozy nights and bleary mornings after a crammed week at work.  In came sleepless nights with three babies in six years punctuated by the odd glass of vino or bubbles on happy or holy days.

And that's pretty much how it's been apart from my 40th birthday party (a term of stress + freebie jaegarbombs = one forgotten night) and the very very sad last night of my teaching leaving do.

Unlike my attitude to smoking I haven't become all Puritan about drinking; you won't find seasons of Prohibition at TwickersTowers. But I guess having to deal with three kids the next day stops the grogfest nights of yesteryear. For me anyway. *coughs pointedly*.

I never saw my parents drink to extreme but there was the occasional Blue Nun that appeared on a Friday Night. And I have vague memories of my Dad's 40th birthday awash with tipsy customs officers demanding that I replay Should I stay or should I go now by The Clash over and over again. I was 17 and the only one sober enough to work the cassette player.

I seem to have this ick factor thing that goes on with people I see who are proper off their face, talking nonsense, glassy eye zombied in my house.  That's the thing with me. If someone is out in a pub, club or bar and they get a bit squiffy, all power to them, off you go.  But get all messed-up drunk up in my house around my kids then you know the earrings and rings are coming off. There is a fine line for me because if someone crosses it under my roof I just lose all respect. It has happened and irreparable damage has been done between me and those people.

And then there's the whole girly thing. I've seen barely functioning fellas stagger home on the Tube scraping house keys all over their front door until they navigate the keyhole; the opening door spewing them onto the doormat until morning.  When I partook of the London student scene (pre-mobile phones I hasten to add) us girlies never allowed another female to walk home alone if they were non compos menti; there was just an unwritten rule of safety between us.  Now with lower heels, longer skirts and bairns to wake up to rather than a lie and glorious hangover fry up, I honestly favour an alcohol free night if it means I get to drive home.

There will always be a tipple on the table when I get  home. In my special wine glass!

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt45:Alcohol

there's a star man waiting in the sky

We all have landmarks that colour our lives and parking personal events aside, there are the media moments creating a soundtrack to our memories. Sorrowfully many of these are attributed to the death of public figures.

My first understanding of the shock waves that often occurs after the passing of a celebrity was River Pheonix, back in 1993. My university flatmate and I spent the night consuming alcohol and crisps during a River Pheonix film marathon; spending our final grant pennies at Blockbusters Video Store. Death had reached our generation. 

Watching the news break live on telly and listening to the woe from London radio listeners I could do little to stop my own David Bowie flashbacks. 

Whether it was attempting to perfect the croaky voice over in China Girl "Oh baby, just you shut your mouth" or playing the 7 inch single "Dancing in the Street" over and over again after Live Aid. One of the few tunes I played on my battered record player that Mum didn't ask me to turn down.  I'm a child of the 80s so this is my Bowie era. By the time I discovered him, Ziggy Stardust was a constellation away.  But as many people are saying today, we have all grown up with his music.

When I donned my faded rhinestoned Bowie t shirt this morning my key Bowie memory was during my turbulent teen years; wearing ripped jeans, far too many earrings, a leather jacket with tatty suede tassels and strolling to the shops with my rare-to-visit aunt on my mum's side. Still moody from an argument with my mum about my attire and the numerous posters of weird looking popstars on my wall, I was stopped in my tracks when told that my mum had covered her own wall in David Bowie posters when she was a teenager. Apparently she loved him. 

My mother. Into modern music. Loving a pop star. This was the stuff of nonsense surely.  I suppose in an attempt to save face, Mum never admitted her David Bowie crush.

But I cherish the image of my mum, all funky and afro-cool, lying on her teenage bed gazing up at a poster of David Bowie. And I'll also make sure my own teen-to-be is regaled of my own poster-love when the time comes.

This post first appeared on Post40Bloggers.com : Bereavment : 11 January 2016

just like (starting over)

Previously I wrote about the reason why I thought teachers were leavingthe profession. Whilst I was angry that hard-working, brilliant teachers were put in this position I felt a little guilty for damning the career that I have lived and breathed for almost two decades.

I have noticed a backlash from younger, newer teachers querying why teachers moan about the best job in the world.  Whilst I won't negate the trials of more - how can I say this - long in the tooth teachers (I can say that, coz I am one), I acknowledge that in order to protect our profession, we need to look after our newbies.

When a teacher steps foot onto school soil for the first time since they were in uniform themselves, surely support and communication is paramount? What rookies don’t need are grumblies in the corner vomiting unpleasantries about the school, the staff, the students, or the font on the new stationery. And the worse thing we can do is ignore new teachers - is it that they remind us a little too much of the good old days before reality set in? Or is that we just don't have the time to exchange pleasantries any more, what with the marking, planning, reports, detentions? I was lucky: my teaching placement - staff were terrific and although it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, I loved it.  However one teacher ignored me. Every day. Barely managed a smile or hello for a whole term - yet is renowned for their expertise in supporting teachers!

New teachers are, on the whole, superb. I have witnessed a passion and enthusiasm for teaching that has made me recognise why I stayed in this job for so long.  Their energy and desire to improve can be contagious - if we let it. Many new teachers are coming in to schools from different routes now and, yes, it can be a little upsetting and confusing for those of us on the inside. Inexperienced, unqualified and cheaper teachers are being brought in over the heads of accomplished staff, who are then expected to train them - on the job. But if you remove the politics of the situation you have a new person and a new colleague who is looking up to the experts for guidance.  Most schools have structured inductions for new staff to progress, but it's in the staffroom and the classroom where their days can be made or broken.

They shouldn't be ignored or made to feel they can't suggest ideas in meetings, or that they can't enjoy their new roles openly for fear of being ridiculed.  Not all new teachers are inexperienced in the workplace.  The veterans in the classroom should listen and glean as much energy and new ideas from our apprentices. It might do us some good to look at our careers with fresh eyes. Hard as it may be.

This is not to say we paint a rosy picture for new staff. It's tough out there and only the strongest will survive. There are times when a busy middle manager doesn't have time to hear about the wonderful display created out of macaroni and feathers in the corridor..  But this is where experience steps in to take a hand. Sometimes old hands need to tell the new kids on the block when to sit back down.  Gently. 

And to put my cynical firmly back on my head - when those bright young things swoop over us to claim golden thrones of power, maybe they'll fondly remember the wise owls who gave them tidbits of advice back in the day. Before they sack us.

This post was originally published on post40bloggers.com: education

you're the inspiration

Each week in the TES a celebrity is interviewed about their favourite teacher from their schooldays; and each week I think about mine and wish that I could achieve minor celebrity status for a millisecond to write him. And Lo and Behold my wish was granted on Post40Bloggers Writing Prompt no.33.

Dear Mr H.

What an inspiration you were to me back in the mid-80s. Thrust into a small town with some small minds, a happy little black girl stood on the threshold of secondary schooldom with a thirst for knowledge. A child who would lose herself in books for hours on end I was blind to some of the harsh realities of being different. Protected by the brilliant friendships I forged in my first year, I was able to fend off ignorant bigots with relative ease. Despite the daily  bullying and name calling, I loved school and was never really one to moan about my teachers - on the whole they did their job with a smile. 

But there was you, Mr H. Your English lessons in my third year - today's year 9 - were a haven of literary enlightenment and discussion. I understood what it meant to have a passion for a subject. We sat enthralled as you regaled us with tales of motorbike accidents which explained your limp, and explored the minutia of novel themes and characters. We experienced moments of fear that rendered us static in our seats with a voice so explosive, students across the building knew who was getting told off and for which misdemeanours. We couldn't comprehend how you were really married to the really strict RE teacher because she was so scary and you were so cool.

I think I really learnt sarcasm from you. Which is great as it has regularly made an appearance in my own classrooms over the years (it's okay, only to the ones who can cope with it, and also readily dole it out in massive proportions themselves). I also learnt how to enjoy my lessons in your classes - there was always a hub of activity which we were always engaged in; so much so that we never complained we were bored. I know there were collective sighs of disappointment when the bell rang. Sound too good to be true? Well, maybe. A few decades later and sitting on the other side of the teacher's desk may have rose-coloured the past. But I remember looking forward to my English lessons and deciding, at the end of that year, that I wanted to be an English teacher. 

Your lessons left me marvellous school memories, alongside the wonderful Mr T. - my Head of Year - who took time out to ease the sad days of a tearful, embarrassed child after days of racist name calling had taken its toll...again. His patience and understanding have definitely played a part in my own attitude towards students that need a little extra time. I was truly saddened when I learned of his passing, not long after we left the school gates for sixth form college.

It's hard to pinpoint a specific novel that changed my life - although I think that honour had to go to my fourth year teacher who made me read masses of To Kill A Mockingbird out loud every lesson. But I can definitely remember the days that I laughed so much in English lessons, that I felt pride in my own writing, and was encouraged to explore creatively.

There's a website now that the young uns use called Rate My Teacher (no prizes for guessing what goes on there!), and if the internet had been invented for public use back in 1985 I would have quoted Einstein: "It is the supreme art of a teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge...and you certainly did Mr H, so I thank you."

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt33:write a letter to a former teacher

life's what you make it

By the time you hit your fourth decade I imagine that you have received a magnitude of wisdoms about what you should do, how not to wear something; which box set is unmissable and which bacteria really is good for you. There is a constant stream of how tos and what not to dos.

At some point I guess we have to learn how to filter. Decide what are interesting nuggets and what is fodder. I love a good self-help book or ten-things-that-will-improve-your-life as much as the next person. But I think along the way I have consistently found solace and spirit in music. My iPod boasts a playlist for every mood.

Therefore I offer a suggestion to live your life... through song.  Don’t panic I don’t mean for you to break into The hills are alive during worrying or exciting moments in your day.  I merely propose finding tunes that gets you out of bed when the blues take over or a song that, when belted at top volume in your car, will burn troubles away, for a while at least.  There are also the songs that, for me, remind me to accept the past – warts and all – and move on. Usually these songs involve warbly top notes and a hands on hips.  And the 3G giving their mother looks of despair.

Here goes…

For when you might upset or offend but need to stand by your principles.  You can’t please all of the people all of the time.  And when you have done wrong; forgive yourself, dust yourself down and keep, keep movin’ on:

 Paid my dues – Anastasia

‘cause i’m too proud, i’m too strong

live by the code that you gotta move on

feeling sorry for yourself

ain’t got nobody nowhere

For when you need to take a step back, take a deep breath, take a moment before anger or panic or despair kicks in.  GeordieLad has helped me acknowledge that there are somethings we can’t always control, and I have always been an advocate of the contingency plan:

No more drama - Mary J Blige

it feel so good when you let go

of all the drama in your life

now you’re free from all the pain

free from all the game

free from all the stress

so find your happiness

no more pain, no more game…

no more tears, no more fears…

no more drama in my life

For when you look back on the bad and sad and mad times.  These crappy times can sometimes make us stronger, often they leave whacking great metaphorical bruises; but if we are lucky we’re still here to tell the tales.  They are parts of us and contribute to making us who we are:

Soul Survivor – Beverley Knight

 ‘cuz I’m right where i should be

and can’t nobody every hold me back

change the tack, make me slack

you can’t find another “me”

Okay so I’m allowing myself a little bit of a good old fashioned jazz-hands musical interlude.  The next two songs move the focus onto being good to yourself and others. You know, all that pay it forward stuff.  And we all know how much a blue sky and sunshine can make us all feel just that little bit better. So take time out to be smile and be nice.

Give a little love – Bugsy Malone musical

You give a little love

And it all comes back to you

You know you gonna be remembered 

For the things you say and do

Let the sunshine – Hair musical

Somewhere, inside something there is a rush of

Greatness, who knows what stands in front of

Our lives…

Let the sunshine in

Oops,look, I’m slipping another musical tune in. For when you need to step outside of your own life and take care of others who are in need.

I’ll cover you – Rent musical

Just slip me on,

I'll be your blanket

Wherever,whatever, I'll be your coat

And finally the best way to approach everything.  When you have managed to scrape yourself off the floor after dark times and you have called back all the support from the people that you have been nice to, and you have mustered the strength to face the world.

Golden – Jill Scott

I’m taking my own freedom

Putting it in my song

Singing loud and strong

Grooving all day long

I’m taking my freedom

Putting it in my stroll

I’ll be high steppin’ y’all

Letting the joy unfold

Living my life like it’s golden, golden

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writing prompt21:write a guide for someone on how to live your life

changes

Okay I'm going to admit it. I'm jealous. Yes the green eyed monster is definitely dwelling within me most of the time. And for why or what? 

Those people who jump careers. There I've said it. The ones I read about who have fled their high-flying banking jobs for freedom on a farm, making butter or some-such activity. Or the mother who managed to write that novel whilst breastfeeding a newborn.

My tone may sound mocking but, no, I'm merely jealous of their drive and confidence. I guess I'm a little in awe of people like this; who take a leap of faith and risk to follow a dream or explore a talent.

But I often wonder what the back-story is in these cases? Does everyone really have a nest egg ready to hatch on a rainy day? What happened on the day when someone gets home from the daily grind and says 'That's it. I've had enough'? Are partners and offspring involved in the decision?

Having watched seventeen years worth of 16 and 18 year olds leave an institution to seek pearls in far flung oysters, I am struck with the support and guidance that they receive before making crucial decisions . I remember being bamboozled by Radio One's Which Way Now? fledgling campaign and daunted by the deluge of leaflets AWOLmum brought back from a careers evening (which bizarrely school pupils were not invited to). And that was pretty much it to set me on my life's path.

Now in my forties I find the career advice I require is still inadequate. Am I expected to be settled in my job or self-reliant at career progression just because I have been in the workforce for twenty odd years? The marketplace is changing and whilst I have reached middle management in my career choice I now find that I am stagnating because the opportunities are not forthcoming due to financial / political constraints in the education sector. In addition to my age and pay grade working against me, what chance does my CV stand alongside younger, less expensive, recently trained employees? I am no longer naive enough to believe that experience can withstand those parameters - believe me I have tried. 

So I am considering moving out of my comfort zone to pursue new directions but where to begin? Googling 'What job can an ex-teacher do?' often ends up with more questions than answers. And giving everything up to retrain is not always a viable option with a family to support.

Have you jumped careers? Where is the best place to go for guidance?

everybody's gotta learn sometime

The topic to kick off my thoughts on education focuses on why there is an exodus of Biblical proportions of teachers from the profession, that most people enter expecting a career for life. Well, look I can only speak for myself - with maybe a little bit of validation from the many teachers I have met over 17 years in the classroom - but that's certainly why I wanted to be a teacher. Inspired by a jolly primary school teacher who greeted us everyday with a smile, an enthralling English teacher, and a Head of Year who regularly took time in his day to ensure the new little black girl in a sea of white faces was enjoying school and being supported when faced with casual racism. Absolutely brilliant - all of them - and so were many more that I met in my 13 years of state education. I'm pretty sure that every teacher can name one of their own teachers who inspired them to go onto this career; or at least such a passion for their subject that they want to pass that on to the students that they meet.

So why are more teachers reaching for resignation letters than signing up?

A Radio 4 programme on Tuesday night about the levels of sickness brought on by stress in teaching was enlightening and frightening at the same time. But I'll be honest - not really a surprise.

read full post here

safety dance

Picture the scene:

Colleague 1 : Fancy a pint?

Me: Nah I've gotta get the kids

Colleague 2 : Coming out for a quick drink?

Me: Nah I've gotta get the kids

Colleague 3 : Any chance of you coming down to the pub?

Me: Nah I've gotta get the kids

My response to these questions has changed immensely as I jumped the chasm between my thirties and forties.

Back in the day I would hang out in the office doing this and that, chatting to him or her and just kill some time. Then, depending on the day, I would either mooch off to the gym for a funky work out at my step class, get a bit of late night Top Shopping or peg it down to the pub 'til the early hours. Even on a school night. Freedom. Back in the day. 

Approaching the sunset of my thirties I longed for that life again; having three children in four years knocked the groove out of me. Friday close of play would see the whippersnappers hurrying into the car-park to find the designated drivers and hitching a ride to the nearest boozer. Friday saw me, with down turned mouth, hoiking a bag of marking home. I know, I know... I had my gorgeous babies to hang out with. But at that time, I just couldn't see it. I felt I was missing out. Sometimes I'd even drive a gaggle of Friday nighters off the pub just to catch a whiff of that freedom. I guess it didn't help that GeordieLad was often out wining and dining clients in London's glossy West End, whilst I tucked into ready meals and hung out with my bestie - Jack Bauer. 

A couple of years into my forties and oh how things have changed. This is not a tale of slowing down and making do; it is a story of accepting where I am right now and enjoying what I have. Moving out of my comfort zone - my old job - and finding  new pace and purpose in life, meaning that I don't hanker for the social life of before. Don't get me wrong I still love a boogie- but I'll be honest, I'm hard pushed to find a decent place to dance these days where I'm not in danger of bumping into a load of my ex-students (or even more frightening, the kids of my ex-students). If anyone knows a place where a forty something can get down on a dancefloor with people from my decade, please let me know! 

My dancefloor 'til the 3G leave home

I choose my nights out carefully - the 3G are still quite young and we're short of babysitters - and I would rather set the world to rights with some close buddies sprawled in my living room than fight my way through a noisy bar, to be stepped on, spilt on and ignored. Now my cleavage is firmly tucked away no-one seems to notice me anymore ... I jest, I jest - they were never, ever on show. Ever. Some of my nights with a bunch of mummy mates can be rowdy, raucous and ridiculous but rejuvenating for the soul. 

And the nights in? At the end of long days on my feet and stuck in long traffic jams I long for these nights in. Especially a Friday. Kids picked up, comfy clothes on, glass of wine, curled up with the 3G in front of a dvd...heaven.  I see the sympathetic look when I turn down an invite to for a swift half but it's all good. I know what's waiting at home.  No rushing around after work, catching lifts, waiting for buses, calling cabs, shivering in an inappropriate jacket because it looked good. Nope I like my creature comforts me, and hanging out with my homey lovelies makes this creature extremely comfortable. At least until someone finds me that perfect dancefloor.

Loving these 40s.

stop

Whilst heavy with my first child, in the heady days after our honeymoon, past the gruesome everything-makes-me-want-to-puke-phase, I remember a feeling of contentment. Everyone was partaking in guess the gender, rubbing the bump without permission, wondering if said child will be early or late, and listening to countless experienced mothers sharing their birth stories. It was all so... sublime.

Waiting-for-baby-days involved me sitting around with my bump and my feet up, colour-coding birth plans and creating painstaking playlists to breathe to when the moment finally arrived.

Fast forward a few years, a house move, a career promotion and two more offspring and sublime is a word I've now taken to understanding is a description of the measurement of my after work gin before you put any feature of fruit on top of it. I think I have been screaming 'who the hell forgot to tell me how damn difficult this is?' inside my head every since BigL took her first earthly breath.

This could be a recount about the humorous debacles pertaining to motherhood, but there have been many not so funny moments that make me wonder how I should prepare the 3G for the road ahead.

It seems that people are so caught up on telling parents-to-be how natural everything is; being pregnant, giving birth, breastfeeding, being a working mum. I constantly get asked by newbie mums back in the workplace - how do you do it with three, I can barely do it with one? My answer is usually a wry smile and a mumble about how I can't leave one child in a handbag so I just get on with it. And of course, most mothers / parents do. This is what we signed up for, after all.

But after reading Rachel Kelly's article in The Sunday Times about how  "modern female lifestyles are to blame" for the ratio of anti-depressants being higher with women than men, I noticed how many of her points ran true with my experience and that of other working mums I have known.

The article confessed the pitfalls of trying to have it all and how our minds sometimes feel like their drowning and wave frantically for pills to help them climb ashore. Kelly highlights one of the main factors that women find themselves in this situation is that 'they are overwhelmed, tired and lonely'. I found this bit really poignant:

"The constraints that had held back our mothers were not for us: we would be career girls and mothers, as well as sisters, daughters, wives , friends, home-makers and care-givers, and still fit into our skinny jeans.  No one warned us that in our keeness to embrace so many roles, and in my case with an added desire to please and be approved of others, our health might give way."  

Unfortunately hers did. And I have met so many women who are trying to juggle the role they worked for prior to having children; then become the earth mother / tiger parent / working mum trying to tapdance her way through a glass ceiling. More like a glass mirror reflecting back a bredraggled yet organised exhausted trying to keep it together crisis in a pencil skirt.

Whilst in the grip of stress factor ten (working full time in middle management in charge of a large department in a high achieving school and being the picker upper and dropper off person for three children under 5) I came across an article about a mother with three girls of similar ages to mine who had jumped off a bridge very close to where I live, because it seemed the struggle with balancing motherhood and being a full time lawyer just became too much. My heart broke for the family left with all the questions and the void that losing her must have created.

But for a few moments I nodded gravely in empathy. The thought processes that can escalate a mind, body and soul into serious problems may start very small and very innocently. You can't work showing your imperfections, because that would be letting people down, this is your job and people rely on you and well you get paid; and isn't this what people expect of working mums anyway - their focus is not on the job anymore. So you battle harder, push leaving work until the very last minute, do catch up  on emails on the loo, shove the kids into bed with a fleeting kiss because 'mummy has work to do'.  But on the other hand you can't mother imperfectly either, because these are your children who didn't ask to be born, and who look to you to get things right, and be an exemplar on how to read, learn, speak, play, laugh, cook, dress - if you don't get it right now, it'll be too late when they're older; they will blame you. So you plan meticulous birthday celebrations, drag children, exhausted from breakfast and after school clubs, round free museums because 'we're so lucky to live in the capital city and have all this on our doorstep', create homework and chore timetables to ensure that every single minute is accounted for.

And these are just your own priorities, because there is usually a husband that needs to be wifed, parents that need to be remembered, family members that need your attention, friends that need to be called because goodness knows that you have leant on them since time began. Then it's out to the peripheries - neighbours to be considered, invitations to be made, dinners to be five-a-day proofed, days out to be planned,  clubs to be driven to. Chuck in a house, clothes, pets, car, and post-baby weight (can we still call it that after five years?)  that needs stuff doing to it; and suddenly there are not enough seconds in the day. 

Lists become longer, schedules become tighter, every single atom of movement is planned and plotted for, leaving no time for improvisation, spontaneity or a smile. 

Until one day. Some of us cannot keep all those responsibilities up in the air at the same time. I always predicted that it would be a small thing that would cause me to explode one day. A lost sock or burnt toast, I thought, would maybe cause me to spit nails in anger as all of the pressures that enabled me to get things just right gave way in volcanic proportions. But no, it was not a small thing at all - it was a big thing that finally didn't cause me to explode; instead I crumbled. The painted smile, confident stride and shrugs of denial that had plastered over the stress cracks disappeared in the middle of a sleepless night. Sitting on the edge of my bed I cried begging for it all to stop. I couldn't see my way out of this predicament: I wasn't performing at the high standard that I had always maintained, and I was certainly not winning any prizes for mum of the year. Is there anyone who can manage 100% at work and 100% at home?

I want to be able to have the answer in case the 3G find themselves in my position. I want to be able to answer friends who still are. It's not always simple enough to say that we should just stop or that the children will be okay. We may not have the finances to step down or step off. Our children might be responding negatively to the early mornings and late evenings. 

So what is the answer? How do we raise our daughters to manage it all? As a mother raising three girls to women, a sister to a mother raising her three daughters, and a sister in law to a mother raising another two girls; somehow we need to find a solution.

No money exchanged hands for the creation of this masterpiece...honest!